El Incendio is said to be the most famous bar in town; the fact that it’s just stumbling distance from the front door of my hostel makes it all the more irresistible. I was considering an afternoon nap, but this is an establishment that has been delivering drinks for well over a century, and when I attempt to stroll by I can feel its gravity weigh on my spine.
Though it’s just four o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon, the place is slamming. It’s dark and smells of stale beer and humans. Vibrant murals grace the walls, featuring prominent figures in this wellspring of Mexican history. There’s a urinal installed right in the open next to the front door, where a dude stands, taking a leak and giving no fucks. Ballad music blasts from the speakers, and I have to squeeze through a heaving knot of patrons to get to the bar, where I order a bottle of Victoria, a cheaper, sub-brand of Modelo that makes its first appearance of the trip.
I poke into the back room, home to a few wooden tables, and find one in the corner is open. I sit down, slip on my readers, open my notebook, take a tug off my beer, and commence to scribbling the rest of the afternoon away. My hand races across the page as if possessed. Something is gripping me, and I just can’t seem to get the words out fast enough. My feverish scrawling draws curious looks from the tables of students around me getting hammered on dirt cheap cocktails of orange soda and mezcal. Every couple of minutes I come up for air, sip my Victoria, and give these kids a knowing smile, before once again diving down and again attacking the page.
There is a reason that I keep coming back to Mexico, though it’s hard to put into words. There’s just a raw power to this place, a kind of witchcraft that emanates from the music, the food, the buildings, the people, and perhaps the very land itself. This intangible force never fails to intoxicate me. After just a couple of days I fall under its spell, and despite being in what should just be another country, I feel as if I’ve stepped into another dimension. Mexico has a way of getting into my bones, and nowhere did that magic hit me harder than Guanajuato.
It wasn’t, however, love at first sight. Sure, I recognized the crackled, aging beauty of the town straight away in the form of its winding, cobblestone alleys, embarrassment of stone churches, tree-filled plazas, opulent buildings, and multi-hued colonial houses, but sadly, my guts were in a state of insurrection.
I had eaten a dodgy empanada at the bus station in Guadalajara and felt the hot stab of stomach cramps just thirty minutes into the ride. By the time I got into Guanajuato I was ready to let blast, and after wandering the mouse maze in a futile attempt to locate my preferred accommodation (glowingly recommended by the damned guidebook), I surrendered by staggering into the first hostel I came across, which ended up being a total shithole.
I was the only guest in this moldy, filthy carcass of an establishment. Still, it was a bed (with palpable grime in the sheets) and after a liter of water and a happy pill, I laid my ass to rest at eight o’clock in the evening, hoping that the tainted pie would pass by morning.
Guanajuato occupies a very important place in the massive, bleeding tapestry of Mexican history, and at risk of boring any of you, it’s worth giving this town’s backstory a brief shake:
Upon conquering Mexico, the Spanish learned that the rugged hills of the country’s central highlands were rich in deposits of gold and especially silver. Guanajuato was founded in 1559 as a mining center, and quickly prospered as the world’s biggest vein of silver was tapped and supplied up to twenty percent of the global market.
The Spanish crown’s greed for this precious metal grew over time, and the king eventually cut the locals out of much of their share. This helped to foment resentment in the entire region, resulting in the Mexican War of Independence in 1810.
The war kicked off in neighboring Dolores when Miguel Hidalgo shouted out his famous grito demanding independence, which spread like a brushfire throughout the land. Soon, residents of Guanajuato seized the town from the hated Spanish, who responded with a nasty, heavy-handed crackdown. They retook control and instituted a “lottery of death,” where they drew names of Guanajuato residents at random, and then tortured and hanged the unlucky “winners.” You can imagine how this went down with the locals.
Soon Hidalgo came to the town’s rescue with twenty thousand rebels. The garrison of three hundred Spanish troops, along with some loyalist leaders, took refuge by barricading themselves in a huge grain storehouse known as La Alhóndiga. One of Hidalgo’s men—a miner called El Pípila—strapped a stone slab to his body as a kind of armor against the Spanish bullets, grabbed a torch, and set fire to the massive wooden door. Hidalgo’s forces then stormed the building and slaughtered everyone inside.
As you can see, history plays a very important part in the story of Guanajuato, and they celebrate El Pípila with a statue standing guard on a hillside over the town. On the base is an inscription that reads: Aun hay otros Alhóndigas por incendiar (“There are still other Alhóndigas to burn.”).
I awoke early the next morning to a digestive tract much closer to the state of normal, and headed out into the town’s very European streets where I grabbed a pastry and a coffee and watched the tendrils of sunlight unfurl over the hills that surround the place. Like so many mining towns, Guanajuato is built on precipitous hillsides over little ravines and gullies. In this way it reminded me of a much larger, Mexified version of Jerome or Bisbee, Arizona, two mining settlements that also popped up around ore digs.
After a bit of searching, I found the guesthouse where I originally wanted to stay and checked in. This was a bohemian joint called Correr d’ Comedias, and was head and shoulders over the reeking litter box where I had passed the previous night. The hostel was run by a crew of volunteers, who, in return for staffing and cleaning the place, were provided with a place to live.
This was a happy crew of twentysomething Mexican kids, along with a vivacious Brazilian named Jefferson who often reminded all of us that he was “puro gay.” In fact, there were several gay and lesbian folks either staying at the hostel or just hanging out, as the place had the feel of someone´s home rather than a place of business. On the first night, the volunteers cooked a massive pasta dinner (washed down with a bottle of tequila) and invited all of us to take part. This is easily the friendliest place I’ve stayed.
I wandered the town that day, taking in its obvious splendor. Sure, there were loads of (mostly Mexican) tourists walking the sidewalks and clogging the shops, but despite a somewhat commercial feel in the main strip, Guanajuato never veered into the tacky, over-touristy feel seen in other popular Mexican burgs.
This was especially reflected in the prices of the bars and restaurants. You could eat and drink for cheap. This surely owes itself to the fact that it’s a university town as well as a tourist center, and the students need options for boozing and feeding that won’t devastate their wallets. This sets it apart from its more Gringo-fied sister burg of nearby San Miguel de Allende, whose prices are said to reflect its popularity with the more upscale North American visitors and expats. Having had my share of Americans during my visit to the USA and keen to keep pesos in my pocket, I elected to give that city—however charming it may be—a skip.
After trudged up the stairway for a visit to the statue of El Pípila, I stopped in at the big market where I feasted on some carnitas tacos that transported me right to the heart porky heaven. This is where social media sometimes works its magic. When I mentioned that I was coming to Guanajuato, a Facebook friend reached out to one of their friends who knew the town well. They directed me to the carnitas in the market, which was an insider’s tip that paid off in spades.
Guanajuato is surrounded by rocky hills that would definitely qualify as mountains in Korea, and I resolved to get my hike on during my second day. In the morning I headed up to a peak that loomed over the town. As I climbed up the ridge over the arid landscape, I was afforded a view of the settlement splayed out beneath me in all of its chromatic charm, with the domes of the main churches rising up like ornate eggs.
Ghost clouds floated above the mountains in air untainted by even a hint of dust or pollution, and when I reached the top (which, like any summit in this part of the world is marked by a large white cross), I gazed across the valley and was overcome with a spirit of strength and well-being. Best yet, I had the entire mountain to myself. The only other creatures I came across during my morning climb were a family of cows chilling among the prickly pears.
After filling my revived stomach on a lunch of street cart gorditas, I decided to hike up Guanajuato’s most famous mountain, El Cerro de la Bufa, a stony-crowned massif that stands like a castle wall at the head of the town. Now I was told by Rapha, the manager of the hostel who went on to be my drinking buddy, that a festival was in the works, and that it kicked off at midnight.
As I wound up the road approaching the mountain, I took in the preparations first hand. Crews were setting up carnival rides, and vendors were erecting tents. And as hiked on the dirt road cut into the mountain itself, I came across what must have been over a hundred mounted vaqueros. I had seen them riding through town an hour or two earlier, and now they were gathered in a cave on the mountainside, paying homage to San Ignacio de Loyola, the patron saint of Guanajuato, and the reason for the upcoming festival.
After the cowboys, I scrambled up the rock face of the mountain, in which was cut a crude stairway. This was treacherous ground, where one slip could end up in a nasty injury or even death, but soon I was on the rocky top, where I could take in both Guanajuato and the plain stretching out from the town and its hills, all the way to the commercial city of Leon, a place of car dealerships, tractor sellers, and even a Costco!
Rapha told me that people actually gather on the mountaintop at midnight to ring in El Dia de la Cueva (“The Day of the Cave”), and at the summit I saw a small crew of men making preparations by filling large aluminum cans with kerosene, which they would use to light up the mountaintop. I had a hard time wrapping my head around the fact that people would be scaling this treacherous peak in the middle of the night to party. It was nasty enough in the day. Add booze and who knows what drugs and people could die. But hey, this was Mexico, which, unlike the overprotected, litigious environs of the USA, is still very much a “play at your own risk” kind of place.
That night I accompanied Rapha to a local bar owned by the same guy who owns the hostel, a smiling, rotund boss who is doing a very good job injecting joy into Guanajuato. In fact, this wasn’t just one bar, but a whole complex containing five different bars. This guy really knew how to party.
The manager of this particular boozer was a young dude named Gabriel, who like me, took a keen interest in drinking and history. At the time I was reading A History of the Conquest of Mexico, which, while exhaustive and detailed, is still very much told from the point-of-view of the Great White Man. Gabriel gave me a list of Mexican history books to read from the perspective of the workers and indigenous folks, a kind of Latino Howard Zinn reader, for which I am very grateful.
Gabriel had an interesting, if sad story. We talked for a couple of hours that night over beers and mescal and even a taste of pulque, the ancient Aztec booze that is a bit reminiscent of Korean makkeoli rice wine. He came from the town of Irapuato, which is in Guanajuato state, not so far from the city we were in.
He lamented how the place had been taken over by narcos, who now ran the town like the gang they are, killing with impunity. He had come to the otherwise peaceful environs of Guanajuato to escape this madness, and it occurred to me that I was only seeing one slice of Mexico.
The Mexico I had taken in so far had been peaceful and largely working. I hadn’t even seen hints at the failed, murderous narco state that it’s often portrayed as, despite it being all around me (Guanajuato state was the country’s deadliest in 2019). It was useful to be reminded that the blood is still flowing in this country, something to think about while I lounged my afternoons away knocking back bottles of Indio and Dos Equis.
The next day was my final full day in Guanajuato, and also happened to be El Dia de la Cueva, the city’s festival celebrating its patron saint. I had originally planned to head south on this day, but happy accidents like this don’t occur too often when we travel, so I had to roll with my fortune.
I spent the afternoon exploring the Casa y Museo de Diego Rivera. This famous muralist (and national personality) was born in Guanajuato and spent his early years there, and his old house has been converted into little museum.
While I can’t claim to be deeply versed in painters, Rivera has long been one of my favorites and I count myself as a fan, so it was a pleasure to visit his childhood home and check out some of his original art, especially some sketches done for his big, later works. It was a small museum, but a piece of art and Mexican history that I really couldn’t miss. Plus, there was a nude Frieda Kahlo.
Next I found myself at la Musea de las Momias (The Mummy Museum), a somewhat lurid local attraction. In the mid-seventies, scores of perfectly desiccated and preserved corpses were discovered in Guanajuato’s main cemetery. They are now all on display in their macabre glory at this museum.
It was a morbid place that, while claiming to respect the corpses and their history, clearly has them propped up in cases for our titillation. Creepiest was the row of dead babies, which was like a battery pack for nightmares.
After a nap at the hostel, I decided that it was time to head to the festival, despite the fact that I had overslept and it was now into the evening. As I made my way up the road heading to the party on the outskirts of town, I saw that I was walking against the flow. Most people were now leaving, as things had been raging all day (since midnight for some). It turns out that I was a bit late to the celebration, but still managed to catch the drunken tail end of things.
The sun was sinking behind the mountains and a spirited breeze kicked up from the adjacent plains. I strolled toward the pulsating lights of the carnival, swimming against the river of people heading my way. Eventually, I reached an improvised midway of food tents and vendors that made up the approach the rides.
It was now a full press of human beings walking and shouting and clearly possessed with the spirit of the fest—teenagers, parents, kids, old folks—a real slice of the community out to eat and drink and celebrate San Ignacio. Revelers clutched cans of Modelo and Corona. People hawked leather bags and cheap watches and toys and pizza and you name it from stalls that lined each side of that dirt track. Music poured forth from speakers and somewhere in the dusk, a brass band sliced the air with their pumping tunes.
I just kept walking, as if pulled by an invisible force. Soon I came upon a tent bar selling cans of beer and shots of mescal and pulque. I opted for a Modelo and fell in with a table of a couple of rough looking women along with a rougher looking dude. A fat cluster of empty cans stood as a testament on the table and their tiny daughter scratched and played in the dirt below. Around us was the general swirl of shouts and music and laughter--the sonic chaos that makes up the heart of a Mexican saint day festival.
Above us were the rock crowns of Cerro de la Bufa, which I had climbed the day before. Amber flames twinkled in the dying light and I knew that the real party was currently going down right there at the summit, and the beer, along with a cup of mescal that followed, injected me with a sudden wash of courage.
Now, I try to be clear-headed and sensibly cautious when I travel, while still understanding that there are times when you have say “fuck it” and just embrace the danger. Sometimes I make questionable decisions. Sometimes I resolve to get into situations that may not turn out well for me. This was one of those times. I decided to scale La Bufa one more time, in the dark, at the messy end of a Mexican bender.
So after stopping for a couple of tacos to fuel my ascent, I began the climb, in the inky black, up the path that met up with the dirt road. A smattering of revelers were stumbling down, lighting their way with their cell phones. I just cruised through the dark, pushed on by my own curiosity and determination, as if climbing this mountain would somehow complete my time in Guanajuato with an exclamation point.
The city shimmered below as I pressed on. Adrenaline course through my veins as the evening breeze turned into a stiff wind. The lights at the top were still winking and blinking, but it appeared some had been extinguished. Was I too late?
The path hit the dirt road that went to the cave and the stone stairway leading up the mountain’s face. I slunk along the road towards my destination, until I came up on three young women making their way up as well. They were the only other people I saw going my direction.
As soon as I caught up with this trio, a group of about ten cops appeared, heading down. The leader spoke up, telling us that they were done with their work, and if we wanted to go to the top, we could, but they could not guarantee our safety, that it was dangerous.
“What do you mean by ‘dangerous,’” I asked. “The mountain? Or the people?”
“Both,” he replied, before moving on with his pack of exhausted comrades.
The girls shrugged and continued ahead. I took about seven steps forward, stopped to consider what the cop had said, and abruptly made a one eighty. What the fuck was I doing, alone, in the dark, with all my cash and passport, on a Mexican mountainside? A shower of sense suddenly washed over me, and, with the cops as my chaperone, I headed back down through a flurry of fireflies. The brass band was still at it, echoing up the hillside, and the lights of Guanajuato shone like thousands of jewels.
Once I reached the bottom, I found the band, who, in the dark, blew their horns and thumped their drunken beat for a few bleary-eyed holdouts. I danced and swayed to the frenzied jam. The party may have been over, but the magic lingered, and I would surely take it with me once I left this town.
Thanks for the history. I kept thinking of the Elton John song Burn Down the Mission. For some reason (even though I know it was a granary).
have you read "Open Veins of Latin America" by Eduardo Galeano? If not I think you'd find it really interesting.