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.