In town for 7:30 this morning, I was to meet Daniel, the daughter´s Mexican boyfriend, to watch the Mexico-South Africa game. In the event I couldn´t find the bar and ended up in a scruffy place selling disgusting coffee (they export the good stuff) and hosting a decent sized but poor resolution screen. I gave the first half to Mexico, who seemed the more assured (and their sweet faced, talented number 17 is a boy to watch) though there were more than a few of those defence-terrifying bursts of exuberant virtuosity the strong African sides specialise in. In the first fifteen minutes after half time Mexico faltered and, when South Africa scored, the place – to my no doubt naive suprise – erupted. Mexico´s equaliser, by contrast, was met with stony silence.
I´ll catch up with Daniel later. Is this simply the schadenfreude that has a certain type of Scottish fan relishing England´s soccer downfalls, or is there something a lot darker and a lot more recent? I´ll find out. Meanwhile the sun is shining after days of rainy season in the mountains gloom. I gotta get out of this place and head for the hills.