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.
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