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.

Birth(day)s, deaths and marriages

Before a gasp of horror-stricken worry escapes your mouth, there has been no actual death to speak of, that one was merely included in the list for poetic fluidity. You could say that I have been slowly killing my brain cells by a) drinking and not sleeping much at times b) not doing much academic stimulation of the brain and c) having my brain cells fried by increasing heat. But on the ‘up’ side of things, there have been a lot of birthdays and a marriage which I’ve been lucky enough to assist in. Gallo turned...old...Oscar, a family friend who might as well be family grew a little older but sadly no taller (charmingly pocketsize as he is), Elliot turned six and got chicken pox on the first day of his new ripe old age, and my friend Betho got hitched.

The big party was Gallo’s, organised in the palapa and with all the family invited. Last time we had a big family party there I managed to give myself fist-sized blisters on my feet from running about serving everybody their food and drink, so this time I kicked up a big, high-heeled fuss insisting I wasn’t going to so much as serve a drop of liquid or food to anyone except myself, but somehow, due to lack of other helping hands and due to the realisation that actually, waitressing at a party where you vaguely know most people is pretty fun, as you get to have a decent snippet of chit chat with everyone at regular, plate-sized intervals. Once the family do was over the lads arrived, bottles were opened, and I amused myself getting the taco man paralytic and laughing at the teenager who insisted he wasn’t drunk whilst not realising that he had his eyes closed. I danced like I hadn’t in a long time, and although I can’t say I’m a salsa expert, I can generally get by on the dance floor, and have really developed a flavour for a bit of twisty turny with a man (ooerr). The dance partner I usually seek out is Juanito, as I can pretty much let him lead me, but at the same time I can ad lib and he just goes along, and doesn’t laugh AT me when I spin into my own feet. The palapa, the venue for the party, has a very special place in my heart, as the place where I first got to know my closest friends here; the first few weeks in Mexico I associate intrinsically with the largely outdoors niche of debauchery and good music where I’ve spent countless nights and balmy evenings, never getting bored of speaking Spanish, as there’s always dancing, food and/or drink to give breaks from talking rubbish amongst friends.

Oscar’s birthday fell on a Sunday, which have been renamed ‘Domingos familiares’ (family Sundays) a day to be spent with your nearest and dearest having pure, untarnished family time. And generally involving lots of food. For Oscar’s little ‘do’ we raided the butchers for all they were worth and within an hour had, as a family, managed to knock up a variety of salsas, grilled spring onions in butter, and barbecued pork, accompanied by fresh tortillas and fizzy drinks followed by unnecessary by this point in the gorging process but necessary for the gluttony and the occasion. It was one of those moments which give me a clichéd warm fuzzy feeling inside, surrounded by those who I care about and know me for all my defaults and Spanish mistakes. However, the trip to the butcher’s was almost an event in itself. The meat was stored in what I imagine was a clean, refrigerated cabinet round the back of the small market stand, but the front of shop was all bloodstained stone counter, hanging joints, dripping intestines and fat, grinning, 12-inch knife-wielding butcher man. I’ve never seen someone with a knife so sharp and a cut so precise. Despite appearances though, the meat was fresh, succulent and delicious.

Unfortunately I wasn’t actually present for Elliot’s birthday, but I was saved a bag of sweets and the present I got him was appreciated.

Betho’s wedding was an event which I had built up so much in my mind that I was almost sure that it wouldn’t live up to the hype that I had invested in it. But by God it did. Enrique and I went as the Zuñiga family representation, and were sat in the heavens with all of the other groom’s friends. I’d never actually met the bride, but she was a blooming, blushing bride...very much so, for her 7 months of pregnancy and the light heat. the reason for which I was so excited was that it is the first wedding I went to which was of someone who I considered a contemporary, a friend of MINE, not a friend of the family, or a family member. Unfortunately this meant I had to buy a present myself, an exciting set of spice jars from a list of equally enthralling domestic products.

Ticherrr Ticherrrr

Since I last wrote I have been very much conforming to the ‘ticherrr’ role (as my students call me in their sometimes adorable sometimes teeth-achingly annoying way). I am now transmitting my knowledge of the English and French language to Mexicans from 3 to 53 years old, since being taken on as the English teacher in the local nursery, three times a week, and since also starting giving classes to the teachers of one of my primary schools. Weekdays are busy, with the working day sometimes lasting from 8.30am to 8.30pm, but I still have my three-day weekend free of any form of classes, and as Mama Callie says, keeping busy stops you from thinking bad thoughts (but don’t worry, I still make plenty of time for that). It also means I get a bit more pocket money to play with, and I can start looking to the future and making travelling plans without so much worry for dosh. Many projects on the horizon with the Connecting Classrooms project, with all three schools I work with, so plenty of work, and the end of year project for the SEP, which should be huge, and makes me wish I could invite people from Britain to see how Mexican kids do our culture proud.

In my downtime I’ve been making the most of the slightly warmer days, making ym way to bodies of water at every opportunity: rivers, pools, sea, waterfalls. It’s still not terribly hot, this is just the ‘warm-up’ (haha), but I’m scouting out the coolest waters for when 45 degrees hits us like a bitch in the groin. I’ve had another trip to Veracruz, this time as whistly as the quickest whistle stop. One day only, for Carnaval of course. I believe it’s the second biggest carnival in Latin America, and certainly the biggest I’ve ever been to. Absolute drunkenness and lasciviousness at every corner, with scantily-clad young lovelies, buff hunks and loud music all night. Definitely worth the 8-hour round trip in one day, and the foot pain from breaking my flip flop when dancing with some of the salsa troupes in the parade and walking around all night barefoot.