Alana Hunt finds herself caught up in a street protest in Mexico City on the way to Cuba – and discovers Frida Kahlo’s house.
I remember sitting in the plane with two girlfriends as we descended on Mexico City, saying something along the lines of ‘Guys, we could die here.’
Our plan, when we arrived at the airport, was to purchase a ticket straight to Cuba (our idyllic communist safe haven). However, tickets to Cuba were far more expensive than our Australian travel agent had advised (always double check if they say ‘Buy it when you get there’) and secondly there were none available for days.
Exhausted from travelling and confused – but also pretty excited – we organised a pre-paid taxi to take us to a hostel where we could regroup and plan our next move.
Mexico City Hostel is great if you are looking for something within a hostel price range – but you may also risk running into young wealthy Westerners on a drinking tour of the world. Despite this, during our five days there I met a whole range of people – foreign women travelling alone, a Mexican artist, an environmentalist/photographer, an anthropologist, a couple of twenty-first century hippies from Seattle and more. The hostel is just a few hundred metres from the central Zocalo and we found it a convenient, cheap, safe and clean place to stay.
If you get a chance (and it’s not locked up), do climb up the red ladder on the top floor, near the stairs. It will bring you onto the roof of the hostel where (particularly at night) you will see one of the most intimate views of a rarely silent Mexico City.
After breakfast, we set off to purchase our tickets to Cuba, but as we looked out of the front gates and onto the streets, we saw a constant stream of people, literally filling the width of the streets and heading toward the Zocalo in a frenzied protest. The receptionist advised us to stay in for the day and patiently wait it all out.
A Mexican at the hostel – on a business trip – laughed at the idea of having to stay inside for the day, and offered to show us around instead.
As we stepped outside, Mexico City greeted us wildly. The streets were roaring. People were approaching the Zocalo from every direction and every street I could see was full to the brim with people. It was the 1st of May, Mexico’s Día del Trabajo, otherwise known as Labour Day.
It was rumoured the President would make an appearance on the centre stage in the Zocalo, and with an upcoming election, both young and old were out to speak their mind. We were given cups of rum and my two friends with their gorgeous naturally blonde hair were quickly offered marriage proposals. We then wandered around the Zocalo and with the help of our local guide, began to feel like Mexico City might not kill us after all.
We came to market places with police on horseback wearing sombreros, past the Palacio de Bellas Artes, which houses many of those beautiful Mexican wall murals, and onto the strangely beautiful Head Post Office, built between 1902-1908. It’s a great example of Mexican Gothic architecture.
Then we came to a Starbucks, situated conveniently beside an American-owned top notch hotel. (The name escapes me now, but this may not be a bad thing.) Surprisingly, these two businesses were surrounded by a riot squad of over two hundred police all staring blankly and very professionally at the passers-by.
I got my camera out instantly and snapped away. Then I learned that apparently, some Cubans visiting Mexico in the previous fortnight had been staying in the American-owned hotel when the owners allegedly asked them to leave, citing bad relations between the two countries. In Mexico, I heard there had been a backlash against some American businesses for bringing their politics into another country.
At around this same time, I heard a grassroots movement had also begun, launching a “Don’t buy anything American”day.
We ventured onto the huge train system (it transports around six million people on a daily basis) and passed streets in a wealthy with fences lined with an armory of jaggered glass pieces.
Soon we were at Frida Kahlo’s home in Coyoacán,. Sadly it was closed, but just to touch those deep blue Mexican walls, surrounding the outside of the house, was satisfying enough.
We ended the day in the rain with some Mexican food near another market place, some tequila and a ride home in a little VW beetle taxi. Riders on the Storm by The Doors played on the radio, as the rain poured down outside around us.
The city hadn’t delivered a violent experience at all. In fact all day people around us had been kissing and touching, and publicly displaying their love for each other. The sight of a gorgeous couple well into their 60’s kissing passionately outside the grand Palacio des Bellas Artes topped it off and we came to realise Mexico City was not at all a city to fear but rather a city of love.
