As we left Durango on the bus we were amused to see huge signs saying
‘Liverpool’, the brand of a rather swanky and upmarket Mexican department store. At risk of
‘doing a Boris’ I’d suggest that this lent a hitherto well-hidden sheen of glamour to the city that those of us who’ve actually been there might not be so familiar with. (Unless you count Coleen McLoughlin as 'glamorous'. I don't. It's hard to look glamorous with an expensively dressed potato on your arm.)
In the gorgeous city of Zacatecas we visited the Museo Rafael Coronel where they had a mind-blowing display of over 3000 masks (from a collection of 11,000!). Housed in a rabbit warren of rooms amongst the atmospheric ruins of an old convent, the masks ranged from bestial and ceremonial types, to a whole room full of red-lit devilish
‘Diabolo’ disguises, to grinning skull-like death masks and almost comical carnival headgear with long blonde straw wigs and
‘Carlos Valderrama’ afros. The cumulative effect of this vast array was amazingly impressive and I got so carried away taking pictures I’ve had to set up a whole separate album to accommodate them via this
link.
That evening a 70-strong brass band were playing a seasonal selection of Christmas classics near the cathedral, next to a Christmas tree irritatingly decorated solely with Coca-cola insignia. We perched ourselves on the steps behind three sturdy sousaphone players (the size of your horn matters in Mexico) and hummed along to familiar tunes (Jingle Bells and Frosty the Snowman feeling vaguely surreal in sunny Zacatecas) and felt properly festive for the first time. Not bad for December 14th…usually I reach Christmas overload by the START of the month back home because the commercial juggernaut of over-consumption begins to accelerate so bloody early!
Later we had a
‘Margarita night’ at the hostel, an initially slightly forced affair its amazing what several buckets of tequila do towards oiling the wheels of conversation. I’d earlier been impressed by the Spanish talents of a huge flame-haired Irish looking bloke staying at the hostel. Turned out he was Mexican!
“‘El Churro Rojo’ they call me!” (The Red Cowboy) he roared,
‘I am Mexican inside! Ouside? I don’t know!’ he said shaking his red, sunburnt face topped by a tuft of ginger thatch. His parents had emigrated to Mexico from the Emerald Isle before he was born which went some way to explaining his extremely Celtic looks!
Fuelled by high-octane alcohol we went to a wrestling themed bar where we were soon all happily ensconced in brightly coloured
‘gimp’ masks around a table of
‘beer missiles’. These were tall, bong-like tubes of beer with taps that held several litres so you could serve yourself at your own table. A recipe for drinking with immoderation. In the early hours a small electrical device appeared, in
‘shock-offs’ pairs of you each clutched an insulated handle and the current was steadily increased until one of you let go (or your heart went into spasm). Nothing like DIY electrocution to round off an evening out if you ask me.
As we left Durango on the bus we were amused to see huge signs saying ‘Liverpool’, the brand of a rather swanky and upmarket Mexican department store. At risk of ‘doing a Boris’ I’d suggest that this lent a hitherto well-hidden sheen of glamour to the city that those of us who’ve actually been there might not be so familiar with. (Unless you count Coleen McLoughlin as 'glamorous'. I don't. It's hard to look glamorous with an expensively dressed potato on your arm.)
In the gorgeous city of Zacatecas we visited the Museo Rafael Coronel where they had a mind-blowing display of over 3000 masks (from a collection of 11,000!). Housed in a rabbit warren of rooms amongst the atmospheric ruins of an old convent, the masks ranged from bestial and ceremonial types, to a whole room full of red-lit devilish ‘Diabolo’ disguises, to grinning skull-like death masks and almost comical carnival headgear with long blonde straw wigs and ‘Carlos Valderrama’ afros. The cumulative effect of this vast array was amazingly impressive and I got so carried away taking pictures I’ve had to set up a whole separate album to accommodate them via this link.
That evening a 70-strong brass band were playing a seasonal selection of Christmas classics near the cathedral, next to a Christmas tree irritatingly decorated solely with Coca-cola insignia. We perched ourselves on the steps behind three sturdy sousaphone players (the size of your horn matters in Mexico) and hummed along to familiar tunes (Jingle Bells and Frosty the Snowman feeling vaguely surreal in sunny Zacatecas) and felt properly festive for the first time. Not bad for December 14th…usually I reach Christmas overload by the START of the month back home because the commercial juggernaut of over-consumption begins to accelerate so bloody early!
Later we had a ‘Margarita night’ at the hostel, an initially slightly forced affair its amazing what several buckets of tequila do towards oiling the wheels of conversation. I’d earlier been impressed by the Spanish talents of a huge flame-haired Irish looking bloke staying at the hostel. Turned out he was Mexican! “‘El Churro Rojo’ they call me!” (The Red Cowboy) he roared, ‘I am Mexican inside! Ouside? I don’t know!’ he said shaking his red, sunburnt face topped by a tuft of ginger thatch. His parents had emigrated to Mexico from the Emerald Isle before he was born which went some way to explaining his extremely Celtic looks!
Fuelled by high-octane alcohol we went to a wrestling themed bar where we were soon all happily ensconced in brightly coloured ‘gimp’ masks around a table of ‘beer missiles’. These were tall, bong-like tubes of beer with taps that held several litres so you could serve yourself at your own table. A recipe for drinking with immoderation. In the early hours a small electrical device appeared, in ‘shock-offs’ pairs of you each clutched an insulated handle and the current was steadily increased until one of you let go (or your heart went into spasm). Nothing like DIY electrocution to round off an evening out if you ask me.
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