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.