MICS, TRAINS AND AUTOMOBILES

I admit, it was a mistake to put my mini-mic half-in the pocket of my jeans on the day of the Virgin of Guadalupe celebrations. By the time I realised that it was all-out of the pocket, a casualty of gravity, it had probably been trampled under the feet/knees of many of the six million pilgrams with whom I was sharing the day.

Either that, or a puzzled fruit stall owner was turning it over in his palm, trying to work out what it was.

This leaves me in a difficult situation - how can someone entering Cuba on a tourist visa explain an industrial-sized microphone as part of their trip? There's the obvious explanation that they're trying to flout Cuban media bans, or the less obvious explanation that it's a guitar-learning tool (please refer to guitar strapped to tourist's back)..

If the customs officials are anything like the heavily-moustached security guard at the Cuban embassy, where I am picking up my tourist visa, I should have no troubles with the latter explanation. They'll be too busy trying to guess my nationality and telling me I'm too pretty to be Australian, I should be Canadian or American.

I resist the urge to tell him that on that premise, he should be Khasakstani (sp?) while his eyes slide from my face, down to my legs and back.

"But you've got a Cuban body," he says approvingly.

(Trans: my hips have not yet realised I go to the gym every day)

Note to self: wear tight jeans when attempting to enter Cuba.

I leave the security guard and his moustache mulling over my nationality/arse, and grab a cab to the Sony shop, where I am hoping to find a slightly less-conspicuous microphone. Taxis in Mexico are bright green and white VW beetles, and you can hail one in an average of 27 seconds, they're everywhere.

I enter my cab-with-a-difference and instantly notice the unusual-yet-pleasant aroma of coconut oil. It seems to be emanating from the hair of my cabbie, whose registration certificate proudly proclaims to be JOSE - complete with picture of Jose with perfectly-oiled hair.

Jose's taken some care with his cab. For a start, he's ripped out the original short-wave radio and replaced with with a shiny new MP3 player, which is currently piping out cheeful salsa music. I feel my foot beginning to tap.

All VW cabs have had their front passenger seat ripped out as well, to give passengers more leg-space, so I've got a full view of the car. The rear vision mirror is framed with synthetic fluff, which obscures most of the mirror itself from vision. The glass peaking out from behind the fluff is covered with black writing that says "Nathalia", let's assume that's Jose's girlfriend.

The windscreen in front of Jose's face is also covered in black writing, which I can't quite decipher. At best, visibility is limited.

So it is with great relief that I notice two pictures on the dash: one of Mary, one of Jesus. Another magnet-style picture of Mary is stuck to the glove box. Rosary beads extend from the fluff of the rear-vision mirror. Thank god, I was starting to this we had some safety issues, what with not being able to see the road in front or behind, but we'll be fine.

It's good to see that was well as being devout, Jose is pragmatic. In the passenger area I notice a first aid kit, and a fire extinguisher. Between the seats there is a roll of toilet paper (I am not going to say that's for the passengers who are shitting themselves) and a coin box.

After enjoying a pleasant conversation-free ride, we arrive at the Sony store.

The man behind the counter informs me there are no Sony mini-mics in all of Mexico. But in case I want to check for myself, he draws me a map of the electronics zone in the middle of town.

My next cab (yes, I am too lazy to find the metro stop) is accessory-free and we have a full view of the road. My cabbie takes the mud-map, peers at it with his eyes squinted, turns it upside down a couple of times, and then tells me he's going to hang onto it for a while.

Hmm, considering that the directions are for a main street in the centre of town, I'm a little concerned, but we make it there just fine. He revently hands back the map and I jump into tech-heads heaven.

Cables, grids, phones, cameras, plugs, wires, recorders, adaptors, things-I-can't-identify.. they're all here. Everything EXCEPT Sony mini-mics, as I discover over the course of the next 80 minutes/33 shops.

Finally I admit defeat and succumb to the hunger pains I've been ignoring for quite a while. I head for the most popular taco stall that's surrounded by dozens of men, eating off plastic plates and gulping down softdrinks. Each one looks at me as if I am an alien. Gringa. Alone. In the electronics zone. Eating tacos. On the street.

Weird.

The thing I like about Mexicans is that if they have something to say to someone a distance away, they yell. Drivers of cars idling on the curb bellow questions to stall-owners several metres back from the street, people on mobile behave in a similar manner, as though distance was in real terms.

I yell my order over the swarm of eaters to the green-eyed taco man, and two tacos miraculously appear virtually before I've finished speaking. They're sensational, although I still miss the presence of salad.

The juice man aka the seafood man at the next stall has 'invited' me for some prawns. (trans: free food). As I sit eating an exquisite combination of prawn, avocado, tomato salsa and lime from a plastic cup, he explains to me that if I help him sell property I'll get a good commission.

O-kay.

After a pleasant conversation about handicapped kids (his nephew who works there knows some) I head for the subway clutching the pen and lollies he's given me. The pen says 'Meave Seafood wishes you a Happy New Year'.

So, despite lacking a (crucial) mini-mic, I have a full belly, a fall-back career and a new pen.

I guess tomorrow I'll be guitar shopping.