What's in a doodle? Self-discovery through scribbles

I have spent an unusually long time today going through my work notes.

Ironically, it was nothing work related. I was not looking for the installed capacity of the hydroelectric power plant we are financing in Georgia. I was most certainly not after the commercial loss reduction schedule of the Albanian electricity distribution company we are working with, either. As a matter of fact, it was something unexpectedly trivial I was fine-combing my notes for: namely, doodles. Nothing more than good old doodles – lost between endless series of electricity prices, capital investment programmes and indicators for power demand growth.

What are doodles exactly? Dictionaries define them along the lines of "scribbles drawn or written absent-mindedly". Wikipedia describes a doodle as "a type of sketch, an unfocused drawing made while a person's attention is otherwise occupied". An important attribute of doodles is thus being created unintentionally, while the author is unaware of engaging in the process of "doodling" at all. As a result, doodles often appear during long telephone conversations, meetings or lectures. They can be both familiar objects such as stars, flowers, houses and little people, or abstract patterns and shapes. Doodles vary as far as their artistic value – some being high-quality, laborious work of art and others heading straight for the bin.

Doodle, not day-dream

Having never taken doodles too seriously, I recently came across surprisingly vast related research. For example, some scientists claim that doodles could shed light on character traits of their authors. Drawings of houses apparently indicate home buddies; aeroplanes better fit travel-minded individuals. I would not even be surprised if it took somebody a full-blown PhD to deduce that.

Other researchers go as far as suggesting that doodling helps us better remember the content of a parallel conversation. One study had a group of people listen to a boring dialogue. The ones allowed to doodle demonstrated significantly better ability to memorise minor details mentioned by the speakers. The researchers argue that human minds naturally tend to wander – "day-dream" – during a tedious task, which proves to be most detrimental to attention. Doodling is however less cognitively demanding than day-dreaming and keeps part of the brain awake enough to record new information.

Mind-mapping, literally

In short, doodling seemed to be of more importance than I ever thought. I was beginning to feel somewhat disappointed with myself for not having produced a single doodle in my life. Or have I? Doodling is supposed to be a subconscious activity. It could well mean that I had pages covered with doodle art without even knowing. Inspired, I decided to go through my work notes to check.

And I was not disappointed.

For a start, I found a map of the Nordic countries: Finland, Sweden and Norway. I solemnly swear that I have no recollection of how the map ever appeared on the back of one of my slides. Yet the fact that the drawing depicted a map gave the author away unmistakeably. Everybody knows just how much I love maps. I can spend a 3-hour flight looking at a route map inside an airline magazine. I won’t raise my head or utter a word. A map is an ever-unwinding story; an endless discovery. I suppose it would be only natural for me to doodle maps. Oh, and the handwriting was mine, too.

Besides the author’s passion for maps, the doodle left no doubt as far as her favourite travel region. I may toy with Greece and ex-Yugoslavia all I want, but my heart lies forever in the Nordics. I have already planned seven visits to the Nordic countries for 2011 – the culmination being a fortnight in Norway in July. Looking closely, I realised the map was in fact showing my originally planned route for that trip. From Norway's Trondheim to Nordkapp via the Lofoten islands – and all the way south across Finland to Helsinki. Bingo! I certainly enjoy advance planning and dreaming long into the future.

What I love most about that map is, firstly, how things are put into a wider context (see the big mass of "Russia" to the east); and, secondly, how each country is labelled in the local language. My obsession with foreign languages is not a secret to anyone. The only thing I cannot explain is that English-spelled "Russia", though. Even more strangely, I seem to have replaced "Helsinki" with its Swedish equivalent, "Helsingfors". I suppose two years of brainwashing at Hanken were to blame.

Now imagine my excitement when, further going through my notes, I discovered a similar doodle-map, a couple of months older than the first one. Again, I hold no memory of how it ever appeared there.


One can immediately see a number of improvements compared to the first version. On a practical note, I had clearly understood that two weeks were not enough to include Finland into my trip; the new route limited itself to Norway. Despite reducing my trip to a single country, I had drawn up more countries than before: Denmark, Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania all became part of the story. The visibly stormy "Baltic Sea" now had a name; "Russia" was appropriately spelled in the Cyrillic script; "Helsinki" was no longer bearing its oddly unfamiliar Swedish name; even Arctic Circle was now fashionably indicated by a dashed line.

And in case you ever hesitated which country I was coming from, I hope it, too, is now clear.

"Soittoäänet kaikki yhtä ärsyttäviä"

I did not find any more doodle-maps, but my interest in foreign languages was soon re-confirmed. From between the lines of some boring task list, I was suddenly attacked by an aggressively looking phrase. You will just have to trust me that the impressive mouthful merely reads "ringtones are all annoying" – in Finnish, of all possible languages. After a bit of thinking, I recalled it was a line from the masterpiece performed by Helsinki Complaints Choir, best sung to the world-famous Nokia tune. I must have been seriously annoyed by a particular ringtone at the time. I think I even know which one it was.


That Finnish phrase got me a little worried. Before starting my search, I had expected to find a lot of girlie kind of flower doodles. Or girls in white dresses doodles. Or cream-coloured ponies and crisp apple strudel doodles. Whatever – I had certainly not expected to find maps, Arctic circles and frowning phrases in Finnish. Was I really not girlie enough to draw up a little flower (or two) in the corner somewhere?

Imagine my relief when I did spot a flower. All thorny and not exactly the kind of flower you would want to be given for birthday – but a flower nonetheless.

So, maps, foreign languages, ringtones AND thistles. I think I am calling the doctor right now.

London’s worst flatmate

I have been living on my own ever since moving to London 4.5 years ago. It may seem obvious to most non-Londoners – after all, isn't that what one is supposed to do having moved out of the parental home and finished one's studies? The quality of life should rise along with one's income, level of education and, inevitably, age. We do not spend all these years chasing degrees just to stick around our parents' homes or student dorms for too long. We want to get done with it and move out. Move out to the better lives – the lives of our own; the lives ON our own.

Sadly, this seemingly simple formula does not seem to work well in London. Earlier this year, I wrote about the famously high level of rents in the UK capital. The Global Property Guide research consistently lists the usual suspects of Tokyo, London and New York among the world's three most expensive megalopolises to rent in. For example, to rent a 120 sq.m. flat in a prime London location would cost USD 1.6k. That's USD 230 per day – in other words, not the money most of us are seen casually throwing around.

Blame the high rents or look for scapegoats elsewhere – it is no news to anyone that many Londoners live in shared accommodation. Flatmates do not have to be related, married or even to have known each other for too long before moving in. Some find one another through impersonal online portals, of which there is no shortage in London. It may seem to be of limited concern with whom we Londoners end up sharing a home – as long as that second bedroom is indeed occupied by a diligent rent payer.

Gunnar, my perfect flatmate

And yet I continue surprising many of my London friends by living alone. My usual excuse is that I spent 23 years of my 27 to date sharing accommodation (most of it an actual room) with someone. I had waited for too long to have all that free space and all that precious peace and quiet to myself. And now that I got it, I am not likely to let go in a rush. No matter how big the burden of rent on my bank account.

It is not all that clear-cut, however. On days when my rent seriously squeezes my monthly budget, I start fantasising about how I could let a corner of my living room to a hypothetical "flatmate" and free up this or that much cash for my travels instead. How it would be so nice to split my council tax in two. Or to get that flatmate to charge my power key (prepaid electricity device – a UK thing, don't ask) at the Costcutter downstairs. Or to share those mundane household duties with someone. I fired my Lithuanian cleaner the minute I stopped being an investment banker, and it is not easy being a full-time traveller, photography enthusiast, blogger – and a housekeeper – at the same time. Oh, and I also work at a City-based bank in the time I have left. One can see that I am seriously struggling here.

The view from my window does not come cheap

If you’re happy and you know it, sing and dance

What brings me back to reality though is the sympathy for the unlucky person who might end up sharing a flat with me. Modesty aside – I would make a terrible flatmate. For a start, I tend to sing. At any moment in time, there is some song playing in my mind and bursting to come out. I sing all the time – in the office, in the streets, on my bicycle and in the swimming pool. My flat is therefore one big stage full of songs performed in a careful selection of foreign languages with varying degree of (low) skill. You have been warned. It is difficult enough to be my neighbour – let alone a flatmate.

Alright, I hear you say. Surely some singing could do no harm, especially if the flat is large enough and the walls are soundproof? Well, perhaps I should mention that I tend to dance, too. Dance around the entire flat. And, if my singing has at least been mastered somewhat in all those church choirs I have been part of, absolutely no-one ever taught me to dance. Dancing moves most similar to mine most commonly feature in TV programmes on exotic tribal cultures. Watch them once, and you'll understand just how much fun it is. And as soon as your downstairs neighbours start knocking on the door, you will know that you hit the rhythm just right.

Leave your mess outside, please. Oh, and your TV, too.

Cleanliness is another important aspect of flat sharing. And more often than not, your cleanliness standards will differ from whoever you are sharing with. I hate to disappoint anyone – but the living areas that I face have to be shining. I always struggled to understand how one can go to work in the morning without leaving the flat in perfect order and all surfaces freshly wiped. I don't think I would be able to sit through the day in the office knowing that my home in the meantime was messy. Since no sane person in the world seems to be sharing my pain, I would surely be the only one of the two in the house cleaning – and driving my poor flatmate mad at that.

And what about entertainment? In a city like London, it is truly sad that many of us spend so much time watching television. Is there really no other way to pass an evening? A TV set in the house is disgraceful. As a matter of fact, I have never owned one and do not think I ever will. What an electricity-consuming, BBC-subsidising time waster! I wonder what could be worse than sharing a home with a person whose first impulse would be reaching for the remote control. Surely as bad as sharing with someone who’d be walking into the room when you’re not there and turning the darn thing off. And again. And again.

Wash, iron, learn

While a TV set in the house is an emphatic taboo, washing machines are indeed welcome in all shapes and sizes. I even wonder sometimes if I should buy a second one. It remains a mystery to most how a household of one can sustain such impressive amounts of continuous laundry – but my washing machine seems to be on all the time. It just never stops. And when it reaches the end of the washing cycle, it gets so loud that one can almost see a helicopter flying around the kitchen. Truly I tell you, my washing machine is not to be messed with.

Love the laundry, love the ironing. What can be better than unfolding one’s elegantly spacious ironing board in the middle of the living room and giving oneself away to the timeless activity? I adore the actual ironing almost as much as being able to listen to language audio resources while doing the manual work. Yes, I am always revising a variety of unintuitive languages I used to speak at some point in the past – the latest such being Greek and Norwegian. The procedure is self-explanatory; I play my mp3 files over and over again, repeating out loud after the voice on the speaker. I am not wasting any time there. To be honest, I think a flatmate with a good sense of humour would even enjoy watching me doing what I am best in. Ironing and reciting words in a foreign language, that is.

My language books. One can tell by the condition of the Finnish one that it was an uneven battle

Rise and shine, it’s 6am!

Jokes aside though; one's daily routine is a very serious matter. I am yet to meet a person whose sleep hours would match mine. My target lights-out hour is 11pm; the alarm goes off irrevocably at 6am and means serious action. I only have the time for a quick brush-up of the kitchen and the living room, an Eastern European breakfast (read: porridge) a few songs and a short wake-up dance – just in time before the neighbours are awake enough to complain. Anyone interrupting the holy process will be crushed without warning.

Finally, the real problem between the hypothetical flatmate and me would be guests. Some of my friends seem to be running a hotel business – there is always some kind of visitor at their place. That’s all flowers, as long as somebody else’s guest is not occupying the sofa in my living room. As if the facts that (a) London’s dwelling density is among the highest in the world and (b) the UK has the fifth smallest homes in Europe were not enough – one has to squeeze in a bit further to accommodate endlessly passing tourists. Please do not get me wrong; I happily welcome best buddies to my humble abode every now and then. I just absolutely refuse to understand how one can let a remote acquaintance into their home – even if for a short period of time. And don’t even mention that “couch-surfing” insanity. The concept is absolutely beyond me.

I have said it all. Wanna be flatmates, anyone?

Nikie's home again

After two weeks of rehab and having had half of his organs permanently replaced, my dear Nikie is home at last. The amount of emergency care he needed was absolutely unprecedented - not a surprise given the active two years we have had together. Those were the greatest years. Many thanks to one and only Nikie, my trustiest of fieres!

As thrilled as I am to have the dear friend home again, I dread facing the monetary consequences of his treatment. My bank account is at least a few hundred of [unnamed units] lighter and there will likely be no Christmas shopping this year at all. No Christmas for anjči, then?

Nah. It was worth every penny. Merry Christmas, sweetheart - and welcome home!

*Special thanks to my old Nikie D70s for taking that picture of his successor.

Vamos a México! (V) Oaxaca

(Continued from "Vamos a México! Part IV: San Cristobal")

DAY 11 – OAXACA, MONTE ALBÁN, ARRAZOLA, CUILAPAN AND COYOTEPEC

The darkness outside the bus was slowly starting to give way to subtle shades of grey when I woke up. Soon the eastern horizon had gained enough colour for the surrounding scenery to step into the limelight.

The state of Oaxaca looked different to Chiapas; wood-covered mountains and stretching valleys had replaced the entangled jungle. I remembered the curved night journey and figured we must have passed more dramatic altitudes along the way. I nearly fell off my seat a few times during those abrupt turns.

My first impressions of Oaxaca were mixed. Our morning entry into the city was met by a flow of heavy traffic in both directions. I got off at Oaxaca's über-modern 1st-class bus station and walked about 30 minutes to my hotel, at all times accompanied by the roaring noise of the cars and city buses. The latter must have come all the way from the last century; rather cute, they looked like US-yellow-school-buses-turned-white.

Hotel "Aitana" was at the outskirts of downtown Oaxaca. I dropped my stuff there and immediately hopped on a tour heading to the main sights in the vicinity of the city – Monte Albán, Arrazola, Cuilapan and Coyotepec, in that order. It felt somewhat lonely inside the tour van where not more than three other people were sitting – a guide and an elderly Mexican couple. The latter was decidedly outside my age range. I wondered how much fun the ride would be, especially me being the only English speaker among us four.

The answer came quickly; Jose Luis and Lucia from Mexico City turned out to be young at heart and great fun. The first thing Jose Luis did when we had arrived at Monte Albán was asked what my favourite colour was. Hearing it was blue, he disappeared and soon came back – carrying two Mexican straw hats. One had a pink ribbon and was meant to be for his wife. The other had a blue ribbon. The rest is, as they say, history. Muchas gracias, señor Jose Luis!

The archaeological site of Monte Albán (located some 9 km from the nowadays city of Oaxaca) was one of the earliest cities in Mesoamerica. The Zapotec shapes of the pyramid-like structures looked different from the Mayan ones I had seen in such abundance in Yucatan and Chiapas. The setting atop a mountain in the middle of a valley was also unique. I climbed the steep steps of the Plataforma Sur in the southern part of the site for a panoramic view. Vast open space was stretching in front of me in beautiful symmetry.

The Zapotec site of Monte Albán; view from Plataforma Sur

The Zapotec site of Monte Albán

The Zapotec site of Monte Albán; Plataforma Norte

The Zapotec site of Monte Albán

In the background, Jose Luis was disputing every historic fact with our guide Lorena. Lucia was holding on firmly to her new hat to prevent it from flying all the way back to Oaxaca. I closed my eyes and smiled. It felt like being part of a family outing with most beloved grandparents.

The next stop of the tour was Arrazola – the village famous for the so-called "alebrijes" – hand-made painted wooden figurines. Arrazola was arguably the main reason I had booked the whole tour. Ever since reading the piece on Arrazola written by a person and traveller I deeply admire, I had wanted to visit the village. It appeared in my mind as a magic place populated by colourful little animals. Finally I could see it with my own eyes.

Our way went along a dirt road where two cars could barely pass side by side. Suddenly we saw a large group of people occupying the way. My heart sank. Another manifestation a-la Comitan? Thankfully, it was "only" a tour minibus identical to ours, whose left wheels got stuck in the mud. In a Good Samaritan's gesture, we duly picked up the stranded passengers, carefully edged around the trapped vehicle, and continued our journey in a larger group. Needless to say that they were all Spanish speakers, and I needed to step up in my understanding of the guide's (now exclusively) Spanish commentary.

Arrazola turned out to be a tiny village whose "centre" was indeed a short stretch of the Oaxaca-bound road. The few details behind the traditional craft were explained to us in one of the village’s large workshops. Interestingly, the wood carving of the alebrijes is only performed by men – while it is the women’s job to paint them afterwards.

I spent about an hour wandering around the store, which was literally bursting with alebrijes in all shapes and sizes. From life-size peacocks to tiny frogs barely the size of a fingernail, my eyes did not know where to stop. I ended up buying five smaller animals: two turtles, two piglets and one of unidentified origin. Some were meant as presents, but let's see if I can find the strength to part even with one.

An alebrijes workshop in Arrazola

An alebrijes workshop in Arrazola

A rainbow-ful of alebrijes in Arrazola

An alebrijes workshop in Arrazola

Cuilapan was our next stop. I first had the pleasure of dining at "Hacienda Cuilapan" restaurant with Jose Luis and Lucia. Somehow we managed to communicate without having a single language in common. At the end I could understand about 80 per cent of what they were saying in Spanish; they, too, looked like my English was making sense. Truly languages are not really a barrier when communicating with such pleasant people.

My major discovery during the meal was the so-called "mole". Often referred to as Mexico's version of a curry, it is a sauce typical for the Oaxaca region and traditionally served with chicken and turkey. There were at least eight different kinds of mole on display, but I only had room for three, one of them being the most ubiquitous mole verde.

Cuilapan is famous for Danza de la Pluma ("Feather Dance") originating from the village. It also houses the Dominican Ex-Convento de Santiago Apostol, an unfinished church building remarkable for its mixture of architectural styles and the odd absence of a roof over a vast pillared area.

Ex-Convento de Santiago Apostol, Cuilapan

The San Bartolo Coyotepec village some 13 km south of Oaxaca was the final stop of our route. An otherwise low-key destination, it is famous all over Mexico for the very peculiar black shiny pottery ("barro negro brilliante"), created by a certain Dona Rosa and dating back to the 1930s. We sat through a demonstration of the art technique performed by one of Dona Rosa's descendants. An unprepossessing chunk of clay was elegantly transformed into a beautiful jug decorated by a flower. The show was squeezed into half an hour, but the process takes several weeks in reality.

Interestingly, the negro brilliante pots are not designed to contain water. In order to preserve the shiny surface of the pieces, they are only heated to the temperature of 80C degrees. Increasing it to 100C degrees would make them strong enough to prevent the water from leaking through; however, the famous shine would give way to rather bland grey texture. Now here is a fine example of beauty over utility.

Barro negro brilliante demonstration, Coyotepec

Barro negro brilliante demonstration, Coyotepec

You have been warned

In the evening, I had a few hours to run along Oaxaca’s geometrically planned central streets. My initial impression of the city as loud and unpleasant began to dissipate. I was slowly falling in love with Oaxaca; with its flourishing life, colourful locals and unobvious architectural gems. Every door and every window revealed a hidden chapter in the life of this exciting city. Things were happening in every single corner. Oaxaca was like a major metropolis in miniature.

So big was my sudden appreciation of Oaxaca that I decided not to embark on any tour the following day. There were quite a few points of interest around Oaxaca, but the city itself deserved dedicated attention. Some more attention than one evening could ever provide.

DAY 12 – MITLA AND OAXACA

It was still dark when I walked out of the hotel the next morning. The night before I was mesmerised by the La Soledad church literally a few steps away from where I was staying. I promised myself I would come back early in the morning to watch the sunrise light up its east-facing front walls. And there I was – alone on the still bluish grey streets awaiting the arrival of the new day.

The sunrise was spectacular. Because of the surrounding mountains, it took longer for the sunlight to reach the city, but it was well worth the wait when it finally did. I admired the peach-coloured La Soledad for a few blissful moments and wandered towards the zocalo to find my perfect breakfast.

Sunrise over the walls of La Soledad, Oaxaca

La Soledad, Oaxaca

Despite the waiters' relentless efforts to lure me inside, I confidently walked past the touristy-looking restaurants on the zocalo. No, the place I was after had to have more locals inside. I did not have to walk too far; the 20 de Noviembre street opposite the market of the same name had several non-touristy looking venues. I settled at "Fonda Mexicana" and ordered my Mexican breakfast favourite – huevos a la mexicana, or scrambled eggs with tomato, onion and peppers, tortillas and mashed black beans on the side. Priceless!

A random morning detail of Oaxaca

View onto the street from "Fonda Mexicana" eatery

Oaxaca's brightly painted walls

My major ordeal of the day was locating Oaxaca's second(-class) bus station. It was meant to be diametrically opposite the first-class station across the city centre and took me a good 30 minutes to find. I then waited for another 20 minutes or so for a local bus to Mitla. Most visitors join tours which include Mitla in their itineraries covering the tourist sights east of Oaxaca. More adventurous types catch colectivos. I, however, decided to show some solidarity with the locals and take a local bus. Even compared to a colectivo, it looked like a good bargain.

The best I could describe Oaxaca’s second bus station is “organised chaos”. At least half a dozen of roaring buses would flock past the most crowded spots, a person usually hanging out of the front window and loudly announcing the bus’s destination. Front doors always remained conveniently open, and people were hopping on and off freely. Not forgetting to mind the speed of the constantly moving bus, of course. It was a fun experience.

The town of Mitla is situated about 45 km east of Oaxaca and is solely visited for it compact set of ruins. Experts disagree whether those have been built by Zapotecs or Mixtecs, but mere mortals like us come in flocks to admire and do not ask questions like that. I particularly liked the geometric designs of Mitla, which were more impressive than those at Monte Albán – even if the latter site decidedly won in magnitude.

Besides the ruins, Mitla gave a pleasant sight of a provincial town living its daily life in low tourism season. I was much entertained by the miniature three-wheeled vehicles serving as local taxis – like motorised versions of a rickshaw, they were fitted in well in a small town Mitla was.

One of Mitla's funny vehicles

Church of San Pablo, Mitla

Mitla's archaelogical site

Mitla's archaelogical site with San Pablo in the background

After getting back to Oaxaca, I continued wandering purposelessly along the city’s streets and catching glimpses of its everyday life. I did not feel like seeing any museums or staple sights; it was the general atmosphere that I wanted to absorb, if only in a single afternoon.

Multiple memories come floating back as I think of Oaxaca. How I sat down to rest in a church (whose name escapes me) and was welcomed by a grinning priest; "you are not Catholic, but aren't we all Christians", he told me. How I asked a random passer-by where she had got her coffee from – and ended up following her to "Black Coffee Gallery", Mexico's best answer to Starbucks and a popular expat hangout. How I ran up the Cerro del Fortín hill in the northwest of Oaxaca for a panoramic view of the city and became the immediate favourite of a dozen construction workers putting up the new Guelaguetza amphitheatre. The details in my mind may be wearing off, but the photos are there to remind me.

The day was drawing to a close as I reached the Macedonio Alcala, Oaxaca's main pedestrian shopping street. Heading north, the street led me towards one of the finest examples of Mexican Baroque – the Santo Domingo Church. The elaborately carved interior simply took my breath away.

Black Coffee Gallery, Oaxaca. Who needs Starbucks, anyway?

Panoramic Oaxaca from Cerro del Fortín hill

The new Guelaguetza amphitheare on Cerro del Fortín hill

Santo Domingo Church, Oaxaca

Santo Domingo Church, Oaxaca

I finished my discovery of Oaxaca on the centre of the centres, the zocalo. Several groups of musicians were already celebrating – what exactly not being important at all. It seemed that one could always find something to celebrate in Oaxaca, regardless of the day of the week or time of day or night.

DAY 13 – THREE AIRPORTS IN ONE DAY

I was used to getting up early during my stay in Mexico – but my alarm's activity at 5:30am in the morning was something unprecedented. Yes, I was leaving Oaxaca early. Leaving by plane from the city's tiny airport. Hence the early awakening.

Speaking of air travel, I need to step back here. When planning my Mexican route, I had realised that getting from Oaxaca back to Cancun by bus would have been lengthy (I was looking at a 24+ hour journey), problematic and extremely exhausting. I had therefore booked a corresponding flight via Mexico City. A flight operated by Mexicana, Mexico's (then) second major airline.

If only the story had ended there. A couple of days before departing to Mexico, I went online to check the status of my Mexicana flight. But Mexicana's website looked somehow different to the previous time. Whatever there was before has all been replaced by a single front page. A front page announcing Mexicana's bankruptcy and the resulting cancellation of all flights.

The resulting cancellation of all flights.

The resulting cancellation of ALL flights, and nobody had told me. I was raging. In case of a full-scale flight cancellation, it is customary for airlines to send at least a short email to passengers. Just in case those still decide to show up at the airport. Just to avoid delivering them the news face-to-face. A seemingly simple courtesy.

Not for Mexicana, though. I finally got through to the US hotline and was told that not a single Mexicana flight was operating. And that the soonest the flights could resume was November. Maybe. Actually, December was more likely. If at all.

There was little I could do, so I searched for flights with Mexico's other airlines. Aeromexico, the nation's flag carrier, seemed unaffordable for the whole Oaxaca – Mexico City – Cancun leg, but turned out a real bargain as a combination of Oaxaca – Mexico City and Mexico City – Cancun. Interesting! Perhaps they were giving people discounts for collecting and re-checking in luggage in person at D.F.

I was not even hoping to receive any compensation from a bankrupt airline, but was pleasantly surprised. A day before leaving Oaxaca, I logged into my online banking and had to nip myself to believe – Mexicana had fully reimbursed me for the unused flight. Bingo! In my eternal joy I even forgave the bankrupt Mexicans for forgetting to notify me of their financial problems.

And there I was on an early Friday morning, boarding one of Aeromexico's daily air links between Oaxaca and the capital. Not forgetting to take a few snapshots of Oaxaca's petit airport building. I managed to get a few beautiful twilight shots before being told by one of the guards that "no photography of the airport building was allowed". Sorry, sir.

Xoxocotlan Oaxaca Airport at dawn

Aeromexico made a great impression of an über-punctual airline with a high quality of service and a generous 25 kg luggage limit. Even counting all the souvenirs, my backpack barely hit 14 kg, so I would have been safe even with Ryanair's killer 15 kg "allowance".

Some beautiful forest-covered peaks were lining our journey to Mexico City. You will remember that, with its population of over 20 million, it ranks the largest city in the world. It will therefore come of little surprise that the city's outskirts began looming below long before we began our formal descent to the airport.

Initially low, the buildings underneath soon turned into full-scale skyscrapers. Those were so high that, at some moment, I feared we would surely crash into one. Especially when the pilot made a sharp left-wing turn around a massive rectangular building crowned with a tall spire.

The end of our flight seemed to see no end of wealthy looking residential structures. We were drawing lower and lower, and once again I was in fear – in fear that we would just land on top of those fancy flat rooftops, sweeping the satellite antennas and everything else off the face of the earth.

But out of nowhere suddenly appeared what looked like a runway; we had arrived at Mexico Benito Juarez airport. Indeed, the airport of the world's largest city could not enjoy a more central location given the size of this megalopolis.

I had a few hours to spare before my onward flight to Cancun. My initial plan was to leave my backpack at the airport and venture out into Mexico City's zocalo. It would reportedly only take me 40 minutes one way, or more than half the time the taxi would need for the same journey.

I seemed to have it all well planned – confirmed with a friend that the metro was safe enough to take (documents and valuable possessions securely stored at the airport, of course); checked which taxis to avoid; made a list of what to see around the zocalo; located the left luggage desk at the airport. I was ready to go.

And then I didn't. Perhaps it was the fear to miss my connecting flight. Or I might not have been entirely convinced about my safety on the metro. It may also have been the rather obvious fruitlessness of spending 1.5 hours on a metro for less than an hour at the location. Or all the factors together; but something inside me stopped me from going. Instead, I treated myself to a couple of Vanilla Roiboos Chai Lattes from the abundant Starbucks shops and people-watched at the airport. I will make sure to visit Mexico City another time.

The final leg of my journey – to Cancun – featured an impressive number of US tourists. Just before take-off, I overheard the following bits of a conversation between my two female neighbours (must be performed in heavy US accent):

"Do you know if Mexico is in the same time zone as the US?"
"(hesitating) Erm… the answer's no."
"Is the whole of Mexico in one time zone?"
"Not sure."
"(not willing to give up easily) How long is the flight?"
"We are arriving at 16:45 (silence) which makes it two hours (silence) assuming Cancun is in the same time zone (silence) but I have a feeling it isn’t (prolonged silence) so it could be three hours (getting very hesitant)maybe more."

For them, the holiday was only starting. Mine was, however, coming to an end.

Cancun was the third and last Mexican airport for me that day. It was like being on a special airport discovery mission. My weary backpacker's look attracted the attention of customs officers. Unfortunately for them, I had no imported apples to declare this time.

Cancun is divided into two distinct parts: the downtown "zona comercial" (where the locals live) and the so-called "zona hotelera" (where the locals work and where the city's major hotels are concentrated). Zona hotelera occupies a 25-km island connected to the mainland on both sides and enclosing a lagoon. Endless Paseo Kukulcan road is the island's main artery; it is divided into kilometre-long strips for navigation.

After safely getting off downtown from an airport bus, I caught a local "Ruta-1" bus to zona hotelera where I had booked to spend a night at the modest Sotavento Hotel. Finding budget accommodation in zona hotelera was not easy; most of the hotels on the island are the palace-resembling likes of Westin and Grand Caribe. In other words, outrageously expensive.

It took me two bus rides up and down the island to locate my hotel. Looking at the positive side, missing it the first time meant that I ended up at Kukulcan Plaza just in time for a spectacular sunset over the lagoon and mainland Mexico. Indeed, not many places in Mexico offer the view of the sun setting over the water.

Sunset in Cancun


DAY 14 – CANCUN AND DEPARTURE TO LONDON

Finally this day came. The day I was coming back to London! It seemed like I had been in Mexico for over a month, not merely two weeks. Everything in the air was a reminder of my imminent departure. Overcast clouds were gathering menacingly overhead; the waters of the paradise Caribbean were visibly troubled; and the famous zona hotelera was strangely empty. It was the right time to leave.

After capturing a cloudy sunrise not far from the hotel, I took my last walk in Cancun. I had heard diverging opinions about the place before, most of them being negative. It is hardly a surprise therefore that I had come prejudiced; but I did like Cancun. One cannot deny that it provides many visitors with what they really want: a beach location with minimum disruption to their everyday life back home, at that also being cheaper. It has the entertainment scene most westerners are used to. It has all the instantly recognised international (read: US) food chains such as Starbucks, McDonalds, Burger King and 7 Eleven. It offers duty free shopping for well known brands in its Western-style malls. It is extremely convenient. That one cannot deny to Cancun.

Cancun's only problem is that, especially as far as zona hotelera is concerned, it isn't really Mexico. Those slamming the city off must have come for a different experience. The experience of getting to know a new country with a culture richer and older than most others. It is however wrong to blame Cancun for failing to be what it was designed to be in the first place: a package holiday destination.

I got up early and was for a while meeting only the locals – most on their way to work in numerous hotels and tourist amenities in zona hotelera. Finally some obvious tourists started crawling out of their shells, Bermuda shorts and flipflops clashing massively with the local service staff's modest uniforms. Cancun was decidedly off-season. Monstrous hotels were rising like ghost ships, with barely any people to justify their size. Half of the shops were closed; those open were attacking rare foreigners like vultures.

An early bird gets the "worm" in Cancun

Cancun sunrise

The package "trap"

The holiday season here hadn't started yet. And my holiday was over.

(View my Flickr photo set for Oaxaca)
(View my Flickr photo set for Yucatan, including Cancun)
On my return flight back to London, I could not force myself to sleep. My holiday may have finished, but the memories from the two weeks spent in Mexico were many. I remembered the perfect sunrise over the Caribbean Sea from my terrace in Tulum. The colourful fish near Cozumel. The crystal clear fresh water of Grand Cenote. The boat ride to Yaxchilan between Mexico and Guatemala. The humorous locals in the town of Palenque. The frosty mornings in San Cristobal. The borderline pagan church in San Juan Chamula, full of smoke from hundreds of trembling candles. The Chiflon waterfall cascading lavishly in my face. The geometrically perfect Zapotec city of Monte Albán. The ever-festive, unforgettable Oaxaca. And of course the irresistibly bright, meticulously painted alebrijes in Arrazola. Just a few things covered over two weeks, over 2,000 km of ground travel and 70 hours on the road – still a fraction for a country the size of Mexico.

What was the highlight of my visit? Difficult to say. I am only certain about one thing. Somehow I do not regret not going to my original destination – Cuba – in the end. Viva Mexico!

THE END

Vamos a México! (IV) San Cristobal

(Continued from "Vamos a México! Part III: Palenque")

I had spent the rest of the day wandering around the wonderful San Cristobal. The city made a marked difference to the much smaller, culturally unchallenged (yet still cosy and pleasant) Palenque – and had a great colonial feel about it. I fell in love at first sight and must have taken at least 300 pictures within only a few hours.

Just chillin'

The Cathedral

A local woman selling knitted Mayan animals

All you need is love

Just a yellow wall

One of San Cristobal's many churches

After the green jungle, I was blinded by San Cristobal's bright colours

The city’s crafts stalls around the Santo Domingo Cathedral (Templo de Santo Domingo) and the food market (Mercado) further north both impressed. My sincere "wows" at the sight of whole pig heads, piled crabs and over a dozen kinds of beans, all with their different colour, size and shape, produced a few smiles (and strange looks) from the vendors. A man selling beans was particularly puzzled. "Que bonito!" I kept saying as I took about 20 photos of his bean collection. He couldn't get it; "It's JUST BEANS", was his sole response.

She runs the place

Those famous beans

The poultry section...

...and the fish section

...the promised pig's head

...and the cheerful lady who kindly volunteered to put a pig's leg back together for me

The highlight of my day was pacing the entire length of Real de Guadalupe to Guadalupe Cathedral (Templo de Guadalupe) and watching the sunset from its high steps.

Real de Guadalupe

Guadalupe Cathedral

As I walked back to the hotel along the darkening streets, I began to shiver in my short-sleeved top. Thanks to the altitude of over 2km, San Cristobal experiences rather cool night temperatures even in the summer.

DAY 8: SAN JUAN CHAMULA AND SAN LORENZO ZINACANTAN

The next day was a Sunday. I was awoken by a symphony of chiming bells calling pious locals to church and hurried outside.

Chiapas is known to be a very religious part of Mexico. Perhaps the best known example of adherence to exotic religious rituals is San Juan Chamula, a village 10 km from San Cristobal – my morning destination.

It got notably colder overnight. I stepped out of the hotel dressed rather inwisely and had to turn back and change into a proper hooded jacket reinforced by a scarf. It could not have been warmer than +5C degrees; white patches of mist separated mountain peaks from the ground in a most enigmatic way.

Frosty morning in San Cristobal

Frosty morning in San Cristobal

The Cathedral behind bars

Frosty morning in San Cristobal

I was a sole foreigner exiting the colectivo in Chamula. A few commercially minded local women almost ran towards me, cheap jewellery and textiles hanging across in every direction. They were followed by kids who, too, were selling everything from sweets to large wooden crosses. I fought hard to shake them off and continued into the village.

As a side note, I could not help being amazed at the variety of ethnic groups in Mexico. When I was younger, we used to get Mexican soap operas on Russian TV channels. Not one representative of a non-white race ever made it to the cast – giving me an impression that the population of Mexico was very much European-looking. The predominant number of Quintana Roo and Chiapas locals I saw though looked more Native American than European. And, with indigenous women sporting heavy woollen skirts and chattering away in Tzotzil Mayan language, Chamula was promising to be as traditional as it gets in Mexico.

The temperature on the altitude of 2km was a few degrees above zero; white mist was hanging low over the ground, like in San Cristobal. I walked up the obvious main street towards the zocalo. The village was waking up to a busy Sunday market. Locals on tiny chairs were congregating next to portable coffee makers. Shop owners were spreading their merchandise for public display. Everybody was on the move somewhere.

But most people were decidedly heading to one central location: the church. It is for most part the church of San Juan that makes Chamula such a special place. The church is famous for its unusual form of Catholicism – essentially a blend of century-old Mayan rituals and Spanish traditions. It is not allowed to take pictures inside the church, and foreigners have to pay a fee to enter. Regrettably hiding Nikie in my bag, I walked in, preparing to see something utterly unusual.

But what I saw was beyond imagination. The stone floor of the church was completely covered in pine branches. Mixed with copal resin incense commonly used for ceremonial purposes in southern Mexico, the pine gave the building a peculiar strong smell. Hundreds of multi-coloured candles of all sizes were dancing their flames on the floor and around the wooden images of Catholic saints lining the walls.

Perhaps thanks to the candles, the air inside was a blend of dust and hazy smoke. In thin long rays was the daylight flowing through the cracks between simple stained glass and the stone walls of the church. Strangely, most windows were on the eastern side of the building, with a single western window near the altar.

And the people! The people matched the environment perfectly. Most had come in large family groups and were kneeling down together in front of the saints' images. Each family would clear a patch of the floor, arrange several rows of candles, drink ceremonial cups of Posh liquor or (rather comically) Coke – and the prayer in Tzotzil began. Some people were praying very emotionally, crying their requests out loud, tears streaming down their faces. I heard from some previous visitors that animal sacrifice (usually live chicken) in cases of dire family need was also not uncommon.

Next to the zealously pious parents, the visibly un-entertained children made quite a contrast. One boy spent most of his time playing a hand-held electronic game. At one point, he forgot to turn off the sound, and a loud computerised intro suddenly joined the unison of wailing voices – its inappropriateness rather amusing in a place like this.

I asked myself how Christian this church could be. There were images of some Christian saints around, but even those were strangely presented. The central point of the altar was occupied by St. John the Baptist, the patron saint of the village. Jesus was standing shyly on his right hand side and not even facing the church. And Virgin Mary? She was lost somewhere among numerous other saints in a lesser part of the building. This “indigenous Catholicism” was certainly an interesting interpretation of Christian faith. I wonder what the Pope thinks of all this.

As said, taking photos inside the church was not allowed, and I got a few shots of the facade instead. This was most certainly not forbidden – but a local man suddenly appeared next to me, loudly denouncing my photographic activity. The smell of bad alcohol spread well around; the man was dead drunk. At barely 9am.

Too early to trade

San Juan Church in Chamula

Sunday market in Chamula

Sunday market in Chamula

On the way back, I stopped at a textiles stall and haggled for an embroidered blouse. I had most certainly seen a very similar one with a lower price tag in San Cristobal, but wanted to have a token of my visit to Chamula.

The woman running the stall did not make the best impression though. She reluctantly knocked off the price a little bit (still keeping it above San Cristobal’s) and, when I handed her 200 pesos, raised her theatrical eyes to the skies and complained that she did not have any change. Oh you poor thing.

That was not particularly credible. When you do not have change, you ask the other person if they have lesser notes. Or you rush to the neighbouring stall (of which there were a legion) and ask to exchange your customer's money. You most certainly do not loudly announce your liquidity crisis to the customer. Just in case they might lose their trust and walk away.

Which I did. Don't you have this feeling sometimes that someone just does not deserve your money? Even if they are a poor woman in a textiles stall in a remote Mexican village.

After Chamula, I visited Zinacantan – another traditional village west of San Cristobal. Perhaps because of how much quieter it was in comparison, Zinacantan impressed me less than Chamula. I took some photos around the zocalo crowned by a central church (built in style prevalent in the rest of the region) and treaded a few semi-central streets. What surprised me most was the local population's diametrically opposite attitude to photography. If the Chamulans covered their faces at a mere sight of my camera, then the Zinacantanees would come running over and offer to pose for money. Huh? Two villages were so close to each other physically and yet so different in such fundamental aspects.

Zinacantan's San Lorenzo Church

Locals wearing traditional clothes, Zinacantan

Zinacantan's winning team

I spent the rest of the day walking around the historic San Cristobal. My major mission was visiting the hill in the western part of the centre, on which the San Cristobalito church proudly stood.

For the church of the patron saint of the city, it was admittedly rather low-key. What made the hill special though was the Mexican flag. Yes, the Mexican flag. It was huge. I had never in my life seen a larger national banner before. It was so wide even the weakest touch of the wind would stir it, producing the same flapping sound the sails of a boat make in strong gale. I was mesmerised; I could just sit there and watch it forever.

Owing to flag-associated national sentiment or general secludedness of the location – the hill seemed to be frequented by young souls in love. I scared not one kissing couple during my photographic worship of that huge flag. And, as much as they visibly wished to be rather left alone, so did I wish to spend a few intimate moments with that incredible tricolor.

You could wrap at least 100 anjčis in it

DAY 9 – RANCHO NUEVO, CHIFLON AND MONTEBELLO LAKES

Next day, I had planned a popular tour out of San Cristobal – covering Rancho Nuevo Caves, Chiflon waterfall and Montebello Lakes. All points of interest are located between San Cristobal and the Guatemalan border.

Judging by the rattle of the simultaneously talking voices behind me, the minibus seemed to have at least twenty Polish people in it. Unconvinced, I looked back. The Poles only numbered four, of which two turned out to be living in London. Quite a neat illustration of the general statistical trend, then.

We first stopped at Rancho Nuevo Caves some 10km southeast of San Cristobal. Only about 400m are open to the public; the "Forbidden the step" [sic] bilingual sign at the end of the marked path prevented us from going much further.

Are you sure?

Getting deeper into Rancho Nuevo

The point of, erm, return

We could see the cause of the ball – our next destination – long before reaching it. The plunging Chiflon waterfall was impressive even at a distance. I could hardly wait to reach the main viewing platform about 800m from the entrance. Friends who had visited Chiflon previously had shared graphic stories about how excitingly soaked they got without even being that near the epicentre of the waterfall.

And they were right. The closer I got to the viewing point, the clearer it became that I should have just stripped to my swimming suit and brought along a waterproof case for my camera in the first place. By the time I put my foot on the finishing line (more like a puddle than an actual walking surface), I looked like I had just had a very decent shower. With all my clothes on. There was nothing to lose anymore. I wrapped my last remaining dry item – the scarf – around Nikie and ran towards the collapsing masses of water. Towards the unknown!

A few moments later, I had reached the platform. Streaming, whirling and splashing – all around me was water. The feeling was beyond this world. I wanted to scream. Scream and then dive into the waterfall, head forward. I had never been so close to a waterfall of a comparable size in my life.

But Nikie was with me – getting hopelessly wet in an already leaking scarf. Before retreating, I took a couple of close-up pictures of Chiflon. Or I should probably say I TRIED to take some pictures. Imagine standing under a running shower and trying to capture the showerhead on a camera. No matter how hard you try, what you will most likely end up getting is water. Lots of water. In the form of bubbles on your lens. But at least I did try.

Warm...

...warmer...

...got it!

On my victorious descent back to the car, I walked into the (still dry) Poles from my group. The same silent question seemed to be reflecting in their eyes. I don't blame them; I was seriously wet. When I had finally reached a toilet to squeeze my clothes dry (with my hands, of course), a couple of sinkfuls filled up with the water from my scarf alone. Isn't it fun getting wet on your holidays? Seriously, I'd do it again.

I was hoping the hot weather would dry my clothes in time for the Lakes of Montebello– our next destination. The 50 lakes are located very near the Guatemalan border and known for their serene beauty reminiscent of the alpine lakes. I was really looking forward to seeing them.

But it wasn't our day. When we had reached Comitan, the last big settlement on our way to the Lakes of Montebello, even the biggest optimist would admit that something was wrong. A lengthy queue of cars was stretching along the road, preventing anyone from entering the town – let alone continuing to the lakes. What was going on? It was a group of protesting workers. Just like farmers do in Greece (about) every other week, they were blocking the road! In an industrial action kind of response.

I was not sure what the response was to, but there was little to be done. We had to turn back. Bye-bye, my hopes of seeing the Lakes of Montebello. Maybe next time.

At least we spotted some OTHER lakes on the way...


DAY 10 – SUMIDERO CANYON AND DEPARTURE TO OAXACA

It was my last day in San Cristobal and I still had not seen everything planned. The biggest gap in my discovery was the Sumidero Canyon between San Cristobal and Tuxtla Gutierrez, the capital of the State of Chiapas.

The Canyon’s cliffs rise almost 1 km above sea level over the Grijalva River. It is best toured by boat, as its steep peaks are not accessible by road. The river is remarkably full of crocodiles; some were relaxing sleepily on the shores as we zoomed past. Vultures were soaring up above, and numerous pelicans were emerging far lower, right over the water. The Sumidero Canyon boasts abundant flora and wildlife.

I was really impressed by the beautiful tear-thin waterfalls streaming down the Canyon's walls and the open-air stalactites. The fast boat ride made the sightseeing especially fun. Highly recommended.

Mountain deer, one of the symbols of Chiapas

One of Sumidero Canyon's pristine waterfalls

Touring the Sumidero Canyon

Decidedly one of my best photos from Sumidero Canyon

Those annoying visitors

Getting a sun tan

On the returning ride to San Cristobal, we stopped in Chiapa de Corzo, a town with a population of around 50,000 – a convenient lunch stopover but otherwise not terribly remarkable. I spent the half an hour allocated to the town sitting by a local school and watching the pupils dash in and out. Interestingly, Mexican school kids all wear uniforms, and each school has its individual design.

View from La Pila in Chiapa de Corzo

Wake him up before you go-go

As green as it gets

My night bus to Oaxaca was not due before 8pm. After returning to San Cristobal, I did little else than wandering around town, popping into the souvenir market, responding to endless comments from local guys, taking random pictures and filling up on street food. It was a great, relaxed time.

Before leaving San Cristobal behind, I accidentally bumped into an old “friend”. That Travolta Grease-like hair could be seen from a neighbourhood away. I looked at the gentleman in question for a few seconds, trying to remember where we might have met before. But of course! It was my sleeping mate from the night bus to Palenque. He must have continued to San Cristobal that early morning I got off. Small world! I pretended I didn't recognise him, but he visibly recognised yours truly.

It was off to Oaxaca for me. I headed to the station to catch my ADO bus. I had only taken an OCC bus before. The two bus companies are competitors in Mexico's first-class bus transfers, and I had assumed they were nearly identical and perfectly interchangeable.

Wrong. If OCC made me crouch sleepless for the entire night with my neighbour's (greasy) head on my shoulder – and put garbage in my ears in an attempt to block away the sound of the cheap TV programmes broadcast on the front television set – then ADO was light years away. First, I was given a personal headphone set. The TVs were silent! Second, the seats (or should I say thrones?) could beat European business class airlines in size. Finally, there were coffee making facilities, unlimited drinking water, a free soft drink at boarding and separate toilets for men and women. True bliss. Long live ADO!

I was also lucky to have a full row of four seats (+aisle) to myself. Not before surrendering my front-row legitimate seat to a grey Mexicano in a cowboy hat though. The 12-hour journey was turning out a walk in the park. Towards the end of the night, I even stopped noticing the endless legs stepping over my own – resting across the aisle right on the way to the toilet(s).

(View the Flickr photo set for San Cristobal)

(View the Flickr photo set for the sights around San Cristobal)

(Continued in "Vamos a México! Part V: Oaxaca")