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.