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 Travel & Outdoors | February 2008 
The Slow Traveller
 The Observer
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We were sitting in the bus station at Zihuatanejo, on Mexico's Pacific coast, when a guy selling tiny handmade artificial roses approached us. 'Hello, honeymooners,' he grinned. We groaned. He continued unabashed: 'You know how I know? Because she looks happy and you look tired!' It was not the first time we'd heard this line in the touristy town. I smiled; Fi just looked weary.
A series of buses of ever-diminishing size and roadworthiness took us up into the Michoacán mountains and the little village of Angangueo, strung out along the side of a high valley. We'd come to see the over-wintering grounds of the monarch butterfly, where millions of mariposas gather in the mist-shrouded pine forests after a monumental migration from as far north as Canada. The journey is made even more astounding when you find out the butterflies that return are the great, great grandchildren of those that left the previous year.
After a wheezy climb through the high-altitude atmosphere we were treated to one of nature's great spectacles. The branches of the pines bent heavily with the sheer weight of butterflies, encrusting the trees like autumn leaves among the green needles. As the sun climbed, the slumbering insects took to the air in a whirling cloud of fluttering bright orange lepidoptera. The sound of a billion tiny wing beats surrounded us, flitting past our ears with a breathy, half-heard whisper. It was a truly magical experience.
Down below, souvenir sellers were hawking all manner of mariposa memorabilia, from jigsaws to lapel badges. Many stalls also sold toy wooden logging trucks. Ironic, as the biggest threat to the butterflies is the ongoing deforestation of the unique arboreal habitat they have been returning to for countless millennia.
From Angangueo another multiple bus journey took us to Oaxaca, where a heady mix of Mexico's indigenous peoples live, nearly a third of the country's ethnic groups. The highlight for us, among the cobbled streets and haughty colonial architecture, was the commercial chaos of the Mercado de Abastos.
This is probably our favourite market in the world. Fiery shafts of sunlight poured through a haphazard corrugated zinc roof into the hot aromatic space below. Stalls selling fist-sized spring onions, black sticky tubs of mole, fly-blown meat, sugary sweet-sour tamarind balls and curious potions based on local traditional beliefs jostled for our attention. One remedy was called 'the lucky hunchback'. For back pain perhaps? I even tried chapulines, the region's fried grasshopper delicacy - crispy bugs with an oddly blood-like flavour.
Scurrying through the dark passages between tables piled with fresh produce, we stumbled on a Mexican one-man band among the fruit and vegetables. Playing an unlikely instrumental combination of drum kit and saxophone, the grizzled old dude was bashing out a rhythm, beatnik style, on his bass and tom-toms, interspersed with funky saxophone noodling and bursts of hoarse song. We were mesmerised, as were the wee market kids. His performance was complicated by having to use one hand to fend off unwanted percussive additions to the performance by the gaggle of giggling children darting in to beat his drum. Freeform market jazz - you don't get that in Wal-Mart.
From the mountains of Oaxaca and San Cristobal de las Casas we travelled to our final Mexican destination, the hippy haven of El Panchan, near the Mayan ruins of Palenque, where the clientele sported more dreadlocks than a Rastafarian convention. The rainforest lived up to its name as we enjoyed a persistent 28-hour deluge, watching nervously as the small stream next to our jungle cabaña crept steadily higher.
The unfamiliar noises of the setting took some getting used to. Chirruping insects, hooting birds and the guttural rumbling roar of howler monkeys, more dinosaur than primate and how you'd imagine the cry of souls in purgatory might sound, were distinctly unnerving. It all made for another unforgettable night.
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