Where the Reptiles Party

We were somewhere around Monterrey, on the edge of the desert, when the cab dropped us off outside a 7/11 that looked more like the gaping maw of a second-rate casino than the honest hovel of a indigenous tacito vendor. We waited in the parking lot as garrish, sweaty humanity sprawled and teemed around us. This was the hub of something large, rich and ready to party.

The other Canadian couple met us at about 11:30 p.m., the night is still infant in downtown Monterrey. We then proceeded down a road that can only be described as human cornucopia. Cars eased gingerly along one cramped lane like gondolas floating down a sea of people. Cigarette vendors carried trays of goods only procured behind locked cabinets in Canada, bouncers pulled double duty as flyer distributors, and still we walked deeper. After several hundred meters and tap-dancing tipsily on cobblestone, we arrived at the neon lights of Cafe Iguana. There was no line, and seemingly no possibility of one, as people continued to pour into the place.

The Cafe itself did not sell coffee; nor does its name do any justice to the maze of rooms, back stairwells, and alleys that perhaps could only be traversed by some type of lizard creature. As I walked toward the bar, the sonic boom of the base reverberated and slowed my step as if I was slogging through water. I ordered a beer, and received 1.2 litre jug; I've come the right I place, I thought.

The music was loud; violently loud when contrasted with the placid images of a crucified Christ and Buddha keeping watch over the shelves of vodka and rum. And time slipped away as we talked, sat, met and laughed. All was good and right with the world; Mexicans know how to party. No quiet wood paneled pub and pint of pilsener for them; no, we were in the thick of a mad, frenetic party that was only getting started when we slipped into a cab well after 2 a.m.

vaya le bien!