8 December 2008
From San Miguel to Hidalgo and the town of Pachuca for a feature on Cornish Pasties. Actually this turned out to be rather better than expected. It started inauspiciously with a terrifying nocturnal journey in a cramped car down a lethal road with a driver who was a waddling testament to the nourishing power of English cuisine. He insisted on overtaking articulated trucks on blind corners and farting slyly.
During the nineteenth century over a thousand Cornish came to Hidalgo to bring their mining expertise to bear on the rich deposits of silver that lace them there hills. Pachuca and other neighbouring towns were founded on the proceeds. They also brought certain traditions and recipes with them, most notably the pasty. Our job was to film a traditional bakery, talk to some descendants and unearth their story. Pachuca is sufficiently off the tourist routes for our arrival to be treated with reverence by town officials. There was a welcoming committee when I came down, bleary eyed and unkempt, for breakfast. After shooting the square and a large clock made by the same people who built Big Ben, we headed into the countryside. It was an odd environment – tall brick towers “moor” redolent of Bodmin jut from mountainsides and wooded escarpments. Being around two and a half thousand meters above sea level the landscape looks like Scotland. The local cemetery in Real del Monte was filled with Cornish names, there was even a couple of “Proudfoots” or should that be “Proudfeet”. Tolkein anybody?
The Oaxaca (that’s pronounced Wahaca) stretch of Mexico’s coastline was to be the final scene in our Pacific episode. As a contrast to the ritzy resorts of the Costa Alegre we decided to wrap it in Zipolite – cool hippy surf haven near Puerto Escondido. Nothing was organized with the tourist board (deliberately this time) but Al was convinced we could just turn up and improvise. It was an ill-fated decision. The first and most important problem was the lens. Because there are only two of us producing this show, lugging all the kit is a problem, as I’ve mentioned before. So, for safety’s sake the lens goes in my laptop bag for the duration of each flight and Al carries the base in his hand luggage. The lens is the most valuable bit - eighteen grand to be precise. On exiting the airplane the camera is reassembled, but not always until we get to the hotel. Why am I telling you all this? Because I caught the young, whippersnapper who was cramming our belongings into the boot of his beaten up taxi repeatedly jamming the roof down on my bulging laptop bag. I stopped him but alas, it was to prove too late. The ride from Huatulco airport was another descent into terror. Heading down to the coast, our driver grew more and more impatient, screeching round corners, the rear of the car sliding seawards on the bends. He then said something unintelligible to Al and carved off the road towards some unknown destination. “What’s the ……. problem now?” (guess the missing word) I asked.
“He thinks there’s something wrong with the brakes, so he has to stop and speak to his boss.”
“If there was something wrong with the brakes then why the hell has he been driving like Lewis Hamilton for the last half an hour…” No satisfactory answer. We turn up a small street in a uno-burro town. He jumps out and runs across the road to a large white building. The sign says it’s a hospital. A Mexican minute later our man re-emerges to inform us confidently that all is well and we can now proceed in safety! Oh good - and at least a sick old man probably got to see his grandson one last time.
Zipolite lived up to its reputation….dude! As we checked into a flea bitten, concrete block of beachside balconies I bumped into the most shameless cliché I have ever had the privilege to see. A touring bike, plastered with stickers like “I love Ohio” and, “Alaska the wild” was propped by the stairs, black helmet hanging casually from the chrome handlebars. Ok, so far so good. Wild even…! But then there was the Ray Bans resting unfolded on the sheepskin saddle and THE BOOK placed, and I do mean placed, symmetrically atop the saddle bags. No doubt the lifetime achievement of some insufferably smug self help guru, its title read simply, “How to be alone.” This aside,
Zipolite was a refreshing change. The beach was alive at night with the glow of campfires and the strains of Bob Marley, lilting on the wind in great ghasps between the breaking thunder of the Pacific.
It was mid-afternoon before Al decided we ought to try and film something, so we had a few hours of blissful ignorance before discovering that the lens was broken. The glass inside it had got jammed and the focus wheel would not rotate more than half way. This may sound a bit dull and technical, but to us it was, potentially, a premature end to the series. The depth of field was tiny, uncompromising and our chance of producing any decent footage slim. Still we tried our best to get some general shots of the beach, which at the time was festooned with naked people. I pointed out that new blur-cam could thus be attributed to delicacy and good taste. While, as always, most of the nudist were sad looking middle aged blokes, a blond, bare breasted Germanic lovely had the decency to trot behind me when I was doing a piece to camera, although I’m not sure we can use it because, for some reason, the camera seemed to wobble during that particular take.
The second night we ended up in a locals and cognoscenti only salsa bar on a jungle road half a mile back from the beach. It was another world compared to the waterfront. The music blasted through the hot night air, the rum and cokes flowed like milk and honey and I remained unbeaten on the pool table until the urge to dance forced me to resign.
The curse of Zipolite had one more victim to claim however – Al’s tailor made safari suit jacket, which he left folded up on the back window of our airport cab. The guy probably kept it as revenge for ousting his wife and child whom he had earlier attempted to cram in the car with us. No chance, not with all the kit. We offered to take another ride, but he just made them get out, their glum faces staring after us as we began our journey back to Mexico city. So for two maybe three minutes of footage we had a bust lens, sunburn and were minus one Saville Row jacket. Al was not in the best of moods and seemed more than a little distant and pre-occupied. Perhaps this was why, as we checked into the chic Condessa hotel – our new base of operations – he started discussing booking arrangements with a large brown Labrador that was sitting imperially behind the counter. Other members of staff looked on in startled amusement, until I tapped him on the shoulder and pointed out that he was talking to a dog on a stool.
The next morning, in desperation, I applied a powerful combination of technological ignorance and extreme force to the lens. There was an ominous grating noise as I twisted. While I would never recommend this approach, the result was a significant improvement, although the focus now goes to infinity and beyond.
Mexico city was another one day marathon – we visited the second largest food market in the world. Unbelievably it supplies the whole of North America. The police refused to let us film until we flashed our diplomatic visas, after which they insisted on giving us a fully armed escort. There seems to be no standard issue weapon (incident-ally). Some have semi automatics, some carry machine guns, others rifles. And they brandish their guns like fashion accessories.
Puebla is one of the most important towns in Mexico. A great colonial jigsaw carpeting the roots of Popocatepetl, Puebla is filled with surprises: The hulking, grey cathedral with its drab exterior that harbours a firmament of frescoes and gilded treasures, or the old men that lean on scarred counters in flecked rays of slanting sunlight, custodians of junk and miraculous finds that have languished on dusty shelves for decades. Our digs were two suites in the Purificadora Hotel with its Andy Warhol style deco. Very cool actually, bar the big silver plaque entitled Souvenirs that adorned the stone wall behind the volcanic fire pits. Upstairs there was a roof bar with a rectangular glass pool that enables drinkers to watch those brave enough to go for a swim. We had a meeting with an adventure company to work out what outdoor stuff we could fit into this section of the show. I plumped for a trek up Orizaba, the highest volcano in North America. This was, in hindsight, optimistic. Climbers are usually required to spend the night at a 4000 feet refuge to adjust to the altitude before attempting the remaining 1600 metre climb to the snow capped summit. We only had a day. Sod it I thought, let’s give it a go anyway. It was 11.30 the next morning before we got out of the car. It was wheezing like a split bellows and ground to a halt about 500 metres below the height of the refugio. Everything was looking possible until about three thirty in the afternoon. Ascending the first 1000 metres was easy, we followed a lava crusted ridge until we got up into the snowline. We were a mere few hundred metres from the top when things went awry. I looked back at Al, who was leaning on a boulder, breathing like a beached fish. He dragged himself on up. Maybe ten steps, another exhausted stop. Personally, I felt like I’d been hit over the head by a Guanaco. For those of you who have not had altitude sickness, imagine the worst hangover and double it. It became clear that we had made an enemy of time. After some procrastination it was agreed that this was probably it. I did my piece to camera, with a sea of clouds below me and Popocatepetl 
smouldering in the distance. It wasn’t so bad.
From Puebla to Veracruz by bus, a harrowing experience in heavy fog, the driver swerving to avoid fallen crates in the middle of the road. Veracruz was another mystery tour - three days to get a story about the town, the coast, Red Snapper, kayaking, a museum of anthropology, waterfalls, ruins, coffee and Mary Magdalene.
Probably the most challenging of these turned out to be the kayaking. We stayed at an eco-lodge called Mexico Verde who reluctantly agreed to take me down the Rio Pescado, even though I remained a bit evasive when they asked how good I was at doing an Eskimo roll. Well, I just haven’t got round to it yet. After signing a disclaimer, which contained a section for leaving a will, my guide and I paddled out into the rapids. Al was positioned about half a kilometer below us. The river was quite low so it was more technical than I had anticipated. There were lots of big rocks for starters. By the time I drew level with the camera I had hit one, capsized, whacked my legs a dozen times and was clinging to my upturned vessel like a drowned rat. Take one. Take two, after limping all the way back along the road to the top of the rapid, was equally non Bond. The same rock, and over I go, shooting down stream upside down as I grope for the release on my splash deck, crack my helmet on passing rocks and swallow several pints of disconcertingly brown river water. This time Al got some audio to match the shots. None of it, alas, is broadcastable. Refusing to be deterred, I carried on. Over the course of the next sixteen kilometers there were four points at which Al could film. Two of them I was even the right way up. By the end of the day my arms and legs were black and blue, my hands had seized up and turned into claws but we had got some fantastic footage.
Challenging in a different way was El Tajin. The regional tourist board had arranged for us to film what is one of the most important ruins in Mexico. Except that when we arrived the officials refused to give us permission. So bad was the internal communication there was even a guide waiting for us. Essentially the dilemma is this – almost all the significant archaeological sites in Mexico are run by Inah, who are a branch of the Mexican Federal government. They are poorly managed and labour under the illusion that everyone in television is filthy rich and can shell out thousands to film every ancient pile of stones South of Tijuana. Thus even a modest production like ours would need a preposterous budget just to include a fraction of this country’s stunning pre-Columbian sites. But a travel series on Mexico that doesn’t include its world famous temples and pyramids would be a bit lacking. You see our problem. Here’s theirs: Many of the lesser known sites are overstaffed, under funded and lack visitors because not enough people know they’re there. We have a show - it’s broadcast to every satellite dish in Europe, the Middle East and large parts of Africa. You cannot buy the sort of publicity we offer these people for free. But will they let us showcase their hidden gems? er, no. We actually had a message passed to us from the London tourist office telling us that Inah had refused us access to any archaeological sites without paying money we don’t have. 
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