Scratching Below Campeche's Surface

We stumbled off the Campeche bus at 5:30 yesterday morning. Front row seats again. But this time I slept with ear plugs, a mask and a colourful scarf wrapped around my head. Bob stayed awake most of the night watching the show -- curves, gravel, sand and abandoned road constructions.

I'm floating through these last few days of our long adventure. Mexico has grown on me. The friendly smiling poor. The teens mingling with their parents or even grandparents. No sounds of fighting and arguments even though people live a lot of their lives outdoors.

From our hotel we see waves bounding over the rocky coast sea wall. This 15th century city was so marauded by pirates that a five foot thick stone wall was constructed around what is now the historic centre. The indigenous people lived outside the walls, the Spaniards within.

At first the city felt soulless, shoddy, crumbled. We wanted museums and art galleries -- but they were closed on Friday. What's a city without culture?

So we walked along the sea wall. Rollerbladers and joggers whizzed by, lovers kissed, families held hands.

Campeche is a world heritage site without the tarting up. Most of the old walls are stuccoed over and doors painted. I wanted old stone and gleaming wood. I was tired and disappointed that first day -- wanted to leave. But I had to give my head a shake. What had I come to Mexico for -- Starbucks, the ROM and spiffy smooth sidewalks?

Campeche is a city where Mexicans live, work and play. The gritty bits of life -- the real deal. We walked past a building with gleaming wooden doors. What joy. "Is there a performance tonight?" I asked the attendant? "At eight o'clock," he said. "A variety show."

Our box chairs were covered in red velvet. People wore their finest. I slunk down in my hiking pants. One segment of the spectacular evening was an amazing band of eight young women, all in five inch heels -- a vocalist, three guitarists, a saxophonist, two keyboardists and a drummer. At the end of the evening the audience shouted, "Otro! Otro!" More! More!

So I realized again that life is never what it seems -- not people, not cities, not even who we think we are. You have to scratch below the surface to find the truth. When will I ever learn this?

I'm so glad we can still travel around like this -- dragging luggage and heaving our backpacks.

Photos of Campeche -- the historic ramparts and entrance to the town from the top of which hot oil could be poured down, birds on the town square, a fish monger, a vegetable seller, a bride on her way to married bliss, night scenes and two photos taken on the same street -- one taken 125 years ago, the other taken yesterday with the same church off in the distance.

Anyone know how to get rid of the gobbledegook in this blog post's title? It's mired there.