Happy Families

In order to provide some context to the drivel I write here, I feel it’s high time to concentrate a little on the people, instead of focusing so acutely on the events and the places. Not only have I managed to land myself a year in a country full of some of the most fantastic people I’ve ever had the good fortune to find myself amongst, but I have managed to slot myself into the family life of one of the most genuine and kind-hearted families I could ever hope to spend time with. I don’t actually live with the family; my little ‘casita’ is a self-contained annexe, but I tend to eat a majority of my meals with them, and can wonder into the warmth of the family bosom as and when I like, be it for food or company. It’s not all sweetness and pie though: oh no...this family have a filthy sense of humour and dirty great sets of lungs. In short, they’re perfect.

Doña Callie reminds me comfortably of my maternal grandma: hard as nails, a large repertoire of insults which she oh-so-often hurls at her children, but a beautifully soft side which makes me feel so protected. She always seems vaguely insulted if ever I turn down her food, which thankfully is always delicious, so refusal is a rare occurrence. She more than fits the bill of a mother figure to me, making sure I toe the line.
Her three children, Mabel, Teresa and Enrique are my Mexican siblings. The three of them are as different as myself and my own brother, but they all share a common generosity. Mabel, P.E teacher by profession, scientist and researcher by hobby, lives in the house with her mischievously adorable 5-year old son Eliot. She’s got a much more serious side to her, she was more of a tough cookie to crack, but once she gets started on something she’s passionate about, you just can’t shut her up (not that I would ever want to).
Enrique is now the man of the family. He inherited his dad’s job at PeMex (Petroleo Mexicano), and when he’s not working he’s to be found with the lads, drinking beer, driving around and setting up parties at his palapa.
Teresa, the youngest sibling, is the entrepreneurial offspring with an uncontrollable laugh and as shrill a voice as ever I’ve heard. She and Callie have taught me all manner of Mexican innuendos and slang phrases, phrases that would normally make your mother blush. Not here. The family is completed by Elias, Callie’s grandson who she adopted at birth due to tragic unforeseen events, and Ruth, Elias’ older sister, who is currently doing an English degree, and whose 5 year old son, Caleb, is an untameable monster.

That is my Mexican family. The only members I have neglected to mention are the dogs. I haven’t mentioned them because every time I talk about them I start to get angry, and I remember all the times that they have kept me up in the early hours with their incessant barking at the stray dogs on heat outside who loiter outside the house. But I feel that if I carry out my threat to kill one of them and make dog steak I wouldn’t be such a welcome new addition to the family any more.

Why I'm getting fat

Mexico has a lot to answer for when it comes to food and weight. There is a reason why the country ahs the world’s highest rate if child obesity, and it’s certainly not laziness or a lack of Jamie Oliver campaigning. It’s because the food here is so friggin’ good. Food is such a great part of the culture: the women spend their days cooking, for their family, visitors, or paying customers. Every other shop is a restaurant, or ‘antojitos’ (snacks) outlet, and every fiesta or religious celebration is celebrated with food – even the dead get their share of tasty goods when it comes round to the Day of the Dead (which also involves everyone heading down to the cemetery to share a meal). It’s difficult to find a Mexican who isn’t either eating, about to eat, preparing food to eat, or has just eaten and so is rubbing their belly. This is why I feel so at home here. I’m yet to leave my room without my Mexican mum or siblings trying to coerce me into eating something, and my well-learned and practised English ways of generally saying no on polite principle have long vanished.

Not only am I eating truckloads of delicious tacos, memelas (Mexican pizza), tostadas (crispy tortillas with topping), tamales, stuffed chillis, soups, stews and a multitude of other marvellous concoctions, I’m slowly starting to learn how to make them too. I’ve already chopped and stirred my way to tacos chiflados (mad tacos), constructed Carlotas (creamy biscuit pudding), husked the corn for tamales and observed the lengthy process, chopped a LOT of onions to go in salsa and been promised many more delights to come. Don’t worry, I started running last week.

All work and play

Another week of My Mexican Life has flown by, who knows where the time goes, I must be getting used to this place. School is getting better and better, as I’m beginning to get to know the kids more, becoming more confident in my ability to get up in front of 40 kids and shout an unknown (to them) language at them, and my routing is becoming nicely established: early morning run down at the football pitch, breakfast of leftover tacos, fried plantains or hot cakes with the family, before hailing a cab to school. My working day never lasts longer than about 11 to 3, so it’s not too demanding or tiring, and then I get plenty of time to chat Spanish with family or friends, have a leisurely lunch, do some planning or go for a spin. This week I have been attempting to pimp out my language-teaching skills at every given opportunity, hence posters have gone up, open house sessions have been set up, and I’ve even given my first private class; a beginners French class to a young and enthusiastic university student. More of that to come in the coming weeks, watch this space (O.K, stop watching it now, it’s going to take longer than that).

Thursday was Enrique’s birthday, so a little family cake-cutting and eating session filled up Thursday evening, and leftover cake has been filling me up ever since: they made the mistake of storing it in my fridge, and telling me they’re not big cake eaters. Oh Dear, Diary. The same birthday was again celebrated on Sunday, with a family get-together for which we did a ‘carne asada’ a sort of glorified barbeque with bucket loads of meat, piles of tortillas and a whole day of chilled out company. Even the 24 hour rain (which is still pelting down outside my window as I write) didn’t put a dampener on things. We stayed sitting outside around the party tables until late night, until the rest of the guests had cleared off and the cups of coffee stopped having an effect. Some of us were a little lacking in sleep due to our exertions on Saturday night....

Saturday night started off so well. Having gorged myself on tacos, washed down with a couple of beers, which I’d only bought because mama Callie had said she quite fancied a ‘cervecita’, I lounged in my hammock for a couple of hours, before heading out for a coke and a stroll. Guy and I had a bit of ‘Larathon’ (back to back episodes of Curb your Enthusiasm) before hauling our lazy bottoms out of my house to get a snack. At which point Enrique and the two Juans and Bethoo pulled up and said ‘how about it?’ Cue a trip to a traditional table dance ‘cantina’ (generally male-dominated watering hole), late-night tacos and gate crashing a ‘quincenera’ (15th birthday party, a huge deal for Mexican girls). I was willingly carried along by the spontaneity of it all, and lapped it up, even the grotty cantina, where the only table dancing we actually got to see was from drunken middle-aged men. Slightly disappointed at the lack of naked ladies, or even partially clothed ladies, I waltzed with the guys and forgot about the fact that an hour beforehand I had been almost ready for bed, which explains the foxy glasses, dirty hair and Durham Regatta t-shirt look I was rocking. Mum, this should explain why I got your ‘good morning’ email as I was getting ready for bed, at my somewhat delayed bedtime.

Backtracking some more (this is getting increasingly non-chronological but, frustratingly, increasingly ‘Dear Diary’-like), Friday night gave us an opportunity to see a local football match and, more importantly, a match in which our local team, Cosoleacaque, trampled the opponents, Minatitlan. The fiery Mexican passion was clearly evidenced by the relatively small but feisty crowd of supporters, though the after-party was a bit of a damp squid due to the rain which announced its arrival on Friday night as has yet to sod off.
In other news, I now have a bucket, a mug , a king-size hammock in my room, and a salsa-dish-cum-jewellery holder. All this adds up to me feeling increasingly settled, and I’m gradually realising that this isn’t a holiday. No one has their own mug on holiday, right?

Birthday

Our calendar was particularly harsh on us this week: we only got ONE DAY to recover, sit and do nothing, before we were off again experiencing the true Mexican ‘fiesta’ spirit. Well, we did go to a fiesta on our 'off' day, but as Mexican do's go it was a very quiet affair, with traditional 'posole' (maize and chicken soup) and family banter to-ing and fro-ing between tables, regularly bouncing off the 2 English guests. My actual 21st wasn’t until Saturday, but I shall forever see Friday as my true celebration: so would you if you’d spent the day sunning yourself in the back of a pick-up truck with some upstanding Mexicans (and two dodgy Brits), eating snails, oysters and prawns, swimming in the sea, a crystal-clear lagoon, and singing Mexican pop songs at the top of our voices speeding down the highway. The lagoon is called Catemaco, and it’s a famously beautiful natural sight, and in all honesty we only managed to cover a tiny slither of the breathtaking coastline and jewel-like nooks and crannies. It didn’t do any harm that with every beer opened there was a general ‘To Claire’, and that many pop songs were spontaneously re-written in my honour. Once back in Cosoleacaque, I wasn’t quite sure what to expect, as there had been talks of a party, all very vague. We actually ended up at Antonio’s house (unsurprisingly, another member of the family, but also a teacher in the school), where they cracked out the expensive tequila and another drink which they described as ‘tequila as it was before the Spanish arrived and turned it into water - ie it was STRONG; ‘no-voice-the-next-day’ strong. The bunch of guys we found ourselves with were perfect specimens of Cosoleacaqueños: they accepted us with open arms into their group without prejudice, they proudly showed us all of their ways and taught us their phrases (some of which I’m likely to get into trouble for if I repeat them in polite company) and made the whole day truly special – we were among friends, however little time we had known them. I almost fell off the top of the mountain of happiness that I’d been climbing all day when they brought out an ad-libbed cake of chocolate cupcakes and a chocolate bar (those of a naughtier disposition might be able to figure out what sort of shape this might make...), with a candle, accompanied by raucous singing and many hugs, all at the stroke of midnight, as I stumbled into my 21st year.

The day of my actual birthday was a hot hot day, beautiful sun, a fresh bunch of flowers first thing in the morning and a seafood restaurant for lunch. The party in the evening was hosted by another birthday boy, a Lady Gaga-wannabe who managed to unite the entire gay community of the town of Minatitlan in one place for one night only, though he insisted that it was our joint celebration. I’m not sure I want to be associated with the slightly surreal cross-dressing Paulina Rubio impersonator who managed to cop a feel of Jeremy, or the big singing mama of dubious gender who repeatedly touched up Guy. However, it was a one-off experience of a night, topped off by a torrential downpour (I should mention that we were outside), and being told ‘you’re not beautiful, but because of what you’re doing here in Mexico, you’re beautiful’.

A Sunday at the beach the day after in Coatzacoalcos was deserved and needed.
Thank you Mexico for validating my score of years,
Thank you everybody for the birthday wishes,
Thank you Jeremy for coming to spend the weekend with us AND bringing me a very well-chosen present,
And thank you in advance universe for letting me turn 21 every year to come.

Getting down to the nitty grito

After the responsible affair at the school to prematurely celebrate the bicentenary, the real shindig kicked off on Wednesday. The main event, after the preparatory cooking, primping and the fireworks in the main square, was the family gathering in the family bakery, where we did our own ‘grito’, and then tucked into mountains of to-die-for Mexican food and drink: chiles en nogada, tamales, chicken stews, fruit sweets, carlotas, tequila and beer. I flitted between the young members of the family who were interested in knowing whether or not I liked to dance, and the old, who thrust all of their homemade specialities on me, and regaled in watching me eat and getting greasy fingers (the greasy fingers are the reason for the lack of photos of this night). It was so admirable to see all of the women and girls dressed in traditional Mexican clothes, with their hair plaited, embroidered smocks, long, colourful flowing skirts – and a lot of the men had cracked out their sombreros. I had a long cream skirt and little halter neck top with some patriotic ear-rings (all a loan from Tere, one of the family). Once I could no longer fit into the skirt for eating, I ran off to get changed and skipped on down to Enrique’s ‘palapa’, outdoor bar with a grass hut roof, lights, music and beer. As is to be expected, I danced. I twirled, swayed, swooped, shimmied (Guy equally so, as he spent half the night in one of the girl’s heels)... and then ate tacos. Happy Birthday Mexico: you may be 200 years old, but you know how to party.

Children of the Revolution

There was bound to come a time when the people of Cosoleacaque would make marriage comments: Tuesday was the day. In honour of the bicentenary of Mexican independence, and a celebration of Mexican revolutionaries, Tuesday was designated as ‘grito’ day in my school. The Grito is a call to war, a revolutionary speech ending with ‘Viva Mexico!’ and the ringing of a bell. And for Mexicans it’s a huge deal. It also gave me the perfect opportunity to let all the women I know in the school dress me up like a traditional ‘Cosoleacaqueña’, with the traditional ‘refajo’ (folded skirt), plaits and smock top. It also gave all of the kids in the school even more of an excuse to stare at me and even surround me and just look up at me, in breathless anticipation of what I might be able to say in Spanish (which is increasing by the day but still isn’t anywhere near the level a grown adult living in Mexico should have). The costume, and my enthusiasm about anything local lead the deputy head to insist on introducing me to his nephew, in an unsubtle attempt at setting me up with a Mexican so they could snag a full-time native-speaking English teacher.

We first enjoyed the ‘convivio’, a meal shared with the class, then moved outside for the civic ceremony and the grito, out in the rain, with the open-air stage adorned with flags, bunting and the all-important bell. I thrust my fist in the air and bellowed ‘Viva Mexico!’ like the best of them (though paler and slightly more timid version than the best of them), and then the headmaster beckoned me on stage so everybody could basically clap, whistle and woot at my costume and my simple foreign presence. Then more food – obviously, this is Mexico.

Resident English

I am pleased to announce that I am now officially a temporary Mexican resident. 4 trips to 2 different immigration offices later, and I am now NOT an immigrant, and have a nifty little card to prove it (the mug shot I’m sporting on the photo should not be forced on people who have a soul, so you’ll just have to imagine it).

Don’t go chasing waterfalls

I wisely decided not to follow TLC’s advice this weekend, and instead embarked on a day trip to the mountains to, yes you guessed it, chase some waterfalls. First though, I got treated to a visit to one of Mexico’s finest motels. These roadside hotels do an absolutely roaring trade here, but not for the obvious reason. The Mexicans may appear like good Catholics, but they all sneak off clandestinely to motels, which you pay an hourly rate for. And trust me, they do anything but sleep there. Apparently most of their business comes from taxi drivers. And I am ashamed to admit that one of my ambitions for My Mexican Life is to be taken to such a place by a taxi driver. I feel this is the only way to rightfully say that I have experienced Mexico. And fortunately, one of the members of my new Mexican family owns a motel – ‘mates’ rates’?
The waterfall trip took us up into the mountains a stone’s throw away from Cosoleacaque, though it was a long enough drive to really let the wind woosh through my hair as we chugged along the almost completely empty roads, all 4 of us in our little white car. Waterfalls, mud and a nice bit of mountain air were just what the doctor ordered for this Saturday afternoon. We unfortunately couldn’t actually swim in the water, as the combination of extremely deep waters and a dangerously strong current prevented us from doing so without making a major decision about whether we valued our lives, but we got our legs wet and felt the mud and stones beneath our feet. We saw what felt like hundreds of little communities, each one as laid-back as the next. Saturday seems to be the town meeting day, with all the men getting together on one side of town, no doubt to talk about their women, and the women congregating on the other side, most likely to whinge about their spouses. Different country, but same habits! We stopped in one such village to recharge our batteries: grilled chicken with a generous helping of tortillas and salsa were on the menu, all under the watchful eye of a sleepy cow (tomorrow’s lunch, I’m assuming).
Far from calling it a day when we trundled back into Cosoleacaque late evening, we stopped to have a natter with the gaggle of men sitting in front of the local ‘cerveceria’ (offy), and had beer and empanadas pushed on us (I didn’t take too much convincing). I then got dragged around various retired teachers’ houses, and inevitably received more future dinner invitations than I have time to fulfil in my 10 months here. I met the former mayor, vegetating in front of the T.V, before being taken to meet other townspeople. I spent a good while helping to de-husk corn in preparation for tomorrow’s tamales, but got the reward of first dibs on the hammock for a well-deserved break afterwards, before we decided to call it a night...but lo and behold, what did we see on our drive back: a fiesta in honour of someone’s birthday, which we’d apparently been casually invited to. It would be rude not to. I got the opportunity to build on all the dance moves I’d so far learnt and actually felt like I was beginning to understand the Mexican rhythm , the way the move with the music without having to look like a pole dancer and without having to have strictly regulated steps. Being the only guerita there again worked in my favour, as I had a traditional dancing skirt draped on my hips by the girls, all the boys wanted a picture with the pale blue-eyed stranger, and they insisted I try all their homemade specialities. Realised it was time to go when Guy and Enrique (another new Mexican family member) almost fell asleep on the side of the dance floor.

‘The drinking and driving is fine, but the shorts have got to go’

Only in Mexico. This is a phrase I’m hearing a lot recently. The long weekend started with an obligatory trip to Coatzacoalcos, the coastal town about a half hour drive away, in order to change our immigration status to that of ‘cooperante’ and not just illegal alien. If we don’t do this they have no problem with us staying in the country, we just won’t be allowed to leave...
We’d all acquired a cold beer to make the heat a bit more bearable, and when we arrived at the government stronghold, the guard had no problem letting us though security with our beers, not even taking the trouble to ask us to throw the cans away, but under no circumstance would he ket us through as long as Guy was wearing short trousers. We had to take a physical and economical detour via the market in order to get him some full-length trousers before we could start the laborious security process to get to the immigration office. Which was closed. Of all the things that have made me laugh recently, this beats the rest hands down. I either had to laugh or I would have pulled a knife on someone. This was our second attempt at sorting this out, and we were told to come back Monday. Oh well, we had a chilled day, eating, drinking, listening to live salsa music in palapas (grass-roofed open air bars), and frolicking knee-deep in the sea, so all was not lost.

Back to School

Monday morning had been long overdue. We had been waiting to start the teaching side of things for a while, and finally we were ushered into our new roles as teaching assistants in a flurry of Mexican flag-bearing, lots of clapping, and 850 eager Mexican schoolchildren staring at us in all our pasty, exposed glory. Our baptism of fire was about as hot as they get: Guy and I almost single-handedly led 5 classes, utterly ad-libbed (the British Council would have been proud to call us their protégés), to children who wanted nothing more than to ask us if we had boyfriends/girlfriends/if this is my natural hair colour. The main thing that I inferred from their hesitancy to respond to questions but willingness to follow instructions, was that these children are keen to learn but have not as yet been equipped to acquire a new language, let alone speak English at any real level. The phrase ‘baptism of fire’ is also particularly apt because it was sweat-drippingly sauna-like in that classroom. Nerves and a hot classroom make for a very shiny teacher.

Over the following days things got progressively easier, as I found my feet on a very uneven surface of 3 different ‘grades’, ranging from 11 to 16 years, working with the two different teachers, Alberto and Sergio. I can already see so much promise in these fantastic little people, some of whom really want to show how keen they are and really do want to learn English and communicate with something more than the village they have lived in their whole lives. Zaragoza, where the school is, is a small municipality with a vibrant community life, very much rooted in tradition, with a (sadly) waning indigenous language, Nahuatl, and people with very humble backgrounds working together on the land or in the nearby refinery. The road to get to Zaragoza from Cosoleacaque is riddled with potholes due to the heavy rains, and it really does feel like you’re far away from the corruption of the outside world when you’re there, especially within the breezy walls of the basic but well-formed school. However, after 2 weeks here I’ve still only had 3 working days, and this week I’m set to have none due to bicentenary celebrations and pending immigration affairs.

Oh Dear, Diary

I appear to have been a little lax with my ‘blogging’ of late. That’s what happens, I suppose, when you’re actually doing interesting things – you don’t have so many opportunities to take the time to sit, think and write. A week in the life of ‘Clara’ as I too often seem to be known as here is now going to follow.

Having seen the horror-stricken lowlands of the Veracruz countryside I was treated to a Mexican nightclub experience. I was expecting a pokey little smalltown watering hole, and was somewhat embarrassed by this expectation when I walked into a huge hangar-style nightclub with pumping club beats and waiter-to-table service. The music obviously meant that I couldn’t understand a frigging Spanish word, but the copious amounts of whisky meant I didn’t so much care. The dominance of couples in our party made it quite a familial atmosphere, but everybody was friendly and open to the two ‘whities’. The girls attempted to teach me to dance like them, a lot of photos were taken, and a rather strange fire show failed to impress us – a rubber-suited mediocre dancer with gas-flame horns prancing about on stage. Oh dear, diary, oh dear. By far the highlight was the before bed alcohol absorption trip to an early morning taco place, where little old ladies served us up empanadas, tacos, guarachas, and other fried, meaty starchy snacks at 6 in the morning. As we were swaying on the spot mindlessly munching on our bedtime snacks, locals queued for a coffee and tostada before heading off to work. Smalltown disco I think not.

Rain

One thing that I was not quite expecting here, was such a large amount of rain. So far, almost every day we’ve had at least one torrential downpour. Admittedly, it is the rainy season, but this wet season goes on for 4 months or so, slap bang during my first few months here. At least it will put out the flames of my baptism of fire (har har). However, for all my complaining, the worst I can say the rain has done to me is give me frizzy(er) hair and periodically wet feet. For the inhabitants of some of the villages around my town, the rain has meant they have lost almost everything. On Saturday we visited the flooded area with some of the people who I’m renting my annexe off, and we saw for ourselves the extent of the devastation. I was in awe of the road turned into a river, the 2-storey houses with the bottom floor utterly submerged, and the nobility and stoicism of the people so severely affected by nature’s worst. We came bearing water and bread, basics which they were in need of, but what I really wanted to bring them was dry land, the comfort of sleep – for they have to constantly be on alert in case of sudden rises in water level - and hope that the rains in Oaxaca, which have caused the river here to swell to grotesque proportions, will cease. I suddenly felt enormously guilty for having celebrated school being off for the week due to these same floods which have brought misery to so many. The authorities say they are helping all of these people by bringing them aid and setting up refuges, but the real picture is very different from the one of President Calderón wading through the waters to give chocolate to babies. Here’s hoping that the rain really does go away.

JaJa Jalapa

I felt a twinge as I pulled out of Cosolea to head to Xalapa, despite having only had the right to call it my home for 4 days. I felt like I was leaving a part of me there as we left the torrential rain behind us and headed overnight to the city, the state capital. The main motive behind the journey was to sort out some paperwork, which Mexicans seem to live for. We needed to change our immigration status so that we can stay here a year without problems. The fact is that if we don’t we can stay here but we won’t be allowed to leave, which in the long run probably isn’t ideal. Unfortunately, we are still to get this sorted, as we were told when we rocked up with our wodge of completed forms and specially-commissioned photos that we actually need to go to Coatzacoalcos to get it sorted; Coatzacoalcos is 30km from where we live. The irony reeks. However, we made the most of our 300 pesos bus ticket, and visited the manmade lakes in the city, most of its coffee shops, Xico waterfalls, Coatepec coffee plantations, the anthropology museum, and the State theatre for a concert by the Philharmonic Orchestra. Jeremy, the assistant based in Xalapa, showed us his school and shared his life with us for a few days, and through him we got to meet some locals. We also experienced Mexican karaoke. Boy do they know how to do it. Much dancing, a sprinkling of tequila, a fair amount of bad singing and lots of merriment were the gout du jour in ‘K Bar’, and I didn’t even question the bar man when he brought me a mystery shot ‘on the house’ – perhaps my exuberant pale-white-girl attempts at barefoot salsa dancing warranted a free drink for sheer daring, or maybe they thought if they got me drunk enough I would stop trying to sing or dance.

You sit and look pretty – in this heat?

As a European woman coming to rural Mexico, one thing I have had to grit my teeth through is the machismo I have come across. I have by no means been insulted, but I have had to quickly adjust to my new role as a woman in a macho society, having doors held open for me, not quite being taken seriously as a holder of opinions, and shocking people by my ability to drink beer. They also don’t appear to be able to fathom that I, as a woman, tell dirty jokes and swear like the best of them (by them, I mean men).

My Mexican life

In the first 4 days after I got to Cosolea, it seemed to me that all I did was follow my local guides like a little dog in awe of everything I saw, and eat. A lot. All the time. As you can probably guess, I was absolutely fine with all of this. We were taken to the beach, where I rode along the sand on horseback, ate fresh coconut with lime and chilli, beautifully grilled fish, and had a dip in the delectably warm sea. All in a day’s work. I developed a hard-to-shake reputation for falling asleep as soon as I got in a moving vehicle, despite developing what I thought was the genius tactic of wearing sunglasses in the car – apparently the slack jaw and open mouth betrayed me every time. Quite some time was dedicated to applying a few lick sof paint and TLC to Guy’s lodgings, as they were in dire need of some attention before he could move in. But, as the ‘princesa’ or ‘muñeca’, I was relegated to supervising duty. I made myself useful by bringing sustenance to the hombres.

This brings me smoothly onto an important topic: machismo

Out into the big wide world of smalltown Mexico

After a week in Mexico City (which I would say is worth a visit but I was quite glad to be heading somewhere a bit more ‘Mexican’) it was time to say goodbye to our comfortable touristy lives, and to each other, and head off in 38 different directions around the country. It was difficult to feel too alone, as Guy and I were heading to the same school, and were therefore in exactly the same boat: and actually got the same coach, with our tutor Alberto, then stayed in the same hotel in Veracruz for our overnight stopover, and are now living in the same town. So not quite as alone as I might have feared.

Our little detour via the port town of Veracruz gave us an opportunity to get to know Alberto a bit, have a few friendly beers with him, and break the ice, which was pleasantly thin anyway as he was immediately friendly and made us feel at home. The slightly elevated but not uncomfortable temperature of Veracruz also helped to prepare us for the furnace that is Minatitlan.

Our first day in our new home was a whirlwind of introductions, ferrying about and trying to retain new names and places and, most importantly speak Spanish. I found my quarters to be surprisingly spacious, extremely safe, and with pink furniture, specially painted for my ultra-feminine self. I am living in a 2-room annexe just next to a family home, right next to the municipal building of my unpronounceable town, Cosoleacaque (not Que huele a caca, as a certain other assistant now likes it to be known). I feel utterly secure here, and the town sits in a pleasant equilibrium of community-based but big enough to have some choice in food places and stomping grounds.

Our first day therefore involved a dish of the infamous local ‘camarones’ (prawns in a variety of different sauces), seeing the coastal resort of Coatzacoalcos, drinking beer or the motorway (having burst a tyre on one of the many pot holes riddling the streets of this area) and talking and drinking beer and tequila into the early hours with our ‘responsible’ tutor and some other teachers from the school. A fitting introduction to our new lives, rounded off by renditions of both national anthems.

Snapshot in the City

This is more of a composite visual tool which helped me to get to grips with the contrasts preponderant in the country, and the general way of life in the capital of this country which I am yet to uncover in its vastness. Picture this: after a 9 to 5 day at the British Council headquarters in the city, a small group of us Brits headed out into the city, in search of Diego Rivera murals and some Mexican air (as opposed to the imported British air in the Council offices). We walked down 3 different roads, and on each road I saw something which I’d never seen before. On the paved road between Cinco de Mayo and Tacuba we came across a live band blasting out Latino tunes at a reasonable volume, their music demonstrating oomph and a genuine musical flair. However, they appeared to be a group of adults with severe learning difficulties, all looking surprisingly uninterested and vacant. But the music spoke otherwise. And the 10 or so older Mexican coupled dancing away beside them, taking it in turns to whirl and salsa, or stand arm in arm chatting away in couply bliss were proof of the Mexican gift for making noise and dancing, at any given opportunity.

On Calle Cinco de Mayo, heading from the main Square to the Palacio de Bellas Artes, all I could see for miles around were ‘taquerias’, taco restaurants, or rather old-fashioned fast-food outlets. Tacos for 4 pesos (25p), exotic-sounding fillings, and locals spilling out of the restaurants like overflowing guacamole were all good signs, and I soon learnt that what we think of as tacos – Old El paso hard shells to be filled with spicy meat and veg – is a far cry from a real Mexican taco, which is soft, and either small and flat, or slightly bigger and folded in half. In either form they’re delicious and could stamp on Mr Old El Paso and his garish stereotypical packaging any day.

Last but not least, my favourite sight of all. On the main Xocalo, between the Palacio Nacional and the cathedral, a train of about 5 imposing police trucks lined the street, and the Policio Federal officers, some in the backs of the open trucks, some leaning against the walls of the arcaded buildings, all in full riot gear, were sipping coke, chatting about football and eating tacos. I’m pretty sure that if I had walked past smoking a joint or spitting on a Mexican flag they would have changed gear pretty quickly. But, as I was only taking pictures of the pretty flags, all 30 or so of these ‘don’t mess with me beefies’ carried on sucking through straws and wiping their mouths as they compared suggestions for improving the national team.

A quick stroll around the centre and I have a taste of things to come in this country of contrasts.

Popular Kids

Yes, I was a leading member of the ‘Café Popular’ crowd. Laugh, point, mock all you like, but those of us who regularly sneaked off to Café Popular after all the other restaurants had turned off their lights, knew exactly what we were doing. We were trying to be less like tourists and find some sort of foothold in a city which we couldn’t quite get to grips with through the confines of our full days of training and our cosy life in Hostel Catedral, right on the main Xocalo (square). The 24-hour openness, the surliness of the waitress beautiful in contrast with the dainty bow perched on the back of each of their heads, and the simple but pleasantly greasy and authentically Mexican food lured us there far too many a time, and proved a key bonding place for some of us within the pack.

Café Popular, for its ample and hearty menu, provided me with a gentle introduction to the resplendent wealth of Mexican cuisine. There I first experienced tamales, quesadillas, horchata and, the most genuinely Mexican of all, strawberry and frosties cake...

What D.F??

My predominant thought during the week in Districto Federal, was how much my dear friends back home would be laughing if they knew how easy we had it. Collected from the airport, ferried from official building to official building, hostel pre-booked for us...all 38 of us ‘Bri’ish Council Lot’. However, I must add that from the moment I touched down it wasn’t all smooth-riding. My introduction to Mexico City involved most people’s worst nightmare. Not being pushed on stage naked in front on glaring lights and staring faces, but that painful wait for your luggage to appear from the soulless black hole and come crawling towards you on the conveyer belt. Mine never appeared, never crawled...it just sat, lonely and abandoned, in Madrid airport. Either that or it just decided it wasn’t quite ready for Mexico yet. Whatever motive my suitcase and my backpack had for not joining me, it meant my introductory phrase for the first 2 days were ‘Hi, I’m Claire – I normally look a lot better and don’t wear the same clothes two days running. I’m not sure why I felt the need to explain this straight away, as no one other than me had noticed that I had been wearing the same underwear for 52hours, but I felt a duty to justify my repetitive and, generally not particularly attractive appearance. However, I didn’t do myself any favours by doing this, as it meant that when my beloved belongings finally arrived, on Tuesday morning, I felt an immense amount of pressure to suddenly appear on the coach to the British Council looking like beauty incarnate in a thoughtfully-crafted and breath-taking ensemble. None of this happened, of course. But I noticed the fresh knickers and extra blusher on my cheeks, even if nobody else did.

La Guerita touches down in Mexico

As I write, 2 weeks of new tastes, sights and sounds behind me already, I am almost ashamed that I haven’t got down to doing this finger-to-keyboard process before now. I have had the intention of doing so ever since I had too long to ponder my current existence during a rather lengthy lavatory trip (a result of said new tastes). The advantage is that I can now write without the unattractive anxious trait coming through, and therefore at least this first entry should not be full of paranoia about being rejected by my new adoptive country or being hated by 800 Mexican children – however, I am in no position to promise this – ‘2 weeks’ quakes in its boots next to the imposing figure of ‘10 MONTHS’.

It is somewhat apt to be writing on this virgin page on my 2-week anniversary of arriving in this beautiful country. I have so far experienced the impersonal sprawl of Mexico City, the unrelenting wind and Mariachis of Veracruz, the heat, humidity and human warmth of Cosoleacaque, and the chilled pace of Xalapa. I still feel like just as much of a Guerita ( = pale white girl), but the beginnings of roots are beginning to work their way towards the light and I am becoming as attached to this country as the mosquitoes are to my sweaty skin.

The disadvantage of starting committing my impressions and observations to the page now is that they are likely to have neither rhyme nor reason – chronology is set to go out of the window for at least a pequeño while. Bear with me, it’s a Work In Progress.