Conquistador trip 1981 – (1) Mexico City and Taxco

My husband and I went to Mexico, Guatemala and Belize on a Trek America mini-bus tour from 18 December 1980 to 14 January 1981.  While away we both had birthdays – Bill’s fiftieth and my thirty-fourth. Years later, after Bill died, I wrote a poetic narrative about this trip. It’s a modest effort, but here it is: 

Conquistador

Bill said he had a touch of Spanish blood

through his Aunt Isa – certainly he looked

as though he came from there. Since youth he’d loved

the lyric tones of Victoria de

los Angeles; and later his tastes spread

to Paco Peña, Pepe Romero

and other greats of flamenco.

And so I said, “Let’s go to Mexico.”

I went to Spanish night classes

and clever Bill, who learned by osmosis,

would say to me, “Hola mi bella Ann.”

I booked us on Conquistador, a tour

to give us Mayan ruins, cathedrals

markets – “and music,” prompted Bill.

Photo Ann Barrie

Los Angeles in smog on Bill’s birthday --

Flower Drum Restaurant’s five course feast

helped us forget our long night’s flight.

Then on through sun and murk to Mexico City.

Light-headed from the altitude we fought

through pestering throngs to get pesos

and find the airport-city bus.

Next day we met our mini-bus tour group:

our English driver John, slow-thinking, good at Spanish;

a couple in their eighties, fresh

from village life in prosperous Kent;

four Townsville lecturers in art,

all keen to see museums and ancient sites;

a lively pair of girls from New South Wales;

and sundry single British youths.

Two days’ assault on our senses followed.

Slow crawling traffic belching fumes, cold nights,

fine-figured mariachis with trumpets

in Garibaldi Square, good fiery soups

but most food failing Bill’s taste test

and classically trained palate:

“It’s bland! Luke warm!”

The sacred shrine of Guadeloupe, pilgrims

approaching on their knees. “How wrong this is,”

Bill cried. “The Church so rich, people dirt poor.”

Filthy squat toilets, sea of shit; balloons

for sale; kids dressed as brides and grooms,

about to be confirmed. Later that day

Teotihuacan and we two atop

the Temple of the Sun, giddy with altitude.

It’s all there in my ancient exercise

book, sometimes Bill’s hand too:

By order of the boss,

impression of the day.

Museum of Archaeology.

Massive statues and artifacts

filled me with awe.

Streets colourful with Christmas lights, and rows

of Santas in the Garibaldi Square

Bill’s hand again: We had steak al carbon –

not good, and we got rooked. At our hotel

we had chocolate (tepid), then wonder of

wonders, hot water for a shower.

We were relieved to reach Taxco perched high

with cobbled streets and twinkling lights. Our room

had blue tiles round the windows; balconies

gave views of Santa Prisca’s two baroque 

towers. Group outings not his taste,

my restive, early-rising Bill took me for strolls,

We peeped into simple houses and saw

fine furniture and songbirds in cages.

Bill liked the colour of Taxco: Houses

clinging to the hills, and streets just lumps

of rock meshed close (makes Wellington seem flat).

Noisy Old Mexico. Apart from cars and TV,

unchanged for a century.

On Christmas Eve, relaxing on the hotel roof

with brandy and rosé, our group decided

we’d skip Acapulco – here was better.

We watched fireworks thrown up

from floodlit hillside churches

and heard bells peal out as citizens moved

slowly down to Sainta Prisca’s midnight mass.

... to be continued ...

Blog by Ann Barrie, 
author of Deserter: a novel based on true events. 
Available as a Kindle and paperback at: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B071Y3Y7HK . 
Also at: https://www.kobo.com/nz/en/ebook/deserter-4  
and, https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/719092

Why would a dedicated soldier turn his back on his own country and everyone he loves? This remarkable and moving World War II novel takes the reader on a compelling journey from North Africa to Nova Scotia, from New York to Scotland, and ultimately to the extreme dangers of the Russian Arctic convoys.