DEliTOUR: Oh-Wha--haka (Oaxaca)

After PE we decided against checking out other beaches nearby and headed for Oaxaca in the hills. We can´t think of anyone who wouldn´t enjoy Oaxaca. It has bars, music, art, revolutionary activity, politics, museums, crafts, mescal factories, food markets, ancient ruins, great food, a dizzing mix of native influences, big student population, protesting teachers sleeping in the main square, friendly people, safe feeling, good value tours, stunning valleys all around dotted with indigenous folk and their wares and some good value accomodation - though our hostel had great breakfast and free Internet - it was packed and had queues for the 2 bathrooms. Nico and Ines then of course appeared and proceeded to unravel the local drinking scene - and one man tried to drink a mescal factory dry on a free tasting tour.

We saw the Zapoteca ruins of Monte (Dr) Alban and Mitla. And we got a treat at the Hierve de Agua limestone falls where there is a bubbling spring and natural infinity pool looking out over the Sierra Madre. The local art is pretty tasty, especially the stuff based on the ancient patterns, the ´diamantes zapotecas' (which we find very funny if you say it very fast over and over again like our eager, rug-peddaling, bi-lingual guide).

And we saw Leo, our first taste of spanish guitar. Billed as ´fusion´ we were stunned by his ´Volare Cantare´, ´Bumberlayer´(probably not spelled like that but you know, the Gipsy Kings´ anthem), darting tongue, toneless singing, rhythm-bypass operation, Israeli Sidekick Tambourine Beard Dude (ISTBD), total lack of neck during performance (it would just disappear after every intro - which were all the same by the way and involved cod tapping and endless E to F major changes, which, you know, sound sooooo Latin) and his special move. Yes, Leo had a special move. In every song. His whole body would sync with the room for the special move. Well everyone in the room except ISTBD, who couldn´t possibly understand the rhythmic complexities (or bad timekeeping) of the special move.

Time slowed down as his eyes circled the room, but within milliseconds his right strumming hand would reach for the head of the guitar, the tongue would begin to peak obscenely out, the head would retract further into the now-Hut-like body, and then with a swish of a 19th century French maiden´s fan, the arm would strike across the length of the fretboard as both sets of fingers picked out an intricate, pulsating, flourishing rhythm - the kind you get when the CD player you have just thrown to the floor jumps persistently while playing your least favourite Roni Size outtake. Finally with the fingers finished, having paraded up and down the neck several times the thumb would finally be brought up tantalisingly close to the now-loping tongue. And then as quickly as it came it would be over. ISTBD would jangle and the song would continue.