JandalsnAll

Our third day in Mexico we took a tour out to Teotihuacan, an ancient city with two pyramids, one dedicated to the Moon and one to the Sun. The archeological site is believed to have been built in 100AD and predates the Aztec culture. Of course this all sounds terribly interesting and intriguing until one actually stands in front of each pyramid and realizes they are aptly named for the close proximity of their summits to the very high Moon and the extremely high Sun. And that one is expected to climb into Deep Space.

Of course the tour guides all know this ahead of time so they take you to see pretty sculptures and quiet churches and ply you with Mexican delicacies and liquors such as pulque and tequila from the Agave plant. So as to lull you into a false sense of easy effortless booze fuelled gaiety. Then they take you out in the hottest part of the day, stick you in front of a 70 meter pyramid, whack you on the behind and tell you to climb, dammit, climb.

Three hours later we stumbled back to the van with jelly thighs and cotton brains and some really good pictures taken from way up high.  But it would be an extra hour before we left the archeological site, after a group head count revealed we were one short.. .. Though no one could actually describe what the missing person looked like, we remembered that he couldn’t speak any English or Spanish and that he was wearing either a green shirt, a white shirt or a black shirt, had either glasses or a cap and may or may not have had a moustache.  After checking all the exits we had to leave.  The van trip back was sombre, everyone’s mind on our poor missing teammate unable to communicate, probably curled up at the base of the pyramid fending off scorpions and rattlesnakes with either a cap or pair of glasses.  Until  we walked into the hostel and were greeted by our missing tourist wearing a blue shirt and glasses who explained in very comprehensible English that he had waited twenty minutes (at the wrong exit) then decided to catch a bus back.

The next day we left the bustle of Mexico City and caught an early bus to Cuernavaca where we found ourselves stranded in front of an unnamed locked gate, our supposed accommodation for the night. After a half hour sitting around outside, technical genius Ang identified a string leading to the other side. A natural engineer, she determined that pulling on the string did ring a bell on the other side of the gate. After another half hour of ringing the bell intermittently, our racket was finally answered by one of the occupants inside who helpfully pointed out the phone number on the wall to ring and then spoke to the person on the other end of the phone, politely explaining in Spanish that three “gringas” were waiting for their room, probably adding adjectives such as annoying, loud, pain in the arse, etc, etc.

Once our hostess arrived we dropped our bags in the room and took a taxi out to Tepotzlan, a village stretching out from the base of a cliff face, known for its temple which sat 2km up atop the cliff, and its icecream. But mostly known by us for its icecream. Having walked one hundred kilometres into deep space the day before we decided that the God of Icecream was due some worshipping, rather than the God of Things That Have To Be Climbed.  Of course we could have climbed the measly 2km steep hike upward in thirty degree heat if we wanted to. But we didn’t.  Just cos we didn’t want to.  But we could have if we wanted to.  Instead we visited two of the four icecream shops sampling their wares, including Tequila y Limon, Coco, Café con Leche, Yoghurt, no-one brave enough to try the Pineapple Chilli flavour.

After eating icecream and ignoring the temple for a while, we caught a 40 minute taxi for $15 back to Cuernavaca and sweated ourselves to sleep – or at least I did, while Ang and Lyn stayed up for eight hours chasing a mosquito around the room, eventually luring it into the bathroom and trapping it in a sheet.

In time the ink breaks as a gas station comes into view. We drive straight past it – almost miss it but for a keen eye spotting the small blinking neon sign. The flickering of a wasted H barely visible next to its doomed capital brothers O S T E L.

We turn around on the deserted highway and pull in next to a pick-up truck. The block of rooms seem abandoned so we walk through the crisp night and into the gas station. An electronic bell as we enter. A Western cliché playng on the radio. An old soap from the 80’s showing on a small TV behind the counter. “We’re looking for the people who run the hostel?” “You’ve found him” came the drawl. “Uh… we have a booking”. He turns slowly to a calendar on the wall behind him, and looks for our booking. Slowly. Then he turns back to face us with cotton eyes. Slowly.

A tortoise in a plaid shirt and glasses.

Time stops.

 An old man in a baseball cap, grey and bearded sits in a corner staring at the Twinkies. Grinning maniacally.

Then with a whir the music winds up again, the 80’s actress falls to the ground and Dismal Desmond slowly takes our cash and gives us a key. We walk back outside shivering with the blast of cold that envelopes us…..or do we tremble with trepidation?  No one says anything but every one is thinking the same as we walk slowly along the block of rooms until we come to Room 13.  Several feral cats scrounge around the building as we enter the room and someone tries the lightswitch.  Nothing. In the dim light we see four rickety bunk beds with stained mattresses, an empty chest of drawers and demon shadows.

The bravest spokesperson from our party of three ventures back to the “office” in search of linens and light. And returns with Mr Dismal who proceeds to open every other room one by one, slowly. He walks away, not very fast, leaving us huddling together in the snow-laced night contemplating our fate. Someone tries the heater – it struggles. Could we really last a night here with no blankets? Perhaps we could snuggle. Perhaps we could find some alternative…outside a feline caterwauls and we all consider the unthinkable….

Moments later our survival plans are interrupted by the arrival of another man, a strange  shadowy figure with an aura of authority, who appears to be Desmond’s boss.  He ignores the greeting, neither speaking nor looking at us.  Is this avoidance of eye contact merely because he lacks social graces, or is it really because he doesn’t like to get-to-know his prey? This man is not slow like Desmond, but his rough beard and gaunt contours belie a deeper handicap of the soul. We have not seen his eyes, but we suspect they too are cotton.

The Boss repeats Dismal’s inspection of the surrounding rooms… one by one by one. They’re all empty of blankets. And people.  We huddle outside the room, watching the moths hurling themselves at the one working light on the empty path, a small pile of their dead comrades marking the ever-futile battles of nights past. The Boss concludes his search and disappears, only to return a moment later with a bulb which he screws into the only fixture,  still without looking at us. Perhaps he thinks this will mollify us, that we too will be drawn to the light, and, like the moths, to our deaths?

The Boss leaves us alone on the path, wondering if he will ever return with blankets.  Breath frosts the air, we clutch our insufficient jackets closer  and contemplate – again – just how far a cat pelt would stretch. Finally, having seen neither hide nor hair of anyone for at least ten minutes, we retreat into the false warmth of the gas station. The chime over the door makes an eery ‘uh-oh’ as we enter. As Dismal Desmond drags his gaze, slowly, away from the grainy TV, an urge to stab ourselves with the “Desert State” novelty toothpicks adorning the counter overcomes us.  Before anyone is self-maimed, we see The Boss outside in the cold, gesturing violently and communing with some unseen force in the dark.  It is mutually decided without need of words that it is time to leave, but Dismal’s snail-pace leaves us cornered as The Boss enters, finally addressing us directly although eerily his eyes remain in shadow, and he assures us that blankets are coming….

The Boss is summoned back outside by the unseen force of darkness that controls him, and we see our opportunity to escape. Dismal finally has our money in hand, we grab it and run, breaking free of the cloying decay that eminates from this desert grave.

We screech off into the night, our last image through the rear-view mirror is of neon light – pulsating in the inky night the only illuminated letters, the  H, the E, and the L.

(Based on a true story.  Co-written by E, L, A).