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.