San Pedro Iztacalco

From Oaxaca City, we travelled back to Mexico City for the final time. We almost missed our 1:16pm flight on Volaris because we got distracted chatting to Kyle and Terri from Texas. As we sat in the boarding area, a short Mexican woman came running towards us and asked if we were Ricky and Hason. When we confirmed our identities, she made us sprint to the gate. With our backpacks strapped to our backs, counter-balanced by our fat guts on the front, we took off as fast as we could, despite the load, and made it on-board just as the doors closed. It was as if there was something telling us not to go.

Staying close to the CDMX airport, we arrived at our Airbnb and just wanted to quickly dump our luggage so we could meet up with our los venezolanos, Gerardo and Pedro. But first, we had to get through the check-in process; that is, we had (to try) to communicate with our hosts. The old lady who answered the door had a thick accent and spoke so quickly we had no idea what she said. And we had no clue what language the old man was even speaking. We're not sure if he had a speech impediment, if he had an accent or if he needed to put his false teeth back in, but he was just a series of mumbled hoots and clicks. All we could do was apologise and admit that we did not understand – no entendemos.

The same words needed to be uttered moments later when Police on motorbikes stopped and quickly spewed out a series of their own hoots and clicks. When we admitted to our lack of Spanish speaking skills, the officer responded “English”. The police were in pursuit of two guys – luckily it wasn't two tall gringos from Australia. All of this while we waited for our Über to get to Pedro's house on the other side of the city. We spent our remaining waking hours with our Mexican-residing Venezuelan friends, chatting, laughing and savouring every moment before we needed to catch the next flight.

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