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.