Happy New Year!

Red (for luck), yellow (for money), with banana or lace? This was the choice of New Year’s Eve pants for sale across Mexico. I’ll leave it up to the reader to decide what we went for…

Oaxaca is a wonderful colonial Mexican city that smells of chocolate and burnt meat. On New Year‘s Eve the zocalo (central plaza) was decked out in fairy lights and beds of poinsettias and was abuzz with families sipping soft drinks (drinking alcohol in the street is prohibido) and buying balloons. The city’s many elaborate Catholic churches were packed full of incense and people reflecting on the year past and present.

Pants are just part of the Oaxacan New Year’s Eve celebrations. You also need to drink cider - not a problem - and eat a grape for each of the chimes at midnight, making a wish with each. Sadly we left ours in the fridge. However, as there was no Big Ben there were no chimes to welcome in 2009, so we wouldn’t have known when to eat them anyway. Instead we waited until the amateur pyrotechnics reached a peak and then surreptitiously chinked and slugged our warm lagers. We know how to celebrate in style!

The rest of the midnight hour was spent trying to dodge the mini-rockets and jumbo sparklers that ricocheted around the zocalo, and keep out of the way of the foam spray and eggs that were being lavishly spread over party goers. It seems to be a tradition to break eggs full of flour and/or hole-punch clippings on people’s heads.

It’s been quite a year for World In Slow Motion. We’ve travelled over 30,000 miles across three continents and sixteen countries. We’ve slept in the wilds of Siberia, worked amongst bears in Japan, eaten our body weight in rice, drunk ‘proper’ tequila, travelled on some of the best and worst trains in the world and got engaged on a cargo ship. With only three more countries to go, we’ll see what adventures 2009 brings…Happy New Year!
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Is it a man, is it a butterfly…

Two sets of flying things have amazed us this past week.
‘Los voladores’, aka the flying men, who pole dance with a difference,
and the migratory monarch butterflies of Piedra Herrada.
Both incredible feats of strength, nature and travel in slow motion.

Tom’s birthday treat was a trip to the Piedra Herrada butterfly sanctuary outside of Mexico City. I was expecting something similar to the Wye Valley Butterfly Zoo, but was instead blown away by the little known natural phenomenon we beheld.

After breathlessly scaling a deeply dusty uphill trail through a pine forest we came upon millions and millions of monarch butterflies. So called because their chrysalis is shaped like a crown, apparently named after William III. The air was thick with the sound and sight of gently fluttering butterflies and the floor littered with the dead confetti of their relatives. These butterflies are not native to Mexico, but had travelled for two months over two thousand miles from their home in the United States and Canada to winter in Mexico’s warmer climes. They started arriving from mid-November and will stay until the beginning of March when the mating period is over and the weather warm enough to return home.

The monarch is an enigmatic butterfly. Scientists are still debating why it is only every fifth generation of butterflies that makes this trek to Mexico and how they know to return to the same spot each time. A pre-historic Sat Nav perhaps? The monarchs have a taste for high altitude (2,800m) oyamel fir trees, but not any old tree will do, they apparently return to the exact same trees over a sixty square mile area year after year.

The voladores don’t travel quite so far, but their job is also death-defying. Their pole dancing performance originates from Papantla, Mexico, but is now performed at tourist attractions including Mexico City’s Museum of Anthropology and Teohuatican pyramids. Dressed in traditional Totonac costume five brave men ascend a thirty metre pole without rope or safety harness. Four then descend headfirst on ropes gracefully and slowly revolving around the pole exactly thirteen times. A sort of bungee jump in slow motion. The fifth member remains at the top of the pole playing a bewitching tune on a pipe. [See video at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FoIBD2y-g9k]

This spectacle is also steeped in mystery and myth. Some believe it to be a fertility rite calling to the four corners of the earth to bring rain and sun; others link it to the pre-Hispanic calendar.

Two groups of flyers travelling in slow motion. Both gracefully practicing mysterious rituals. I do not understand why either man or butterfly does what they do, but their courage and might make for very good tourist attractions. So when visiting Mexico, make sure you look up.

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Presents, piñatas and Paxo: A Mexican family Christmas:

¡ Feliz Navidad!

Christmas. Whilst I love the festive season I loathe spending it away from home.

I can’t help missing everything about a good ol’ traditional British Christmas - friends and family, presents, rotten weather, Bond repeats on telly and the stuffing. Especially the stuffing.

So if we were to have to spend this Christmas away then we would have to find a nice place to spend. And where better than Mexico.

A country full of devout Catholics, Christmas is huge in Mexico. The whole country is swathed in festive bling; as we travelled down from the north every village, town and city we passed through seemed to be indulging in festive celebrations which would put little old Blighty in the shade.

It was therefore with considerable anticipation that we approached the great megalopolis of Mexico City.

And not a little trepidation either. Mexico City is a massive place - with 18 million inhabitants it’s the second biggest city in the world (by population), a huge, sprawling, urban mass devouring all in its path as it expands in its seemingly inexorable quest to meet the needs of its residents.

This doesn’t make it an instantly lovable place for visitors, nor the most liveable for its residents, suffering as it does from high levels of pollution.

The city is also afflicted with more than its fair share of pollution and crime. We had been warned that it was a bit ‘edgy‘, not to venture into certain parts after dark, to leave our credit cards behind, and to take taxis everywhere, making sure you lock the doors once inside.

If what the locals did were anything to go by this was prudent advice: most residents seem to hide themselves away behind heavy metal gates, set into high walls lined with barbed wire.

No wonder the British felt that there was only one man up to the job of British ambassador here. Who else but a Paxman (in this case Jeremy’s brother Giles) could fearlessly represent his country’s interests in such a foreboding place?

With Paxo at the helm, surely we were safe and could focus fully on the festivities instead, spending the Christmas period with an old university chum, Monica, and her family .

It was to be a wonderful and very memorable occasion.

Unlike in Britain, the big day for Mexicans is the 24th, Christmas Eve. We arrived the day before and despite Christmas being a family occasion we were welcomed into their home with open arms.

The whole family had gathered for the festivities, four generations represented, from a delightful grandmother to a wide-eyed two year old, all arms and legs, the goo flowing permanently out of his mouth.

Mother was there, smiling benignly on proceedings and patiently attending to the many pans bubbling away on the stove, along with five of her eight brothers and sisters and their attendant husbands and wives.

Then there were their various children, shy teenagers and a mob of younger kids with a worrying predilection for running through the crowded rooms, high on sugar and the promise of presents.

And the family pets, a menagerie of a dog, a cat, a vociferous parrot and 4 tiny caged birds, housed in the outhouse toilet.

Together we all squeezed into the rambling house, part of traditional old Mexican courtyard,
bequeathed to the family by the grandfather, along with a large collection of dusty old lathes and stand drills which lined the entrance.

Ancient old motors lined the street outside, coated in dust, their tyres long flat. Inside the festive decorations lined every available surface and hung from every hook. Even the toilet seats had suitably seasonal covers.

It wouldn’t be Christmas of course without a tipple and our wonderful hosts soon introduced us to bountiful stock of booze at their disposal. The fridge groaned with a whole host of Mexican beers, many of them new to our palates.

Uncle Beto and Aunt Elizabeth went one further than this and introduced us to the pleasure of their sizeable mini-bar, a Bacchanalian banquet to rival the food. Rum, whisky, vodka, advocaat (a uniquely festive drink) and of course tequila.

They seemed to have them all, every fearsome variant of the local firewater, each distilled from a modest little cactus and guaranteed to send one’s head spinning.

“This is my favourite”, Uncle Beto told us, fondling a particularly weighty dark bottle, Tres Generaciones.
I politely supped the fearsome liquor I was passed, the memories of too many messy nights out still too strong to indulge uninhibited. Lara, on the other hand, eagerly swigged away, mixing it with a rather briny red liquid called Sangrita (‘little blood’). They colour it bright red for a reason.

Suitably tanked up we were then invited across the road to Uncle and Auntie’s house where we all sang a posada (hostel) song, a traditional song which, as I understood it, represents the pilgrimage of Mary and Joseph.

Everyone merrily sang back and forth, one group the ‘pilgrims‘, the other the ‘hostel keepers’ whilst I mumbled embarrassingly along, wondering what on earth I was singing about.

This merry ritual over, we were then invited to participate in another Mexican Christmas tradition: the piñata game, or smashing the hell out of a papier mache figure dangling from a rope, with a great big stick in a bid to get at the sweets inside.

It’s not as simple as it sounds of course: alongside the alcohol coursing through one’s veins one has to contend with wearing a blindfold, being spun around until nicely disoriented and thence having to jump up thrashing wildly into the air as one of the Uncle‘s teasingly tugs the rope up and down.

As we made complete fools of ourselves, our fellow revellers sang another song, which loosely translates as: “Hit it, hit it hit it, don’t you lose your aim.”

Of course I did and hit the piñata - this one fiendishly based around a heavy ceramic pot - with my hand.

Dizzy, nauseous and numb with pain I happily passed the heavy wooden stick onto the next person who proceeded to smash the piñata into smithereens. The pieces shattered over a nearby car, setting off the alarms; the sweets inside exploded out all over the lawn, prompting an excitable feeding frenzy amongst children and adults alike.

The danger wasn’t over however, as someone then produced some fireworks and a laidback cousin in a leather jacket proceeded to light them in a rather lacksidasical manner.

Lethal lights and gunpowder fizzed all over the cardboard box they were placed upon, showering everyone in sparks and ricocheting off the walls of the confined space in which we were all gathered.

I cowered with granny behind the safety of a patio door. The kids loved it and eagerly grabbed the sparklers for an encore, great enormous sticks almost three foot long. A particularly young member of the family seemed to delight in the danger, carving great spaces out of the air, hair sizzling, eyeballs searing.

No wonder fireworks are banned in this city.

I was relieved to retreat back inside, as we approached the great present-giving ceremony.

Somehow, everyone squeezed into the small living room, crammed on and around two sofas, lounging in doorways, perched on stairwells.

A massive stack of presents awaited us, a mound big enough to rival the city’s great pyramid of Teotihuacan. Surely we’d be going all the way through into the New Year if we were to tackle all this lot.

Wrong. The family had a cunning answer to this problem: speed present-giving. A present is picked, the receiver gets ten seconds (counted down by everyone else) to unwrap it before they must select a new present and give it to that receiver, and so on, and so on.

It’s genius. No long, meandering hours of lingering over new socks and unwanted oven gloves. Just a frantic ripping of paper, a quick nod of thanks and on to the next.

And it’s great fun. Everyone gleefully gave and received. Everyone got something they wanted, something they didn’t want and something they never expected. I think my present of some chilli-flavoured crickets must surely fall into the third category.

Finally, the mountain was levelled. Midnight struck and it was time to eat.

This being Mexico there were huge amounts of food. Industrial quantities. It was as if they were expecting the entire city to turn up.

There was a mountain of mashed cod, a steaming heap of potatoes, a great forest of salad, a groaning basket of bread, a huge school of prawns, great lakes of mole and several large dishes of spaghetti.

There was a turkey of course, one that looked as if it had been pumped up on steroids and primed to take on Rocky Balbao and, just in case you were left feeling a bit peckish after all this, a choice of three different delicious puddings.

I dug in with the rest of the family, blissfully gorging myself on this medieval feast. After six months on the road my instincts seem to have reprogrammed themselves to resemble those of a wild animal, prompting me to feed frantically whenever the opportunity presents itself.

It was a good job I did too: with several charming Mexican mothers surrounding this scrawny Englishman - hardly a carbon copy of the typically tubby Mexican male - found it hard to refuse their kind, concerned insistence to try just one more spoonful…

But the best was yet to come. A familiar smell wafted in to the room: stuffing!

Shipped in fresh from a little Leicester delicatessen called Tesco. It had been lovingly prepared, gently cooked with thin slices of ham around it, and was devoured in an instant. An big hit with the Mexicans.

No wonder they put Paxo in charge in this town.



* Many thanks to the wonderful Rodriguez family for kindly hosting us over Christmas and giving us such a marvellous time


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All aboard the Copper Canyon Railway

The sun rose over the distant, dusty hills as a chubby chap in bowtie and peaked hat ushered us aboard the Chihuahua Pacifico train. This was the start of our 655km journey to the Pacific coast, one of the most beautiful and evocative train journeys in the world.

The train leaves at 7am, so the first part of the journey, leaving town, is the best time to catch a little extra kip. When we opened our eyes an hour later, dry, rocky mountains scattered with yucca, cacti and scrub surrounded us. A cowboy in white laminated stetson (the local hatwear) lazily sauntered along a dirt track. In front of him lay the skull and bones of a cow lying in the charred remains of a summer scrubland fire. On the other side of the line more fortunate cattle grazed on yellow grass. Large black birds with red beaks sat on fence posts either with wings akimbo to soak up the morning sun or a beady eye on the passing train. This was cowboy country.

Hanging out of the vestibule windows we drank in the cold, fresh mountain air while the sun beat down on our faces. There were no child locks or health and safety on this vehicle. Apart from the rushing of the wind, the outside world was eerily quiet. Inside it was as noisy as a pig in a tin box. The wheels on the train screeched and clanked as we meandered uphill, dragging the four carriages from an altitude of 1,600m to 2,400m.

A man with a large automatic weapon strapped across his shoulder patrolled the carriages, accompanied by a handful of private security guards. It certainly looks like bandit country outside, so maybe they really were expecting a hold-up. A vendor with a sports bandage across his large nose took pictures of passengers on an ancient Polaroid then niftily turned them into souvenir keyrings. Food and drink was available in the standing only buffet car where you can surf the ride as you slurp a coffee. At the stations burritos, tamales and drinks were on sale through the train windows.

There are two trains in each direction each day. The first class express train takes in ten stations, the second class economy train considerably more. The latter is notorious for being slow and late. We gained first hand experience of this second class malady.

We broke the sixteen hour journey with a night in Creel, a small dusty railway town nestled in canyon country. With its tin roofed houses, crisp cold air and mix of cave dwelling loin-cloth wearing Tarahumara (the indigenous population) and cowboy locals, it is worth at least an overnight stay. After a short tour to see the best views of the Copper Canyon itself - views that rival the Grand Canyon - and that the train journey doesn’t allow for, we waited at the next station down the line, Divisidero. The train turned up two hours late due to pranksters having parked an upturned car on the track further up the line. Divisidero is a congenial place to spend some time with wonderful canyon views, colourful Tarahumara weaving and selling baskets and rows of ‘gordita’ stalls. These wonderful little maize pockets stuffed with beans, cheese and a stew of your choice are cooked fresh on hot plates on top of oil-can wood fires.

We were overjoyed to hear the toot of our train echo through the hills and finally pull into the station, only for our bubble to be quickly burst when the carriage attendant told us the train was full. We were allowed on, but had to sit on the floor of the buffet car amongst piles of locals, gringos, luggage and gordita remains. It must be coming up to Christmas or something.

The train plodded onwards through rocky forested canyons and creeks, stopping at length to let the eastbound trains pass (for this is a single track railway) and juddering to regular halts. The views should have been amazing as we traversed wild canyon terrain, but due to the delays the sun set all too soon and plunged us into darkness. The popping of our water bottles was now the only indication of the long descent down to sea-level. Finally ensconced in a comfy reclining seat with plenty of leg room we slept. We woke at 2am in Los Mochis. The train was four and a half hours late.

In spite of the delays and occasional lack of seating, if I had the time I would do the whole journey again from west to east. This lesser known series of canyons is every bit as awesome as its neighbour to the north, only there are more canyons and fewer tourists. The Copper Canyon Railway remains one of the most spectacular and memorable train journeys on our trip so far.

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Burgers to burritos: from the US into Mexico

Mexico. What’s all the fuss about? Or rather should I say what is all the concern about?


One week in to our trip and we haven’t been mugged or kidnapped, robbed at gunpoint or fallen foul of the drug gangs.
Nor have we been smashed to smithereens in a bus crash, stranded at the bottom of a remote ravine or abandoned in the desert, left to the jackals.

We haven’t even been stricken by food poisoning, overcome by urban smog or ripped off by one of the millions of the mythical, duplicitous Mexicans who supposedly live here and prey on unsuspecting gringos.

Nothing. Nada. None of the terrible fates of which many of the folk back in the United States predicted for us once we‘d left the protective mantle of Uncle Sam‘s realm.

On the the contrary, it’s all gone quite well. Mexico, this land of supposed barbarous savages, is - whisper it - actually rather a nice place.

I’m almost disappointed. I’d half expected to be shooting it out with bandoliered bandits besieging our train or at least making an appearance on the news, a grainy image of the two of us entering some shadowy pickup, the last known whereabouts of the most recent gringos to go missing in this dangerous nation.

I’d anticipated perhaps even a reunion with my old mucker Michael Buerk on 999. I could imagine him relating our mishap, his voice full of tension, “It was a decision which proved near fatal…”

So what on earth were all those Americans we met talking about?

(I should stop and correct myself here: by ‘American’ I mean of course US citizens; Mexicans are rightly sensitive about this, as the graffiti on a wall in Mazatlan pointed out “From Canada to Argentina we are all Americans”).

It’s early days into our visit here but this country seems wonderful. It’s warm and sunny, colourful and lively, the locals are fun and friendly, the food new and tasty and a welcome change to the predictable, plastic fare north of the border.

There’s fantastic colonial architecture, squat men in cream plastic cowboy hats, strange-looking Tarahumara Indians and more bushy moustaches than a Handlebar Club convention.

Despite the worries which were stoked up in us by our American friends, this country seems far more relaxed and enjoyable. We have encountered few of the up-tight neuroses which we did in the US, the buttoned-up paranoia which seemed to pervade our week there.

Like a conversation with the folks back home much of the talk in the US seemed full of financial worries, forecasts laden with doom, people fearing for the future.

The golden grins and confident swagger I experienced during my previous visit there seven years ago have been replaced by furrowed brows and TV channels full of adverts and advice on how to cope with the credit ‘crisis’.

The unimpeachable confidence of the CEOs has been punctured, the car companies crawling to the Capitol with their begging bowls in their hands.

Some even now openly fret that the tides are changing and the US supertanker is sinking as other vessels hove into sight over the horizon.

Can a change of captain set them back on course? We’ll find out when we return in February.
By contrast the people of Mexico, not a country which has by any means escaped the ravages of the ‘global financial crisis’ seem happier than their neighbours to the north.

Is this due to the different social makeup, where life is more family-oriented and less atomistic? Is it something to do with the differences in the ethnic makeup, cold-blooded Anglo-Saxons as opposed to warm-blooded latinos? Or is it because they’ve got less (in terms of material possessions) to lose?

Whatever it is, it’s been fascinating to witness these contrasts as they emerge and watch the atmosphere change as we’ve headed south, approaching and finally hopping, over the Mexican border.

Back in Los Angeles, from the minute we stepped off the boat, we saw strong hints about what was to come, from the food and the language, to the buildings and the people.

We passed through former Mexican territories in the South-West of the US, from California, through Arizona and New Mexico to Texas, areas which were often so hispanic in character one could be forgiven for thinking one had already crossed the border.

Combined with the powerful US political and economic influence in Mexico itself, this makes for an interesting cultural mix.

Dodge Rams and decaying old buses, Madonna and Mariachi, burgers and burritos, desperate poverty and opulent affluence.

This is born from a fascinating history between the two countries, full of friction and fury, exploitation and expropriation, revulsion and revolution.

Mexico is the only country which has fought on US soil; the US-baiting exploits of legendary revolutionary Pancho Villa is lovingly documented in his old stomping ground of Chihuahua.

This tension continues to this day, the US irate at Mexico’s seeming inability to police its borders, powerless to prevent the drug barons and people smugglers slipping over into US territory, Mexico fuming at US ‘imperialism’ and bullying tactics.

Yet both countries need each other: the US provides jobs, Mexico the workforce.

Without Mexico states such as California and Arizona would struggle to operate, few of their citizens wishing to carry out the menial work undertaken by many impoverished Mexicans.

Without the US, the income of millions of Mexicans would take a massive dive.

We travelled with thousands of Mexicans heading home from the US for Christmas. Passing through the state of Michoacà n we learnt that half of the population had emigrated north, the emigrants sending home some $2bn every year.

Despite this awkward relationship, one in which we found citizens of both countries needed little encouragement to condemn the other, both countries are inextricably bound to each other, condemned to dance an uncomfortable tango towards greater equality.

And like many awkward relationships there is a third party here, one from a very different part of the world - Spain.

Though the colonists left a long time ago their legacy remains. I was surprised at how quite how strong this legacy is, the visible reminders of the old colonial ruler far greater than those in other former European colonies we’ve visited such as Hong Kong (formerly British) or Vietnam (formerly French).

This was apparent from our very first port of call in Mexico, Chihuahua, a dusty city up in the dry mountains of the far North.

We found it a stark contrast to the US: grand colonial edifices, carefully laid-out plazas, streets designed for walking, not driving.

Though the architecture is impressive it is perhaps something else that the Spanish introduced that sets our new location apart from our previous - religion.

As a deeply Catholic country Mexico is crazy for Jesus and Mary. Their images and icons are everywhere: in shops and restaurants, in homes and hostels, on buses and trains, placed in tiny roadside shrines and daubed on huge mountains.

At this time of the year these are accompanied by Christmas bling. Lots of it.

Massive Christmas trees dominate town centres, their boughs laden down with garish decorations and garish lights twinkle from every building; parents stagger along pavements, weaving past elaborate nativity scenes, their arms laden with mountains of presents.

The beautiful ornate churches we visit seem to be permanently in the middle of one service or another, the masses drawn to prayer in the build up to the big day.

Jesus’s birthday is clearly A VERY BIG THING. I’m looking forward to it and seeing how Mexicans celebrate Christmas.

That’s if we aren’t blown up by a cracker, or knocked out by a falling piñata, or poisoned by an undercooked turkey, or crushed by a falling Christmas tree or….

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A tale of two cities

Border towns - a WISM speciality. We have crossed many borders in the previous six months but none seemed as ominous as that between the United States and Mexico.

The border is a byword for many of the more unpleasant things which occur when two countries with such a vast disparity in power and wealth share a boundary: illegal immigration; drugs smuggling and its associated violence; prostitution, gambling and other low level crime.

It draws the more unseemly types towards it and leaves the ordinary, decent folk nervous, anxious to scurry through as quickly as possible.

At least it wouldn’t come as too much of a culture shock to us. After having only been back in it for a week, once more we were leaving the Western world. I can’t say I was sorry to leave many of the aspects of the US behind, but what would lie ahead?

Many Americans we spoke to were alarmed, if not horrified. “Mexico!”, they said “You be careful over there! They’d reel off a list of dangers we’d confront if we were stupid enough to venture there, their faces a picture of anxiousness.

“Have you been there?” we’d ask, “Oh no”, they’d reply.

We steeled ourselves then, as we approached El Paso and its Mexican counterpart on the other side, to which we’d cross, Ciudad Juarez. One border, two cities.

We’d just crossed the state boundary, leaving the empty deserts of New Mexico behind and entering Texas. There was no missing this border - a huge sign read ‘Welcome to Texas. Proud home of President George W.Bush’.

Now, entering the town we could tell we were entering new ground. El Paso has a real frontier town feel about it, raffish, faded and ever-so-slightly edgy.

Americans told us that El Paso is ‘the poorest large city in the US’, Mexicans that it is ‘the safest city in the US’. In truth, it didn’t seem like either.

Instead I found it a rather interesting blend of US, Texan and Mexican. The latter’s influence felt stronger, with visible signs all around, from the food and the people to the language spoken.

Like many a frontier , the visitor is reminded at every opportunity where they are. The Star and Stripes and the Texan Lone Star hung in concert around the town, whilst banners hung down from lampposts to greet returning American servicemen.

“Welcome home heroes“, they read, emblazoned with the Air Cavalry’s insignia (though sadly no Ride of the Valkyries boomed out from speakers to accompany it).

We rolled into town after dark. The streets were empty, the shops closed. We shivered in the cool night air (the city stands at an elevation of over 3000 feet) admiring fine, square, old buildings.

There was a touch of the old Wild West still in the grid patterned streets, a feeling that we were on the edge, at the boundaries of the law.

We heaved our colossal packs into our decaying hostel, an endearingly grubby shadow of its grand former self.

An old timer shuffled up to us, dressed in bootlace tie with cow skull clasp, large stetson and tall pointy leather boots: “you folks from outtatown?”

Another local, working in the hostel, proved equally friendly.

Antonio was an energetic sixty-something. He sported a baseball cap and sweater, with the sleeves rolled up to reveal darkly tanned, muscley forearms, and the kind of facial hair that seems customary for this part of the world - a bushy moustache.

Though he hails from Wichita, Kansas (it’s ‘a shithole’, full of ‘American assholes’, apparently) this delightful chap was bubbling over with enthusiasm about his adopted city.

“A twenny minute driiiiive from heeyeer and yawl fiiinnd a raaanch of tweenny thousaarnd acres witha fawlty heeeyeerd of cattawl!”, he exclaimed.

“It ain’t no doood raayaanch either” he continued, referring to our previous destination, Tombstone, “Eeeeyit’s reeeall cowbaaaawzs!”, he exclaimed, thumping the antique telephone exchange.

I liked Antonio, he was fun. Plus he had a big white van in which he insisted we took a ride, heading to a viewpoint halfway up one of the mountains surrounding the town.

We drove past spacious front gardens, many littered with bright Christmas light displays: palm tree, miniature reindeers and, in a unique American twist on this tradition, a Cadillac. “That’ll be a ‘63 or ‘64 I’d say”, said Antonio, admiringly.

He was right: the view from the top was worth it. Beneath spread a blanket of lights, glowing golden grid patterns denoting the streets, Wells Fargo dominating the centre.

The border was clear, a dark line running alongside the Rio Grande. The river itself, Antonio explained, hardly lived up to its name these days, emptied of 85% of its contents by the thirsty folk upstream, much of the rest sucked up by the Mexicans before it’s had a chance to enter the Gulf of Mexico.

We got our chance to see this for ourselves the next morning, as we crossed the border into Mexico.

With some trepidation we yomped through the seedy streets in the bright sunlight, passing groups of itinerant Mexicans standing around in groups and wannabe cowboys (drugstore cowboys, Antonio would call them) leaning in shop doorways.

As we passed through US immigration in order to reach the Mexican side and get our tourist card we were warned (once again) by a policemen about the dangers that lurked on the other side.

Dubya and Dick grinned down from the walls, their mugs framed and hung on the wall at US immigration, Leaders of the Free World.

We walked out onto the bridge. The locals didn’t look unfriendly, rather they seemed sad and tired as they queued in a long line that stretched over the bridge back into Ciudad Juarez, a daily activity for the many who cross, looking for work.

The workers were herded down long metal cages, surrounded by barbed wire, ‘no loitering’ signs, CCTV and grim faced armed guards. It looked like a scene from Children of Men, the machinery of a paranoid, overbearing state holding back the flood.

We crossed the bridge over the Rio Grande, a dismal trickle surrounded by barbed wire and railway lines, its concrete banks daubed with anti-US slogans. A buzzing helicopter hovered low overhead, making us wince, as we passed a nondescript line in the middle of the bridge, marking the official boundary.

On the other side we passed squeegy merchants, touting for trade amongst the traffic, soldiers in balaclavas toting huge rifles and nervously scanning the traffic and tubby little moustachioed men wearing vague uniforms who waved us through.

Music blasted, people smiled and joked, delicious smells wafted over to us from little foodstalls. I felt a spring in my step and some of the weight of American paranoia lift from my shoulders.

This was going to be different all right.

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How to…get to Mexico from El Paso, Texas

The El Paso/Ciudad Juarez border crossing ranks as one of the most shambolic we have crossed so far. Confusingly you need be in Mexico to get the papers to allow you to be in Mexico. Given the rigour of U.S. immigration upon arrival we were expecting a similar grilling upon departure, but on our bus journey from El Paso to Chihuahua there was no sign of American immigration.

The two adjoining cities straddle the border and immigration controls are confusing. Upon entry to the U.S. we were told that Mexico is considered a contiguous region with the U.S. so that for stays under 30 days we would not need a visa or tourist card to visit. It would also appear that U.S. citizens and World in Slow Motion backpackers with a U.S. visa can visit certain parts of Mexico within a certain distance of the border (e.g. to Ciudad Juarez) without a visa/tourist card.
Not wanting to chance it, we took the advice of the Foreign Office who state that British citizens need a tourist card to visit Mexico, which allows for a 180 day visit.

Given the lack of available information the following tips may help anyone taking the same route (El Paso to Mexico) by public transport. We cannot state the following as fact, but based on our experience so far we hope the following helps:
1) To get your Mexico tourist card go over the Avenue Juarez bridge from El Paso (U.S.) into Ciudad Juarez (Mexico). There is a covered pedestrian gangway and no questions were asked when leaving the U.S.
2) When over the bridge (across the border into Mexico) walk two blocks to the east to the Mexican Immigration Office on Avenida Lerdo.
3) Here you fill in a form, get a copy (this is the tourist card) and get a Mexico entry stamp in your passport.
4) Now you can choose whether to get a taxi to the bus station in Ciudad Juarez for onwards travel or get a bus from El Paso. We opted for the latter (it seemed simpler) so had to go back over the Avenue Juarez bridge (it costs $0.30 for pedestrians) through U.S. immigration back into El Paso, Texas.
5) Our bus then crossed the border to Chihuahua without a single piece of paperwork being checked, either on the U.S. or Mexican side of the border. There was nowhere to surrender our U.S. departure card, which we need to do as we will be out of the country for more than 30 days, so we will have to visit the American Embassy when we reach Mexico City. Apparently you can skip the queue and go around to the window at the back of the building.
6) When in Mexico, you need to go to the bank (any bank) to give them your tourist card and pay around $30 USD in exchange for a receipt. You need this receipt to leave Mexico.

As we’re not 100 per cent sure that the information we have is correct, we’ll be updating this page as our adventure continues, when we leave Mexico for Guatemala/Belize and then re-enter, before entering the U.S. one more time. In the meantime, if anyone knows more than us, do let us know…
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