The Bells! The Bells!

On the face of it, my accommodation in Guanajuato exuded relaxation and tranquility; whitewashed spacious airy chalets on two levels surrounded a courtyard full of tall exotic plants; cages of chirping colourful birds were nailed to the walls.

Next door, attached to the hotel was a church and attached to that was another church. Attached to this second church was a third church. Yes a terrace of three churches. It was my first morning in Guanajuato – a Sunday – I popped into each of these establishments. Mass was being said at the same time in all of them. Now that is what you call competition.

In the early evening, I stood outside my room, looking out over the rooftops onto Guanajuato’s skyline. Of course, it was dominated by churches. Most of them only looked like a minute’s walk away. The implications of having such a dense concentration of ecclesiastical buildings on my doorstep started to sink in. Each of these had a loud bell, which clanged every quarter. This did not bode well for a good night’s sleep. I then realised that this collection of bells were hopelessly unsynchronised. Not one of them appeared to tell the correct time – the church on the extreme left would chime the half past the hour mark, two minutes later, the one on the extreme right would chime the quarter past mark, the one in the middle would a moment later give out the eight o’clock bells and so on. It was like a constant symphony of clanking. I retrieved my earplugs and placed them on the bedside cabinet for later use.

I went out for an evening stroll. My first port of call was an internet café. There I met Emily, who quite clearly from her complexion was not a Mexican. She was as blonde as they come. However, the ease with which, from her accent, I identified her as a USA citizen horrified Emily. She was after all a woman on a mission, the aim of which was to pass herself off to local people as Australian. She had been living in Guanajuato for over a year, teaching Spanish to Spanish speaking Mexican kids (which seemed a bit of a quirky anomaly to me). The Americans, she said, were not well liked in Mexico – a long history of the richer nation exploiting the other. But things had taken a turn for the worse after September 11th and subsequent U.S. led excursions in the Middle and Far East. 

‘I mean do you know anyone who has any respect for George Bush?’ she asked. And then I realised that this wasn’t a rhetorical question, but that she was waiting for a reply.

‘No, not anyone,’ I said.