Where am I?

I have now been back in England for a week and a half. I have thus been gone from Mexico, the country in which I have stayed for the longest uninterrupted period of my life, for 10 days. And this means that I am, to put it bluntly, a bit screwed up. If I stop to think about it, try and put my finger on where I am emotionally, culturally, what I’m currently doing with my life, I get dizzy from a trilingual barrage of worries, hopes and dreams, and reasonings. Because of this confusion I have mostly chosen to spend this week relishing in the simple and pleasing task of clearing out cupboards. A simple idea. And yet in digging elbow-deep through drawers, under beds and into my childhood memories, the realisation of how much has changed in my life means that I wasn’t just clearing out a cupboard; I was clearing out dusty physical memorabilia of a happy childhood and adolescence. I rediscovered poems I wrote as an eleven-year old rosy-cheeked beanpole; moth-eaten stuffed toys which I’d cradled in my chubby arms as a clueless toddler, and so many maps, tickets, receipts and pointless hoarded ‘souvenirs’ that I realised my bedroom was even more cluttered than my brain. I’m still only halfway through the clearout, and still have a lot of incarnations of Claire to rediscover.

Between wallowing in self-analysis, I have also been doing what I haven’t been able to do for over a year. Gossiping, giggling and gorging myself with my English friends and family. Any plans I have expressed to live away from London are a contradiction of the value I attach to the friends I have here. I feel a bit like a spoilt rich girl who appears to collect things and never use them, leave them at the back of the cupboard, or neglect them and turn my attentions to new, (say, Mexican) models. Appearances can be deceiving though. A facebook message here and there, a visit twice a year, a birthday wish, is nowhere near enough to show how much I hold on to them for dear life. Along with my family, my pocketful of school friends, ex-colleagues and randomly acquired friends mean more to me than even the longest, fanciest of words can describe.

And tomorrow I throw myself back into Paris. A decent way to book-end the Year Abroad.

I don’t yet feel ready to write about how I feel about having left Mexico. I hope I can be forgiven for this. And also for having already spent a chunk of my student loan on a return flight to Mexico for New Years. This is not an ending. It’s a cliff-hanger, even for me.

Havana really good time

I finally did it. After weeks of planning, years of dreaming, and 14 hours of travelling, I made it to Cuba. I always attempt not to imagine what a place will be like before going there, as you’re only running the risk of drawing comparisons between your imaginary creation and the physical reality. So I was neither shocked, disappointed nor proven right. Instead I got to grips with the dismal reality for the majority of Cubans; just by walking the streets and seeing the tiny little rooms which a whole family share, and from which they run the family business (half of these being souvenir shops), and watch the world go by, waiting for Socialism to really deliver Jose Martí’s dream of Cuban independence.

The uniqueness of Cuba lies in the cultural mix: the cohabitation of dark dark-skinned and light light features, drawing respectively from its slave origins and the more recent arrival of immigrants from Spain and Europe. I didn’t quite get the chance to get to grips with the differentiation in treatment of these differing populations, but I saw some evidence of racial prejudice and an American photographer I made acquaintances with made comments to suggest that it ran deeper than could be gleaned from a superficial observation (or Half-Baked observation, you might say). The fact that I was in Varadero for the first three days, where you don’t get to see any of the real Cuba from within the confines of your all-inclusive, minimum four-star hotel, means that my learning on the situation in Cuba was slightly stunted. The political situation in Cuba obviously shapes the nation more than mojitos and cigars, and there is evidence everywhere, from murals, to the currency (the national money is used only by residents, tourists use the convertible peso, and can be many more ‘luxury’ products than the locals...luxury products like powdered milk and nice underwear). When we asked someone where the ‘comandante jefe’ (Castro) lives, we were treated to a decent amount of speculation- that he has 27 houses, including one in the richest neighbourhood of the city. But no one actually knows where the bearded Commy lives. I would imagine that he has more than a 1-bedroom pied-a-terre.

One important thing which I wish I’d known before going was just how much money you feel obliged to give out as tips. From the guy who serves you your coffee in the morning, to the chambermaid, to the kindly stranger who gives you directions. There is very little crime in Cuba, as we were constantly reminded and then told how dangerous it was in Mexico (yeah, thanks, we live there), but tips are daylight robbery. No, but seriously, they wouldn’t ask if they didn’t truly madly need it. The advantage of the system is that everyone has a salary (thus you may find a tiny state-run shop with 6 employees, and two doormen on one door) and a decent education (for example the best doctor’s education in the world), but once you spread all the resources over a population of several million, the pesos don’t weigh so much in each individual pocket.

I was there for 8 days, with Mabel (from the family, sister-like figure, you know her) and Cata, a 50-something friend of the family who at first sight appears an affectionate pensioner with a late-blooming taste for travelling, but she’s as open-minded as the youngsters of today and as filthy as a dishcloth. So I had no complaints about the company. Nor, funnily enough, about the fact that our flight was delayed almost a whole day. That could have something to do with the fact that the airline put us up in a 5 star hotel whilst we waited, and gave us three delicious buffet meals.

I’m still trying to get to grips with what sort of effect Cuba had on me, and I think this suggests I need another trip. Almost definitely so, as the cigars I bought won’t last longer than a couple of months.

Home run

Thus I have christened these last few weeks. However much I don’t want to have to think about the fact that I have to up sticks and leave the place that I’ve fallen in love with, the point is that it is unavoidable. It is the first topic of conversation which people jump to, it is the first thing I have to consider when I make plans, decide what to do with my day, and is also at the forefront of my mind for the mere fact that I have to get things organised for my departure, and of course my (what I hope will be) legendary leaving party. Flights are now booked, leaving from Cancun the 21^st July. This leaves me with 5 weeks, one of which will be spent in Cuba (leaving next Sunday), and so only 4 weeks here, only 3 of which will be filled with classes, trying to cram as much English into the kids’ brains, and as much extra pocket money into my purse as I physically can. So, now with that thought out of the way, I can go back to talking about what is more interesting (well, marginally so): what I have been filling all of this precious time with.

I’ve had a few friends’ birthday parties to keep me on my toes, one in a ranch in the ‘sierra’, which meant as much loud, out-of-tune karaoke singing and prancing about like fools and eating beef head tacos as we wanted without anyone bothering us. The day after I stuck around and went to a cold water spring to cool off and recover, enjoying some precious time away from all the worries of the day-to-day and the choking noise and pollution of the town, made even better by the lack of signal out in the wilds of rural Veracruz, at its best in resplendent greens, a hundred different shades all catching the sun in their own unique way. Yesterday I had another birthday, this time in a proper venue in Minatitlan, again karaoke, again everything in excess, and the entire LGBTA community of the area strutting their stuff on the dance floor.

You can’t say I’m one to avoid work either. I’ve been kept very busy with the nursery school three days a week, an extra class in my second primary school on Mondays, a new contract with some teachers who are going to England and want a crash course in the lingo, so Guy and I between us giving them four hours weekly. With all this, and my usual faffing about, eating lots, running a bit, reading about the art of fandango (in Spanish, so it’s a slow and laborious process), the weeks really do flash by before I can capture the essence of the days, or even think what day it is. I’ve always had the habit of planning things, but in order to try and do everything and not forget classes or turn down invitation, my diary really rules my life (though I’m sure you could say that writing down exactly what I have for dinner every night doesn’t help to organise my time. I still do it though). As well as my own work, I even try to interfere with other people’s, this time in Pajaritos, the world’s 5^th biggest maritime terminal, and home to 1500 Pemex (Mexican national petrol company) employers, amongst whom I count some good friends. So, with my (completely fraudulent) access pass obtained, my orange overalls donned, and some borrowed boots pulled on, I strove about the place like a crazed tourist, taking photos in boats, sitting in the boss’ chair, and generally distracting everyone from the work they’re paid to do. I got there far too late to get a good amount of time in there, due to a pointless trip to immigration, but I at least got to visit a boat, machinery and all, and meet people who knew more about me than I could have hoped to inform them in an entire week, due to the thoroughness of my friends’ background-providing.

I also took a very big step, one which took a lot of guts but was long-overdue. I chopped off the dead mop-like substance I claim is hair. Well, about 7cm of it anyway. It doesn’t look drastically different to be honest, as the dead hair was so thin and ugly that it didn’t add length only dead weight, and so the good stuff which is left behind is now curlier than Goldilocks’ nose hair. But at least it’s a bit less unsightly. And I treated myself to a pedicure at the same time, just because I was in a salon and it would have been rude not to.

Recently I also enjoyed a couple of town fairs, the first in Zaragoza, where I teach, and the second in Jaltipan, where I rarely go even though it’s only ten minutes away. The result of my four successive nights at the fair in Zaragoza, dancing and eating and watching the concerts with my (predominantly) male friends, was a week-long ambush from 800 gossipy school children: ‘Teacher, I saw you at the fair!’ ‘Claire, you went to the fair didn’t you?’ ‘I saw you drinking....ummmm’, and my favourite: ‘I saw you with your four boyfriends’ (came as a surprise to me that I had so much success with the opposite sex).

Now the worst of the annual heat-wave has passed, and I’m back to having moments of non-sweatiness, and not getting burnt by my shower water, for which I thank global warming. 45 degrees isn’t as exotic as it sounds when you have to go to work and your house doesn’t have air conditioning.

Right, so, I’d, err, better get back to that enjoying my last few weeks malarkey. I’ve got a whole list of things to get through before I’m ready to leave this place.

Amblings and ramblings

I have no great theme, or ostentatious observation to make this week. I have generally just been living each day from one to the next, getting gradually more nonplussed about the secondary school (shoddy organising), more nervous at the thought of having to book a flight home, and just enjoying living in Cosolea. Classes were cancelled on Tuesday due to it being Mother’s Day so Guy and I ran off to a swimming pool to cool off for the afternoon. Mexico, as I have already asserted, is a country of contrasts. Whilst being an intrinsically macho country, specifically in Cosolea, where domestic violence, adultery and brutal acts of manliness are rife, Mother’s Day is one of the most important dates of the year, and schools close, events are held and mothers are treated to much love, presents and adulation. Men see their mothers as Deities, and worship the ground the walk on, often referring back to their mothers for advice or affection as opposed to turning to their spouses. I even know of cases of men spending weekends and holidays with their mothers instead of their wife and kids. In this respect, women with children deserve all the praise and dedications that they receive on the 10^th May, as they are the heart of the home, the provider of tortillas and beans, and the bosom which nurses the young as well as the old. Thus I would like to send a message of utter, unconditional, insurmountable love to my own mum. All that I am I owe to her, and I can never repay her for all that she has bestowed on me, though I try every day, by following the lessons she has taught me, and attempting to make her as proud of being my mum as I am of being her daughter.

On an unrelated note, flights to England should be being booked soon either leaving from Mexico City or Guatemala...sounds like a cool place.

Chiapas, chaps

It’s during the holidays that I really appreciate how lucky I am to live in a prime international holiday destination. Whereas some tourists travel thousands of kilometres to visit southern Mexico, these Easter holidays I took a short bus journey (relatively-speaking, five hours is a hop, skip and a tiny little jump) to Chiapas, the most culturally rich state in Mexico, with a thriving indigenous community, buzzing jungle, active Zapatista areas and intriguing ruins, at Palenque. I arrived alone, and after a quick trip to a river for a late-afternoon dip I was joined my Jezabel and his English friend over for a quick visit, and we hit the ruins together. Well, we didn’t literally hit them, as although they’re old and slightly decrepit stones, you’ve got to respect the significance of the mouldy rocks. No, jokes aside, they’re the most gorgeous, extensive Mayan ruins I’ve seen, and although they don’t have the beaches of Tulum coasting them, they have a breathtaking jungle location, and it boggles the mind to think just how many more ancient buildings are under the grass beneath your feet. After the sweltering tropical heat, we were glad when our tour bus dropped us off at Agua Azul, a vast series of waterfalls where the water appears blue as the sky, and feels as cold as ice on your skin.

I then set off, alone again, to San Cristobal de las Casas, a colonial city 5 hours south of Palenque, which lies past Zapatista villages where road blockages and local checkpoints delayed the journey so much that I didn’t get to go to the Cañon del Sumidero (large river canyon just outside of San Cristobal), where I was supposed to be meeting the family. Instead, I staked the ground in the city, secured the hotel, and covered the entire city on foot, just ambling in tranquillity, savouring the cool sun and refreshing shade which was welcome after the steam room that is Palenque and the oven that is Cosoleacaque. But I got a good day and a half in with them, going round the city, going to the zoo (more for the kids than for us) and doing the usual touristy things. Chiapas cannot be ‘done’ in four days, so it’s somewhere I can see myself going back to time again, but it was a worthwhile introduction, and a pleasant little weekend break from my Cosolea.

Semana Santa

Easter doesn’t really exist in Mexico. As a predominantly Catholic country with a hefty influence from Spanish traditions, the Easter holiday is referred to as ‘Semana Santa’, or holy week, and involves a weeklong series of church services, processions, rituals and adornments to the house and church, and I rightly chose to stick around to see all of these (but also rightly chose not to sit in on all of the laborious services and masses. The five am blessing of the palm service, which involved what looked like the entire town, I admired from the front gate, in my pyjamas. The ‘via matrix’, the procession of women in honour of the Virgin Mary’s grief, I watched from the terrace, whilst I was doing some exercise. I did however go to church for the Holy Burial, when they brought all the icons of the saints out, took the image of Christ down from the cross and carried it all around the town. It’s impressive to see just how many people take part in these traditions and how united the community is during times like that. The most spectacular part was the carpet of sand they made with images of flowers going down the main road just outside the house. It didn’t last long thanks to the packs of wild dogs and the hoards of worshippers too lazy to go around it, but it was beautiful whilst it lasted.

Thank you for having me

Thank you Matt for having me. I had a lovely time in Cordoba, sleeping on your inflatable mattress, being cooked for, being shown around the mountainous lands of central Veracruz, watching you lose things left-right and centre, going out with your friends again (they’re pretty solid), going to the exhibition-fair in Orizaba, searching high and low for the tallest mountain in Mexico and not finding it, and having some particularly memorable ‘Mexican Moments’ with you. It was my first ‘expo-feria’, and I appreciate you inviting me to your neck of the woods to see the artisan stalls, the aquatic show and even going on a roller-coaster simulator. It almost makes up for the lack of real rides we got on, due to the droves of people queuing, and the grape-size hailstones which the skies offered up. I don’t mind too much that I didn’t see the pico de Orizaba, but if you could find out where exactly the 5635 metre-high bugger is, then let me know and I’ll come and visit again.

Put another dime in the juke box, Baby

There is one aspect of my adoptive country of residence which I have so far neglected to mention in this here blog what I have, like. And it is up there with the family of nutters I live with, the tiny children I teach and my powerful bedside fan, in terms of how much I cherish and adore it. MUSIC. It’s everywhere, street corners, shops, patios, taxis, even the classroom every now and again. Although there is a huge variety of types of music and artists, all boasting a vast repertoire of songs, most ‘up-to-date’ people claim to know all Mexican songs, and from what I’ve seen, they don’t seem to be pulling my leg (they leave that to the aforementioned small children, when it extends to biting my leg as well). Recently I’ve felt a lot less like an English girl on foreign soil, solely down to my increased knowledge of Mexican songs. 50% of the time I recognise the singer of a song that comes on at a party, or that a friend cranks up on the juke box (one of my favourite aspects of chilled nights between friend), and I can more or less sing the chorus or at least hum the melody.

With my new-found confidence in national anthems, I pushed for an outing to a concert in Minatitlan, ‘La Arrolladora Banda Limon’, of the banda genre (think brass instruments, accordion, 15-peice all-male ensemble dressed in mariachi-style suits). I knew a couple of their songs, knew they were famous and popular all over the country, and bought their CD on the day to try and cram some lyrics-learning. What more reason could I need? Though my supposed excellent planning was shot down by Elias and Teresa when I waved goodbye, dressed in long shorts, a vest top and sandals with my trusty handbag over my shoulders. ‘Oh no you don’t’. So they kitted me out in a checked shirt, cowboy boots, jeans, and nothing more that what I could fit in my pockets. It’s what you do at banda concerts apparently. And right they were. I was even treated to a comically large cowboy hat by a recently-made friend, so as to fit in with the hundreds of men and women who looked ready to ‘yee ha’ and lasso something horny.

Next on the agenda is an Espinosa Paz concert at the end of the month. But this time I’m a genuine fan. I’m already busy studying his back-catalogue and have postponed travelling plans to be within nose-hair-pulling distance of the minor romantic banda star.

NB: I would recommend checking out other genres as well, banda isn’t the only one: salsa, merengue, cumbia, reggaeton, ranchero, Tex-Mex and pop.

Kids say the funniest things

During the course of my work day I am sometimes graced with events which make the bad, shouty, frustrating moments disappear in a puff of cuteness and pure, unadulterated humour. Such moments always come from the kids, who really do say the funniest things. The first I would like to share with you was from one of the primary school children, who are extra special because I only see them once a week. When I got them to write about where they live this particular child had trouble putting down one answer, as his mummy and daddy didn’t live together. I didn’t pry, but the poor child told me ‘mummy always used to shout at daddy and then threw him out and said ‘go with your whore then’. Oops.

The next one was in the other primary school, the one with the children from the less economically thriving neighbourhood, where up until recently children still used to come to school barefoot. I’d invented an ingenious ‘traffic light’ game: red means you stand still, green means you run about like a loony and yellow means the transit police are on the prowl and if you move they will put you in prison. I went to great lengths to explain that the prison was between the bars of the basketball net in the playground, and you had to stay there and not go wandering off. Little Miguel Angel, as usual, wasn’t litening, so I cornered the little horror: ‘Miguel Angel, you’re not listening are you?’ ‘Yes, teaceher, honestly, I am.’ ‘Alright then, where’s the prison?’ And without hesitation he replied ‘It’s in Coatza, teacher, that’s where my uncle is’. Oops.

They say never work with kids. But gems like these are the only reason I do just that.

Cumbre Tajin and Carnaval de Coatza

I’m ashamed to say I didn’t make it to the end of the wedding. But unlike the others who didn’t make it, it wasn’t due to excess drinking or dancing, but because I had a very important bus to catch. My genius planning had led me to buy an overnight bus ticket to Tajin, Mayan ruins in the north of the state where an annual festival celebrating local culture, music and the Spring equinox was the mean attraction – or at least that is what I keep repeating to myself, as amongst all the concerts, cultural workshops and exhibitions we didn’t actually get in to see the ruins themselves. That’ll be for the next time. What we did do was just as good though. We saw Calle 13 in concert, made clay animals, saw magical Voladores de Papantla, a ritual dance involving being tied by the feet, upside down, to a giant pole and swinging round, with every single aspect having a rich significance, which we also learnt about. We even got to see Camelot – such as was nicknamed the abode of our couch-surf host, Arthuro, an overly-generous young guy from Poza Rica, the nearby city, who even gave us a full, cooked breakfast on the morning we left. Having gone to great lengths to acquire white clothing, as is recommended to soak up powerful ‘energy’ from the Equinoxal air, I managed to get a little bit ill during and after the trip, leading to my second day off work due to illness in as many weeks, and I’m not proud of it. It meant I lay low for the whole of last week, leaving the house to go to school and giving my private classes as usual, but eating little and carefully, and not shoving my body about as much as I usually do. Until Saturday that is. I wasn’t going to miss Coatzacoalcos Carnival. Especially when I think of the naked ladies we ended up seeing in the parade, the big bunch of people we managed to squeeze into one pick-up, and the new, sailor friends we made. I think all the resting I did during the week tired me out, hence me falling asleep in the back of the truck on the way back. Those photos are sadly not going to grace this page.

Birth(day)s, deaths and marriages

Before a gasp of horror-stricken worry escapes your mouth, there has been no actual death to speak of, that one was merely included in the list for poetic fluidity. You could say that I have been slowly killing my brain cells by a) drinking and not sleeping much at times b) not doing much academic stimulation of the brain and c) having my brain cells fried by increasing heat. But on the ‘up’ side of things, there have been a lot of birthdays and a marriage which I’ve been lucky enough to assist in. Gallo turned...old...Oscar, a family friend who might as well be family grew a little older but sadly no taller (charmingly pocketsize as he is), Elliot turned six and got chicken pox on the first day of his new ripe old age, and my friend Betho got hitched.

The big party was Gallo’s, organised in the palapa and with all the family invited. Last time we had a big family party there I managed to give myself fist-sized blisters on my feet from running about serving everybody their food and drink, so this time I kicked up a big, high-heeled fuss insisting I wasn’t going to so much as serve a drop of liquid or food to anyone except myself, but somehow, due to lack of other helping hands and due to the realisation that actually, waitressing at a party where you vaguely know most people is pretty fun, as you get to have a decent snippet of chit chat with everyone at regular, plate-sized intervals. Once the family do was over the lads arrived, bottles were opened, and I amused myself getting the taco man paralytic and laughing at the teenager who insisted he wasn’t drunk whilst not realising that he had his eyes closed. I danced like I hadn’t in a long time, and although I can’t say I’m a salsa expert, I can generally get by on the dance floor, and have really developed a flavour for a bit of twisty turny with a man (ooerr). The dance partner I usually seek out is Juanito, as I can pretty much let him lead me, but at the same time I can ad lib and he just goes along, and doesn’t laugh AT me when I spin into my own feet. The palapa, the venue for the party, has a very special place in my heart, as the place where I first got to know my closest friends here; the first few weeks in Mexico I associate intrinsically with the largely outdoors niche of debauchery and good music where I’ve spent countless nights and balmy evenings, never getting bored of speaking Spanish, as there’s always dancing, food and/or drink to give breaks from talking rubbish amongst friends.

Oscar’s birthday fell on a Sunday, which have been renamed ‘Domingos familiares’ (family Sundays) a day to be spent with your nearest and dearest having pure, untarnished family time. And generally involving lots of food. For Oscar’s little ‘do’ we raided the butchers for all they were worth and within an hour had, as a family, managed to knock up a variety of salsas, grilled spring onions in butter, and barbecued pork, accompanied by fresh tortillas and fizzy drinks followed by unnecessary by this point in the gorging process but necessary for the gluttony and the occasion. It was one of those moments which give me a clichéd warm fuzzy feeling inside, surrounded by those who I care about and know me for all my defaults and Spanish mistakes. However, the trip to the butcher’s was almost an event in itself. The meat was stored in what I imagine was a clean, refrigerated cabinet round the back of the small market stand, but the front of shop was all bloodstained stone counter, hanging joints, dripping intestines and fat, grinning, 12-inch knife-wielding butcher man. I’ve never seen someone with a knife so sharp and a cut so precise. Despite appearances though, the meat was fresh, succulent and delicious.

Unfortunately I wasn’t actually present for Elliot’s birthday, but I was saved a bag of sweets and the present I got him was appreciated.

Betho’s wedding was an event which I had built up so much in my mind that I was almost sure that it wouldn’t live up to the hype that I had invested in it. But by God it did. Enrique and I went as the Zuñiga family representation, and were sat in the heavens with all of the other groom’s friends. I’d never actually met the bride, but she was a blooming, blushing bride...very much so, for her 7 months of pregnancy and the light heat. the reason for which I was so excited was that it is the first wedding I went to which was of someone who I considered a contemporary, a friend of MINE, not a friend of the family, or a family member. Unfortunately this meant I had to buy a present myself, an exciting set of spice jars from a list of equally enthralling domestic products.

Ticherrr Ticherrrr

Since I last wrote I have been very much conforming to the ‘ticherrr’ role (as my students call me in their sometimes adorable sometimes teeth-achingly annoying way). I am now transmitting my knowledge of the English and French language to Mexicans from 3 to 53 years old, since being taken on as the English teacher in the local nursery, three times a week, and since also starting giving classes to the teachers of one of my primary schools. Weekdays are busy, with the working day sometimes lasting from 8.30am to 8.30pm, but I still have my three-day weekend free of any form of classes, and as Mama Callie says, keeping busy stops you from thinking bad thoughts (but don’t worry, I still make plenty of time for that). It also means I get a bit more pocket money to play with, and I can start looking to the future and making travelling plans without so much worry for dosh. Many projects on the horizon with the Connecting Classrooms project, with all three schools I work with, so plenty of work, and the end of year project for the SEP, which should be huge, and makes me wish I could invite people from Britain to see how Mexican kids do our culture proud.

In my downtime I’ve been making the most of the slightly warmer days, making ym way to bodies of water at every opportunity: rivers, pools, sea, waterfalls. It’s still not terribly hot, this is just the ‘warm-up’ (haha), but I’m scouting out the coolest waters for when 45 degrees hits us like a bitch in the groin. I’ve had another trip to Veracruz, this time as whistly as the quickest whistle stop. One day only, for Carnaval of course. I believe it’s the second biggest carnival in Latin America, and certainly the biggest I’ve ever been to. Absolute drunkenness and lasciviousness at every corner, with scantily-clad young lovelies, buff hunks and loud music all night. Definitely worth the 8-hour round trip in one day, and the foot pain from breaking my flip flop when dancing with some of the salsa troupes in the parade and walking around all night barefoot.

(Not) smelling of roses

What with it being Valentine’s day, this is an even more appropriate time to be writing about this theme. I don’t often come out smelling of roses here in Mexico. The fact of the matter is, that if there is something to be said, a dozen Mexicans will say it. If you have a spot, you’ll be told about it. If you’re looking ill, you’ll be informed about it before you even get a chance to look in the mirror. There is no room for the weak here. It means that I have come across a greater level of self-confidence here, and people are less bothered about having a bit of fat on them, as long as their hair is brushed and they’ve got a pair of heels on. Which is why I get quizzical looks when I leave the house with unbrushed hair and my unwavering flipflops. I’ve been promised a lot of combs for next Christmas. And I’ve received many gifts of shoes as a hint. Physical priorities are very different across the globe. Nails and hair are paramount in Mexico, as are high heels whatever the time of day or occasion, and skin is either coffee-coloured and flawless, or acne-riddled. My undecided skin, which can’t quite make its mind up between being nice mature grown-up skin or teenage and troublesome, has no place here. Luckily it’s not too serious an offence to be kicked out of the country.

OAXACA. finally

This month’s travels took me to the neighbouring state of Oaxaca, on the Ecobus, which saves on money, legroom and comfort, but certainly not on time or back pain. I was flying solo for the first day, which gave me ample time for strolling the picturesque streets of the state capital, dipping into museums, stopping for mescal flavoured ice creams and lapping up the sunshine. Mezcal, which makes me feel slightly drunk/sick just writing the name, is an agave-based liquor, which is the family name for tequila, and has its roots in Oaxaca. To prevent me from feeling lonely in the big city Enrique called up a couple of his old friends and instructed them to take care of me and show me a good time. This involved lots of mescal and a fair bit of dancing. Incredibly, I dance better with a few shots of the potent stuff in me. Although no one has ever told me so much.

When Guy arrived I carried on calling the shots, armed with a guidebook and lots of ideas. We crammed as much into 4 days as is possible, ruins, exotic foods (grasshoppers and tlayudas for example), museums, parks, more mescal, lots of markets and far too much spending. We developed a hard-to-kick habit of spending ridiculous amounts of money on useless tosh. But I’m sure the black pottery tequila glasses and miniature wooden table and chairs will come in very handy, as will the carved toothpicks and milk stirrer.

Oaxaca is very much aware of its status as national cultural centre and gastronomical hub, but it still maintains a relaxed pace of life, and the further you venture from the sanitised centre you see the more gritty, real-life bustle of the city in the outskirts. I definitely intend to go back and see more of the mountain villages, for which I got a taste when we visited Teotitlan, the weaving village where three-storey brick houses and shiny cars of the hardworking residents contrast with the arid, empty mountain setting.

Keep Calm and Carry On

So, having seen the new year in, as with wherever you are in the world, January is about settling into the new year, realising that however good your intentions to do everything better and tick off a series of ambitious and highly unfeasible resolutions, nothing is really going to change with the dawning of a new calendar year. This particular I’m perfectly happy forgetting about the resolutions, perfectly satisfied with how things are, and I don’t really see it as a new beginning. The only new thing is that everybody has developed the frustrating habit of constantly raising the issue of my ‘imminent’ departure. I haven’t even reached the halfway point of my time this side of the Atlantic, and already I’m battling to stifle the ‘Are you going to cry when you go?’ ‘You’ll forget all about us when you’re gone’, and ‘If you like I’ll send you tamales...oh wait, can you send that in the post?’ ENOUGH! Not even half of my time here has elapsed, give me another six months to get bored of the place and book flights home, and then, only then, may you force me to think about leaving here.

Mexican customs and way of life has now been completely normalised. Whereas a few months ago the way that we always eat with a spoon, that I only have cold water and that toilet paper can under no circumstances be flushed down the toilet seemed novel and oddly hitherto unknown, are now the standard that I feel I will compare future mealtime, bathroom and toilet customs with. The amount of time that has passed since I first came a-knocking in Cosolea also means that the inevitable barrage of questioning that often comes when I meet someone new (usually someone who hasn’t had a huge amount of contact with white, English, Spanish-speaking people) no longer tickles me, but I grin and bear it and answer it with the same feigned spontaneity as when I was first asked the same questions a lifetime ago.

The big family fiesta we had at the beginning of the month was a brilliant start to the year, with the entire family united in the palapa, soaking up the 80s music. I took on the role of waitress par excellence, scuttling around making sure everyone had a beer, a plate of tacos and a bowl of beans. Whilst this meant I got unsightly blisters on my little toes (which were a lot more debilitating than they should have been considering their size), I also got the chance to chat to, dance with and raise a glass with absolutely everyone present. I got that warm fuzzy feeling which can only be attracted to corny contentment in one’s own situation, when I felt effortlessly embraced by the family. I didn’t feel like an invited outsider, just one of the bunch, telling jokes (albeit in a dodgy accent) and hugging the birthday boy. I got a similar feeling of peaceful homeliness when we took a trip to the beach with the kids to splash and eat fresh-as-a-‘frijol’-fart fish and seafood.

Fresh from the wanderings of the end of the year, Kyle’s van’s groupies were reunited in Cordoba for Matt the Chat’s 24^th, which gave me the perfect excuse to see Cordoba, and we hopped across to Veracruz Port for a mosie on the Saturday to the Sunday. The birthday night, the bus journeys and the burning of the proverbial candle drained our energy and our savings, and it means that I am now biting my nails waiting for the long-awaited pay from the SEP. Though apparently the waiting time could be shortened by a persuasive email or two to people in high places. There’s a silver lining to everything, though as of yet, not my pockets.

On the road again

I had torn priorities when I set off from Cosolea with my backpack and my bus ticket on Boxing Day: making the most of my scant holidays to see the rest of the country Vs staying at home and enjoying the time with no work with the family and friends I value so much. But the ticket was bought, and I can never deny my travelling glands a little airing. First stop was Campeche, a sleepy little walled town which was picturesque but not the most stimulating place. The few churches, museums and sights of interest were ticked off in a day, so we turned to wandering the streets, going to the waterfront to enjoy the local specialty, ‘pan de cazon’, a sort of shark meat lasagne, and getting used to be doing tourists again. Matt and I used our few days there, and at the Mayan ruins of Edzna, to settle into the nomadic spirit, living out of a backpack again, and catching up after a long time apart. Next stop was Cancun, where our 5am arrival was not the best introduction to the mean streets of downtown Cancun. Slowly but surely other assistants descended upon the town and joined us in our hostel, ready for the 31^st. Cancun itself is a concrete and plaster monstrosity, all prices in dollars, almost all faces white with American accents, and the small corners of beach which aren’t reserved for the hotels are overcrowded and right next to ferry terminals. Still got to dip in the water and have a gander at where the rich people play. And I can’t paint Cancun in too much of a negative light because it’s where NYE 2010-11 was spent, and that can’t be shrugged off with a grunt of dollars and over-hyped blaséness. Our celebrations started at around brunch-time in Jezzabel’s tutor’s house, as soon as the bottle of tequila was opened and the music was turned on. We sipped, laughed and chatted under the Cancun sun with the family, and were joined later on by the girls, only deeming it time to leave when the kids brandished shaving foam and confetti at us. I’ve had too many experiences recently of thinking I’m defecating confetti to stick around any time I catch a whiff of coloured devil-paper, so we scooted and headed off into the night. What started off as a farcical dash to find a place with no cover charge to toast in the New Year turned into a night of young and free reckless rolling around Cancun in Karl’s van, taking in the beach, the Beatles, some (male) topless singing and a poor attempt to get into some parties.

Karl’s van wasn’t just a one-night stand either. In the back of that dusty green motor of love, we travelled to Isla Mujeres: beautiful, and best seen from a speeding, wheely-ing golf cart; Chitchen Itza: impressive Mayan ruins where the acoustics mean that clapping sounds like a bouncy ball and the pyramids have been mind-bogglingly restored to shining glory; and Tulum, a new favourite place, where the water is like a blue diamond and the prices are comparable to one. The Mayans must have had European tourists in mind when they erected their town on the seafront, with handy stairs leading down to the beach, even leaving informative tourist information panels around the site. Clever Mayans. If I could choose the perfect mochilero companions they would definitely be Kyle and Elias. In their van, nothing was unacceptable, everybody was welcome, and I would imagine that a life that existed purely in the back of her would be fulfilling. For she was clearly a woman. I like to think so anyway, as otherwise I was the only Tortuga on that trip. After parting ways in Tulum, the three of us, Matto the Chato, Jezbian and I, spent one last day on the beach, trying to sand off the bottom sores from our frantic and sweaty bike ride there, and then a very uncomfortable 5 hour journey to Merida trying to ignore the itching from the sand and chafing of the beach and even more frantic and rushed bike ride back to catch said bus.

La Blanca Merida was as beautiful as I had been told, but more touristy and overpriced than I thought. We all seemed to have had the wind kicked out of us by the week’s exertions, but Rachel did a fantastic job of showing around her home town and letting us in on some Yucatecan specialities.

Recounting the banter would be lost on all but those who were present, so instead I’ll say a big thank you to Jeremy, Matt, Kyle and Elias of Karl’s van fame (it’s all getting a bit awkward, so I won’t get soppy) who definitely killed the holiday shotgun style, Rachel, Karen, Anna, Nicola, who made up for shortness of time with us by being top-notch, and to Ana German, Colin, the Argentinean yummy mummy and her precocious sprog, Che, the Puebla scouts and the French crêpe-er in Campeche for stopping and chatting along the way. Oh, and check out mochilero4humanity.org. If you haven’t’ already. It’s bigger than Facebook apparently.