Oaxaca: the street food capital of Mexico

I was as ready as I’d ever be. Only natural for the self-proclaimed Bus Queen of Sheffield.

Neck pillow: check. Fleece acting as a blanket: check. (Semi) noise-cancelling headphones: check. Baby pink eye mask: check. Without a neighbour, I even had two seats to myself to sprawl across. Perfect.

Ready as I'd ever be!

I was thoroughly prepared for my first night bus ever. 12 hours from Palenque to San Cristobal de las Casas. There was also the option to go on a much shorter 5-6 hour colectivo (minibus) through the Chiapan mountains, but the reports of roadblocks and robberies along this remote route (as well as its hellishy windy paths) is enough to sway a gal to the longer, overnight option, much to the relief of my mother.

As prepared as I thought I was, however, it seems that preparation is not always the key to success. Between the communal televisions blasting awful films out loud at ungodly volumes (think of the televisions on flights that hang ominously over people's heads, but you don’t have an option whether you want to listen or not), and the fact we had to physically get off the bus 3 times for it to be sanitised, I think I racked up about 1.5 hours of sleep.

I wish I could tell you what film is playing on the screens in this picture, but honestly I think I've just blocked it out.

It’s amazing how much you can question your life choices whilst sat half-asleep in a random bus station in Mexico at 2am. In my sleep-deprived haze, I reflected on my time in Palenque, and how expectations don’t always meet reality.

Faced with the prospect that our only way to the Roberto Barrios waterfalls was in the back of a rickety old truck, I had to be persuaded by Alex, a Swiss girl from my hostel, that everything would be fine. As we squeezed into the truck alongside four other people, with another guy hanging off the back (grip level 3000), I was almost certain I’d meet my maker in rural Chiapas.

I daren't get my phone out to take a picture during this journey, but here is an image I found on Google to show you what I'm talking about. Imagine me and Alex sat in the back with four other people, and one guy hanging off the railings. Health and safety who?

Much to my surprise however, the hour-long trip was plain sailing. As the driver glided through the quiet rural roads, the open back of the truck meant that we were treated to some truly beautiful scenery. Lusciously green mountains dominated the landscape in every direction.

An old lady sat next to Alex even offered everyone in the truck a rambutan each - a deliciously sweet, lychee-esque fruit. Lovely Chiapan hospitality.

As the only two gringos on the back of the truck, Alex and I were also surprised to not hear Spanish being spoken by the locals, but rather they all conversed in one of the many indigenous languages native to Chiapas (fun fact: over 1 million people live in the state of Chiapas, and 27% can speak an indigenous language, and 34% of that subset only being able to speak an indigenous language, i.e. no knowledge of Spanish at all).

When we finally arrived at the waterfalls - and were dropped outside the entrance - I couldn’t help but feel guilty that I’d been so quick to judge this extremely common Mexican mode of transport. For 50 pesos (£2), I couldn’t really have asked for anything better.

Roberto Barrios Waterfall, Chiapas.

After spending the afternoon exploring and swimming in some of the most beautiful waterfalls I’ve ever seen, I was excited to return back to Palenque in a similar truck. Disappointment struck when a very normal looking colectivo showed up. No more scenery and rambutanes for me.

Speaking of expectations, I also feel guilty to say I didn’t have very high ones for Palenque itself.

Palenque is one of Mexico’s pueblos mágicos - an initiative set up by the government to attract tourism to smaller towns with cultural significance. Palenque’s inauguration as a pueblo mágico is largely down to the town’s nearby Mayan ruins - which happened to be the sole reason for my visit to the town.

Palenque ruins.

Surrounded by misty mountainous jungle, the ruins at Palenque are as important as those at Chichen Itza, but given its more secluded location, far fewer tourists make the trip. I met Alex, my rickety truck buddy, on the early morning colectivo to the archaeological site. The two of us, alongside Lucy and Julius, a young German couple we met in the queue for tickets, explored the ruins together.

With noticeably fewer tourists than places like Chichen Itza, there’s a distinct atmosphere of tranquillity at Palenque. If you get there early enough, it’s easy to explore some of the smaller temples at the large complex completely on your own.

Unlike Chichen Itza, you can also climb up the ruins at Palenque too. The views from the top were really something else. Sat atop the Temple of the Cross, the four of us shared some mango, away from the bustling crowds congregating at the picture perfect Temple of the Inscriptions. Nice and chilled.

Misty mountainous jungle overlooking the ruins.

The chilled vibes continued for the rest of my time in Palenque. The town itself is small and relatively quiet, but most strikingly, it felt so Mexican. After weeks in the touristy towns and cities of the Yucatan Peninsula, it felt like a breath of fresh air to be in a normal town that didn’t cater for tourists at every turn. Taquerias and street food vendors filled with locals lined the streets, where you could stay for hours without having the bill hurriedly pushed towards you. Amidst long chats and card games galore, my expectations of Palenque were quickly exceeded. A real pueblo mágico.

I was rudely snapped back to reality from my Palenque daydream by the bellowing call of the driver telling us to get back on the bus. 2:15am. 6 more hours until San Cristobal de las Casas.

But nonetheless, we carry on.

The beauty of a night bus is you don’t waste a full day stuck on a bus. You wake up in a brand new place, dump your bags at your hostel, and away you go, off exploring.

This is, of course, if you’re not a zombie from the previous night’s lack of sleep.

My first morning in San Cristobal is a little hazy. Myself and Leo, an English girl on my bus who I’d also been with in Palenque and Merida (the amount of times you run into the same people is crazy), set off for a wander around the small, highland city.

San Cristobal is a fiercely proud city. A seemingly sleepy town at first glance, it’s rebellious with a strong Zapatista movement, boasting a unique blend of indigenous and Spanish cultures, or as a local tour guide put it: “a city with Spanish buildings and an indigenous soul”.

Colonial churches and artesanal markets dominate San Cristobal's city centre.

Leo and I strolled through vast artesanal markets, popped in beautiful colonial churches, and wandered streets filled with street art. A route which, coincidentally, was almost exactly the same as the route followed by the city’s walking tour which I did 2 days later.

What can I say, we were just ahead of the curve.

Before I arrived in San Cristobal, I was urged by many other travellers to stay at Puerta Vieja Hostel. Ignoring its great central location and sociable atmosphere, everyone banged on about one thing in particular: all the free stuff.

Free breakfast. Free dinner. Free activities. Free coffee all day long. And on some nights, even free cocktails. All for £13 a night. To young travellers on a budget, this was heaven.

Free dinner! And you could choose! Something for meat eaters, veggies, and vegans! AND IT WAS ACTUALLY GOOD! Was especially thankful for the veggies after weeks of meat and tortillas.

I got my very own taste of all the free stuff that first night. A BBQ burger night (options for meat eaters, veggies AND vegans), followed by a free salsa lesson, finally culminating in a 3 hour-long free happy hour featuring cocktails. Honestly, a part of me still wonders how the hell they afforded all this.

Like the good little Brit Abroad I am, I naturally took advantage of the happy hour. It would be sacrilege not to, right?

Ignoring the fact I had booked an all-day excursion the following day to the beautiful Sumidero Canyon, the free cocktails flowed freely. A wise decision? At the time I certainly thought so.

I did not, however, share the same sentiment the following morning.

The tour to the nearby Sumidero Canyon consisted of a 9am start, with quick visits to 3 viewpoints to see the Canyon from above, before then going on a leisurely boat tour through the Canyon itself, ending with some free time.

Sober and well-rested, this itinerary sounds delightful. Deathly hungover and sleep-deprived, I couldn’t think of anything worse.

I found solace in the fact that a decent number of people on the tour happened to be young Brits from my hostel, and therefore, were naturally also suffering from hangovers too. Strength in numbers.

Amongst my fellow worse-for-wear countrymen were Leo and Dan - the latter being a mutual friend from back home whom I’d bumped into firstly in Bacalar, and then again in Palenque. Tired and nauseous from the journey, Leo, Dan, and myself piled out of the colectivo to the first viewpoint stop.

Instead of taking in the glorious views like the rest of the tourists, we parked ourselves at the nearest bench and took the opportunity to get some shut-eye. Heads down on the table, those precious minutes of snoozing were abruptly ruined as we were dragged to the next viewpoint. How cultured of us.

No views for us.

After a pre-boat tour taccy chunder (sorry for TMI), the day vastly improved. The views from within the Canyon were other-wordly, and I still look at pictures and videos from that place with wonder and amazement weeks later. Mother nature ey, can’t beat her.

Sumidero Canyon, Chiapas.

Mother nature does not, however, cure all.

I thought spending the day in the fresh air would do me the world of good, and that on return to the hostel that I’d sleep like a baby. Oh how naive I was.

I somehow forgot about the whole ~free alcohol situation~ at the hostel, and given that it was a Saturday night in a dorm room, I’m sure you can imagine that I was woken up countless times as people came and went.

Now normally, this wouldn’t bother me - it is, after all, the unspoken rule in hostel dorm rooms that you just have to accept people’s comings and goings at all hours.

But this was now the 3rd night in a row of very poor sleep. My patience was wearing thin.

This was exacerbated by the fact that a banging headache had appeared the next morning. At first I thought it was a 2-day hangover (which wasn’t a ridiculous notion given the day before), but as the following days and nights went by without any proper sleep, it became increasingly clear it was just from tiredness.

As someone who doesn’t tend to get ill very often, this was hard to adjust to. The headaches made me slow, sleepy, and not very sociable - not a great combination if you’re solo travelling and want to make friends.

I persevered, however, trying to make the most of my days by getting out and exploring, putting evening socialising on the back burner in favour of resting. I even started feeling slightly better by the end of a stay in each place, as I settled in and started sleeping better.

Whilst feeling awful, I thought it was a great idea to walk up loads of stairs to a church which overlooked San Cristobal. This is taken 1/3 of the way up as I stopped to breathe. Health is wealth.

But, annoyingly, another dreaded night bus would come along and reset all the progress.

Cue my next bus from San Cristobal to Oaxaca. Another 12 hour-er. Lord have mercy.

Although I lived in fear of the bus, I cannot express how excited I was to get to Oaxaca (pronounced wa-ha-ca, by the way, like the restaurant).

Oaxaca is widely considered the street food capital of Mexico. Foodies from all over the world flock to the city to try not only Mexican classics such as tacos, quesadillas, and tamales, but also speciality Oaxacan dishes such as tlayudas (large, thin, toasted tortilla covered with a spread of refried beans, asiento, lettuce, avocado, meat, Oaxaca cheese), chapulines (grasshoppers), and mole (a sauce synonymous with Oaxaca state, wherein 7 different versions contain various spices, fruits, and nuts), along with so much more.

Oaxacan tlayudas from the stand Tlayudas la Chinita which features in the Netflix show Street Food: Latin America

Oaxaca was right at the top of my list before I even got to Mexico, and that coupled with everyone I had met on the way hyping it up, the excitement was bubbling over.

In preparation for my arrival, I decided to download the Oaxaca episode of the Netflix show Street Food: Latin America for my bus journey. In the episode, four vendors appear, telling us about their specialty dish and a bit of their personal backstory. As the show went on, I would pause and write each vendor’s name and stall location in my Notes App, so I could then visit them. The type-A personality really jumped out there.

But hey, food tourism was the only thing on my agenda for Oaxaca, and the research wasn’t gonna do itself.

Unsurprisingly, night bus number 2 also wasn’t successful for sleep. I did however book an extra boujee bus for the trip, the ADO GL line, so the on-board Wifi and free bottle of water was nice whilst I struggled to drift off.

Taken at 6:20am after an unsuccessful night's sleep.

Arriving in Oaxaca not too far behind Dan, and Sabrina (a German girl I’d made friends with in San Cristobal) the three of us decided to direct our sleep-deprived selves to a nearby hipster café called Boulenc for breakfast. A well-deserved breakfast for Dan and Sabrina, who had arrived on a traumatic night bus, where the toilet at the back of the bus had broken and piss had gushed down the walkway, getting all over their belongings. First class travel.

One great thing about meeting people travelling - whether it be locals or other travellers - is that you get recommendations for cafes, restaurants, bars, and hostels that are actually good. Tried and tested.

One such place was our hipster café, Boulenc. This particular recommendation had come from a mysterious Apple Note that had been airdropped to me from Polly back in Bacalar, who had it airdropped to her from someone else, and so on and so forth.

The mysterious author of this Note was very passionate about Boulenc, and particularly the broccoli sandwich - a rogue choice, so obviously we had to order it. We also ordered molletes - a Mexican spin on cheesy beans on toast - and we feasted.

The famous broccoli sandwich and the molletes genuinely revived us after the night bus.

And oh boy, the mysterious Apple Note wasn’t wrong. Who knew broccoli could taste like that? Even the salsas that came with the molletes were unreal. Flavours galore. A great introduction to Oaxaca’s food scene.

The theme of good food continued during my time in Oaxaca. I don’t think I ate anything bad the whole time I was there - even the chapulines (grasshoppers) I tried weren’t that bad (my only critique would be that they were too salty).

It turned out that one of the vendors from the Netflix show, Las Empanadas de Carmen Alto, was located 2 blocks away from my hostel. So naturally, I visited every day.

It doesn’t take a genius to realise that the best-sellers from Las Empanadas de Carmen Alto are the empanadas, but they probably aren’t the small, pastry-like Argentine empanadas you may have seen before. Instead, Oaxacan empanadas are almost akin to calzones, using large corn tortillas as the casing, and filled with whatever the vendor has to offer you.

The empanada de mole amarillo (empanada filled with chicken and a yellow mole sauce) is the most popular dish there, and it’s not hard to see why. The mix of spices such as cumin, clove, hierba santa and guajillo chili, all cooked slowly, makes their mole amarillo some of the best in the city. It’s almost hard to believe that so much flavour can be contained in a dish which appears so simple.

Empanada de mole amarillo. Trust me, the inside has a beautiful yellowy/orangey sauce.

Having said that, I did learn at my Oaxacan cooking class that although popular Mexican eats might appear simple, they are often products of hours of work.

Yep, keeno over here did a cooking class in Oaxaca.

If I was gonna eat my way around the city, it was only polite to learn how to make some of the food too, right? At least, that’s what I told myself to justify spending £50 on an Airbnb experience (aka WAY over budget). The 500 5 star reviews only further justified it.

After meeting in the centre of town and driving 45 minutes out to a small village, we arrived at the kitchen. Or rather, a family run restaurant owned by Mimi, a wonderful local Oaxacan woman and experienced chef, who runs the cooking class alongside her son Charlie.

Right off the bat, Mimi had us making stuff. We started off with a simple salsa we were then going to eat with our breakfast of memelas (crispy tortillas with refried beans).

Breakfast memelas with our very own salsa

2 cooked tomatoes. Half a cooked serrano chill (for me at least, some of the others were more adventurous). 2 cloves of garlic. Generous pinch of salt. Y ya está. All done. Simple and delicious.

Over breakfast, Mimi and her son Charlie, the other 5 participants, and myself all sat down and got to know each other.

It quickly became apparent I was the youngest at the table by a good decade. But, that did mean I was showered in compliments about quitting my job and travelling solo so young, so no qualms from me.

After breakfast, we got to work. Mimi explained that we were to make 3 courses: sope de nopales (a tomato and broth based soup with cactus and peas); mole estofado (one of the seven types of mole, usually reserved for special occasions) and; tamales con flor de calabaza y mole verde (a Mexican staple, made with corn dough coloured green).

Everything we'd need for our day cooking.

We spent a good 3-4 hours making these dishes, as well as making our own tortillas (which, by the way, is very therapeutic).

Mimi gave us all different jobs to do. Chopping. Peeling. Mixing. Frying. Crushing. Even pressing tortillas and throwing them on the comal (flat griddle).

Left: sope de nopales components bubbling away. Right: The team busy assembling tamales.

Left: All the necessary ingredients for our mole estofado. Right: Mimi and I, holding up the tortillas I made!

All our little jobs meant we all contributed to each dish in some way, and as the afternoon went on, each dish started taking shape, finally culminating in a giant feast where we could enjoy the fruits of our labours. Sitting, chatting, and eating.

Favourite dish of the day: mole estofado.

My favourite was definitely the mole estofado. The creamy and tangy sauce served with chicken, rice, and our freshly made tortillas. Before I left, I made sure to ask for the recipe so I can make it back home (or well, attempt to… I’m not sure how easy it’ll be to find some of the ingredients).

The cooking class was easily one of the highlights of my trip so far.

And Oaxaca is easily my favourite city so far. Its mystery, vibrancy, layers upon layers of art, food, culture, and history made it shoot up to the top of the rankings for me. I couldn’t recommend it enough!

Oaxaca, what a place.

As you can imagine, I was sad to leave Oaxaca. Not only because I had become mildly obsessed with the city and could’ve easily spent weeks there, but also because it meant getting on my 3rd night bus.

Oaxaca to Puerto Escondido. 10.5 hours. Here we go again.

The roads from Oaxaca to Puerto Escondido are infamous. Winding through the mountains on a small colectivo, the journey can technically take 6 hours. But, in a similar fashion to the journey between Palenque and San Cristobal, I thought it wise to choose the longer, less roller-coaster reminiscent route. Save the sick bag for another day.

I woke up like dis.

Having said that, the longer route was no smooth ride. As I tried to sleep (God loves a trier), I felt my limp head crashing from one side to another as we trundled south towards the coast. Though thanks to my beloved neck pillow, the blows were softened.

When I arrived in Puerto Escondido at 7:30am, I could already tell I was back in a hot climate. Already 26 degrees by this point, the 20 minute walk to the hostel with both backpacks had me sweating and battering away mosquitos again. Oh the Tropics.

But, for all my moaning, I was happy to be back at the beach. After a couple of weeks in the highlands where a fleece and long trousers were necessary in the daytime, it was nice to be back by the sun, sea, and sand.

Puerto Escondido: dramatic green landscapes make you feel like you're in Jurassic Park.

Puerto Escondido is a surfer town on the Pacific Coast known for its beautiful beaches, nightlife, and naturally, huge surfing waves. Obviously, therefore, one of the big touristy things you can do there is surfing lessons.

Before arriving, I had almost completely written off the idea of doing a surfing lesson. You see, I’ve never tried surfing before, and well, I’m not exactly the most graceful person. I repeatedly had visions of myself decking it into the sea every 2 seconds. Not exactly the cool surfer girl vibe I dreamed of.

After some contemplating though, I decided why not try it. What could go wrong really?

Drowning, breaking a bone, getting eaten by a shark - these were the irrational fears that went through my mind.

I’d never considered that my downfall would be my old enemy: motion sickness.

Yes, apparently you can get seasick whilst surfing. I am living proof.

As things were finally starting to click for me during the lesson - aka I could stand up on the moving board for more than 1 second (it was a rough start) - I noticed I began to feel nauseous.

It turns out the waves were particularly calm that day, which although is great as a beginner surfer, it does mean that more time is spent laid down on the board. Watching and waiting for your turn to have a go.

As the surfboard gently rocked back and forth with the waves, the all-too-familiar pangs of nausea started to grow.

At first I managed to ignore it, driven by sheer motivation that I’d already paid 700 pesos (£29) for this lesson, and I’d be damned if I was gonna waste that.

The sensation grew, however, and I started frantically guessing how much longer must be left on the lesson. How much longer could I hold out?!

I finally caved and asked the instructor. 20 minutes left.

I was 1 hour 40 minutes into 2 hours. 5 more minutes, I thought, 5 more minutes and it’d be fine to cut my losses.

Those 5 minutes, however, dragged on. After a particularly poor attempt at ~catching a wave~ where I nearly crashed into another learner, I knew it was time to throw in the towel.

Sitting on the beach with my head between my legs, I was thankful to be back on dry land. The instructor laughed and asked me if I was hungover, and I honestly wish I could’ve told him yes, cos that probably would’ve been less embarrassing.

Thankfully, as I waited for the others in my group to finish, no code red situations occurred. Only a bruised ego and the sad realisation that I don't necessarily have the constitution for surfing.

Sadly no pics from this surfing palaver. But here's a selfie from beforehand, a nausea-free Lottie. A better Lottie.

After returning to my hostel and having a lovely siesta, I was ready for Puerto’s second-biggest export: a night out.

Given my saga of sleep deprivation and headaches, I hadn’t been on a proper night out for a few weeks. The anticipation was bubbling up.

Unfortunately for me, my hostel seemed to be somewhat lacking in the woop woop party vibe. So I knew it would be necessary to outsource to some fun friends if I wanted a good night out.

Enter Dan and Eliza.

Blue Monday with the Hodgins.

Dan, and his younger sister Eliza (who had joined him on his travels in Oaxaca), were also in Puerto at the same time as me. And they were also up for a night out. Result. Their hostel was even hosting a beer pong tournament that night, so a fun pre-drinks was ready-made.

Bringing two new friends from my hostel with me, Hubert and Febe, we quickly realised how dead our hostel was in comparison to Dan and Eliza’s. A bustling bar with loud music playing and the competitive shouts of nearby beer pong, this is exactly what we wanted.

This was Monday night, and so our destination was Blue Monday at Cactus. A techno club. Maybe not what you’d expect from a Mexican surfer town with a population of 45,000 people, but it’s important to note that Puerto Escondido is essentially an Anglosphere. Brits, Americans, Aussies, Kiwis and Canadians crawling around everywhere you go. So, as you can guess, techno reigns supreme.

This did not stop Dan, Eliza, and myself wishing for something different however. Hours of techno can get pretty boring after all.

After spending weeks in Mexico, it seems Dan has succumbed to Bad Bunny fever. Finally, an ally! We plotted and agreed to request Titi Me Preguntó - not a totally original thought given this has literally been No.1 for about 12 weeks - and off I went.

You can clearly see the excitement on my face. Bad Bunny babyyy

Eliza on the other hand, went with a much more classic choice: Gimme Gimme by ABBA. Who could say no to such a crowd pleaser?



The DJ naturally said No to both requests. Can’t blame him really. We brushed it off and carried on boogie-ing into the wee hours.

Fast forward to the next day - my final day in Puerto Escondido - let’s just say I felt a little worse for wear. That night, it was my 4th and final overnight bus from Puerto back up north to Oaxaca (another 10.5 hours), and this was met with a mixture of fear and joy.

Fear, for how I would undoubtedly not sleep again, which was desperately needed in my close-to-death hungover state.

But joy, for how it would be my last night bus for a long time. With 4 night buses in 13 days, it’s no wonder my sleeping pattern was messed up, and I was glad to see the back of them.

Hasta luego night buses.

Well, hasta I go on my G Adventures tour in September, which sadly seems to have a few mammoth journeys (something I checked in desperation straight after my first night bus).

Peace out night buses.

After one night in Oaxaca, I’ll head up to Central Mexico. Puebla, Mexico City, Guadalajara and Guanajuato, are all on the itinerary. This is some of the most exciting part of my whole 5 month trip, as I visit friends in both Guadalajara and Guanajuato. And thankfully, only day buses are necessary to go visit them. Winner winner.

Spanish update: a real mixed bag. The general lack of sleep and subsequent headaches meant that some supposedly simple interactions made me cringe to my core, as my brain could barely function in English, nevermind in Spanish. On the other hand, at both my Oaxacan cooking class and during my surfing lesson in Puerto Escondido, I received receptions of amazement at how Spanish I sounded. Spanish, as in, European Spanish. As someone who prefers Latino Spanish (and therefore tries to emulate some sort of vaguely neutral Latino accent), this genuinely perplexed me. I’m not sure anyone has ever told me I sound Spanish (even when I lived and worked in Spain), but hey, it’s better than sounding British, right?

Tan update: moving away from the Yucatan Peninsula and its beaches towards the highlands of Oaxaca and Chiapas did a lot of damage to my healthy glow. By the time I was heading to Puerto Escondido, it had almost completely faded away, and I was getting desperate. I had high hopes for my 3 nights in Puerto, but I seriously underestimated the ferocity of the sun. In under 2 hours of my surfing lesson, I managed to burn my bum within an inch of its life. The cool surfer girl vibe was deeply undermined by my baboon arse. Gnarly bro.