Carnival

Yesterday dawned at last after a long sleepless night. Starting at four in the afternoon Saturday we heard loud explosions all across the city. Of course it could have been a cartel turf war but if it was, we were listening to the slowest shoot out in history. One shot every fifteen minutes seemed a rather slow rate of fire between warring desperados but it was about right for people trying to celebrate without blowing their fingers off. Rusty took refuge in his bomb shelter under the bed.

I took Rusty for a walk outside the campground, just far enough for him to lay his morning egg and then we scuttled back to the van as the city continued to have gunpowder fun to fend off the ritual boredom of Lent starting on Wednesday. We had to move somewhere.

Here’s the problem: anywhere there are people there are likely to be fire crackers to make Rusty crazy. He was chased by angry farmers after he was abandoned in Homestead and he saw dogs shot to death as he struggled to escape. The experience witnessed by his rescuers left its mark. He’s doing better but constant all night fire crackers are too much.

We even considered going back to the coast but layne pointed out that’s where people take vacations and celebrate. We thought about taking a hotel in the big city of Morelia our next destination. Hotels are packed. In the end we decided our best chance was to take a space at a campground just outside town on top of a hill. Off we went.

In a state with exceptionally decrepit roads the route to La Mesa Hotel and RV park is a masterpiece of self destruction. It’s cobbled and runs through a poor neighborhood so there is no incentive for those in charge to ameliorate their lives. Crumbling cobbles are horrible to drive, like unpredictable washboard that rattles teeth at random. 

We followed the blue line from Villa  Pátzcuaro to Rancho La Mesa and when we got there the cobbled road ended. Great! Right? Hardly. We found ourselves facing an intersection between ghastly and utterly impossible. One road was a sand canyon and the other was a narrow sand track and neither looked appetizing. We sat and stared and pondered our options. We had none. Then a young man with silver capped teeth stopped at the window and smiled and asked if we were looking for La Mesa? He was the gate guard of a massive unmarked metal fortress. His remote had a dead battery (not kidding here) and he couldn’t open the gate. Could we wait five minutes? Sure. Thank god we speak Spanish!

After the steel gate slid open we faced one more steep scramble up a winding Alpine path and we had arrived. The whole field to ourselves with plugs for electricity, water faucets and a shower and toilet hut WiFi during the day when the restaurant is open. All for $18 a night and only distant sounds of fire crackers. Rusty settled into this place quite easily. He still gets a bit scared occasionally with the loudest bangs but he’s eating and sleeping again. 

The temperatures here at 7500 feet are 75 by day under the sun and 55 by night, perfect sleeping weather. Not only Rusty has the run of the field. There are goats cows chickens and:

A couple of horses strolled into the frame and were soon rounded up by a couple of kids and led away. We decided to have lunch fed to us so we left Rusty in his bed and strolled into an extraordinary lunch place. We were preceded by the local BMW motorcycle club. 

And we were followed by a whole bunch of middle class Mexicans enjoying their Sunday off. We were the sole gringos at lunch. We are getting used to it. 

Lunch was superb. We started with two traditional appetizers, dried meat rather nicer than jerky and a soup filled with cheese chunks and tortilla strips.

We shared a first rate hamburger with crispy lettuce tomatoes and pickles and a side of fries all first rate. They make their own sangria and add a healthy dollop of vodka to the wine. Lucky we didn’t have to drive. Coffee was of the Mexican sort, smooth and infused with cinnamon. 

All beautifully done for $34 including tip. That’s life in Mexico when you have dollars. We spent $400 all week and we haven’t held back. Incredibly privileged, and we know it. 

We opened up the van when we got back and Rusty resumed his watch. Not a bad view either from our spot.

We napped our lunch off, and bowed to the inevitable with some exercise. Rusty hardly wanted a walk so I haven’t done much exploring. There will be time for that. Meanwhile we seem to have fallen on our feet again. Magic Mexico indeed. Where is everyone? 

Walking Pátzcuaro

 The shower building is completely furnished at this campground and even boasts sinks with mirrors, thus I can shave my cheeks and see what I'm doing for once not at the the sink in the van. The  clothes hook in the shower said "Bienvenue" - greeting the naked, defenseless user in French. Très chic. The faucets, they were the problem as I stood there covered in shampoo with Dr Bronner's boring into my skin as only organic peppermint soap can make itself felt. The faucet on the right said "C" and the one on the left said "F" which I interpreted as Chaud for Hot and Froid for Cold, and in much of the world that would be the case. However here the hot and cold were reversed which threw every last brain synapse in my head onto a collision course. I frantically twiddled the Caliente knob and reversed the Frio knob and tried the other way round. I was stepping as far out of the way of the tight trickle of scalding hot water as my short arms would allow and tried to figure out which way to turn the cold knob which is hot and the hot knob which is cold and the water only gets hotter. It was a tough start to the day, and we went into town from the campground driven by a very clean, frizzy, boiled lobster. Tomorrow is another day and another shower. This could be complicated.

The Plaza Grande is the second largest in Mexico (after the one in the capital) and it is the only one in the entire country that doesn't have a church looking out over it. Formally it's known as the Plaza de Vasco Quiroga named for the kindly administrator of the region installed in the 16th century and whose utopian ideals are remembered to this day in a statue.

According to the guide book the city has a Plaza Grande, obviously and a Plaza Chica which is nowhere near obvious. In fact it's a rectangle of open space in front of a church and looks nothing like a Plaza Chica to balance the big plaza. This shortcoming and misdirection from the Lonely Planet resulted in us walking in expanding circles all morning trying to figure out where the bloody hell everything was. I mean, seriously, does this look like a Plaza Chica?

Plaza Grande, a vast space lined with shops:

Plaza Chica, a practice area for folk dancers:

Then I'll tell you the story of the Folk Museum that never was. Our neighbors in the campground told us about a fabulous breakfast to be had in particular corner of the Plaza Grande. We wobbled the van into this big open rectangle  and I saw no church in the neighborhood so I knew this must be it. A man with a rag waved us down and offered parking...which we later observed was how he got cars to clean. We found our own space in a half empty plaza which later in the morning was quite full. My wife had turfed me out of bed early and even my startling shower wasn't enough to delay our arrival and snag a spot for our home on wheels.

It's pretty nice having a place to put your purchases, get a cold bowl of water for your dog and a place to download photos and take a rest in  the middle of a bustling town. We ended up circling downtown quite a few times on foot to find the fiendishly difficult to locate museum that Layne was determined to see. Pausing at the van on each successive circuit eased the frustration. 

I made the photo above on our first circuit when I saw an interesting looking building. However there is absolutely nothing to say that it is what it is, never mind contact information or opening hours. Layne located it after persistently asking people all over the place. It sure wasn't where Lonely Planet said it was. That was a half mile deviation and Pátzcuaro is full of steep hills at 7,000 feet. Good for our sea level lungs I hope. This fruit seller serving an impromptu drive-thru customer gave Layne the final hint that it is what she hoped it was and  opens on Tuesday through Friday. Brilliant news as this was Saturday. 

No one else had had a clue where the place was , misdirecting us all over the place.  Patzcuaro grew on me as the day wore on. At first I found it to be rather over the top tourist oriented. I pined for Uruapan, a town devoted to industry and local needs where we drifted through the crowds as fish out of water yes, but not sheep to be fleeced. Pátzcuaro had the measure of us and sellers of this and that stopped by and drained our  supply of small currency pesos. It was overwhelming, the constant begging. 

Chocolate, honey, plants, key chains, fruit, nuts and an endless parade of musicians and on and on and even when I was standing in the van downloading pictures someone came up and trod heavily on my last nerve. I was, embarrassingly, a teeny weeny bit abrupt but as much as I liked the town and admired the cleanliness and devotion to the city's good order the constant stream of salespeople jangled me to death. And the city is beautiful and it would be great if a deluge of gringos came to  marvel at how cities have been built here over the centuries. And to take the begging pressure off me personally. Middle class Mexicans have an uncanny ability to cut themselves off from the street poverty. I hope I never emulate it. 

This is a town packed with Mexican tourists. Indeed one family stopped by saying they were from Chiapas and encouraged us to visit when we return to Mexico, which we shall. However they were interested in getting a van, his wife was pushing him to do it! That surprised me. We showed them all over the van and I hope they fulfill their dreams as we fulfill our best hopes here.

Breakfast was lovely, sweet cinnamon laced local coffee, scrambled eggs local style in two different sauces, crisp bread rolls and fluffy flour tortillas and a burning hot sauce if you preferred not to be able to taste anything. The family at the table next door were quite taken by Rusty and even chose to pet him as he took the attention in his usual superior way.

It was a lovely spot, European in flavor sitting back in the sun and watching the world go by and dispensing alms, of course to the passers by. We were on the lucky side of the equation. We could look out around the city from our perch at the privileged table.

And Rusty at our feet.

The Plaza Grande is the heart of it all and everyone obeys the command not to step on the grass, or drop trash. The old town in the city is scrupulously clean.

We passed by an artist with van sized paintings and among the sunsets and bland stuff there was one that screamed out to me and I was on tenterhooks wondering  if the tire kickers in line in front of us would snag it.

Nice work Sandro.

In the van.

I saw the same scene through my view finder. I liked his better.

There is a dessert in Pátzcuaro which someone will mention to you if you tell them you are visiting the city. A surfer by the name of Dane in distant Barra de Nexpa (water bomb country, remember?) told me about pasta ice cream. Thank you Dane.

Layne says it tastes like a very rich frozen English custard. We ate some and put the rest in Gannet 2's freezer. I love sugar but this was rich beyond my abilities to consume. Quite delicious and I shall miss it when we move on next week. A few pictures from the city for your pleasure:

We tried a dried fried fish which left an oily fishy residue in our mouths - surprise! a fried piece of dough covered in sugar called a churro took care of it for us. Needs must.

No headless dogs in the cafe! 

Not everyone eats pasta ice cream. 

Homage to William Eggleston:

David Stephenson's homing pigeon?

Typical city colors, whitewashed adobe, red paint and black lettering, no advertising no neon!

Old style treats versus new style snacks:

I still like Uruapan as a living city but its only half an hour away from this place of endless sights and photos and colors and views. I hope I have transmitted some of that beauty and intrigue because they could sure use more visitors as we put Covid behind us. Masks were almost universally worn though and at seven thousand feet I admire their lungs.