(Not) smelling of roses

What with it being Valentine’s day, this is an even more appropriate time to be writing about this theme. I don’t often come out smelling of roses here in Mexico. The fact of the matter is, that if there is something to be said, a dozen Mexicans will say it. If you have a spot, you’ll be told about it. If you’re looking ill, you’ll be informed about it before you even get a chance to look in the mirror. There is no room for the weak here. It means that I have come across a greater level of self-confidence here, and people are less bothered about having a bit of fat on them, as long as their hair is brushed and they’ve got a pair of heels on. Which is why I get quizzical looks when I leave the house with unbrushed hair and my unwavering flipflops. I’ve been promised a lot of combs for next Christmas. And I’ve received many gifts of shoes as a hint. Physical priorities are very different across the globe. Nails and hair are paramount in Mexico, as are high heels whatever the time of day or occasion, and skin is either coffee-coloured and flawless, or acne-riddled. My undecided skin, which can’t quite make its mind up between being nice mature grown-up skin or teenage and troublesome, has no place here. Luckily it’s not too serious an offence to be kicked out of the country.

OAXACA. finally

This month’s travels took me to the neighbouring state of Oaxaca, on the Ecobus, which saves on money, legroom and comfort, but certainly not on time or back pain. I was flying solo for the first day, which gave me ample time for strolling the picturesque streets of the state capital, dipping into museums, stopping for mescal flavoured ice creams and lapping up the sunshine. Mezcal, which makes me feel slightly drunk/sick just writing the name, is an agave-based liquor, which is the family name for tequila, and has its roots in Oaxaca. To prevent me from feeling lonely in the big city Enrique called up a couple of his old friends and instructed them to take care of me and show me a good time. This involved lots of mescal and a fair bit of dancing. Incredibly, I dance better with a few shots of the potent stuff in me. Although no one has ever told me so much.

When Guy arrived I carried on calling the shots, armed with a guidebook and lots of ideas. We crammed as much into 4 days as is possible, ruins, exotic foods (grasshoppers and tlayudas for example), museums, parks, more mescal, lots of markets and far too much spending. We developed a hard-to-kick habit of spending ridiculous amounts of money on useless tosh. But I’m sure the black pottery tequila glasses and miniature wooden table and chairs will come in very handy, as will the carved toothpicks and milk stirrer.

Oaxaca is very much aware of its status as national cultural centre and gastronomical hub, but it still maintains a relaxed pace of life, and the further you venture from the sanitised centre you see the more gritty, real-life bustle of the city in the outskirts. I definitely intend to go back and see more of the mountain villages, for which I got a taste when we visited Teotitlan, the weaving village where three-storey brick houses and shiny cars of the hardworking residents contrast with the arid, empty mountain setting.

Keep Calm and Carry On

So, having seen the new year in, as with wherever you are in the world, January is about settling into the new year, realising that however good your intentions to do everything better and tick off a series of ambitious and highly unfeasible resolutions, nothing is really going to change with the dawning of a new calendar year. This particular I’m perfectly happy forgetting about the resolutions, perfectly satisfied with how things are, and I don’t really see it as a new beginning. The only new thing is that everybody has developed the frustrating habit of constantly raising the issue of my ‘imminent’ departure. I haven’t even reached the halfway point of my time this side of the Atlantic, and already I’m battling to stifle the ‘Are you going to cry when you go?’ ‘You’ll forget all about us when you’re gone’, and ‘If you like I’ll send you tamales...oh wait, can you send that in the post?’ ENOUGH! Not even half of my time here has elapsed, give me another six months to get bored of the place and book flights home, and then, only then, may you force me to think about leaving here.

Mexican customs and way of life has now been completely normalised. Whereas a few months ago the way that we always eat with a spoon, that I only have cold water and that toilet paper can under no circumstances be flushed down the toilet seemed novel and oddly hitherto unknown, are now the standard that I feel I will compare future mealtime, bathroom and toilet customs with. The amount of time that has passed since I first came a-knocking in Cosolea also means that the inevitable barrage of questioning that often comes when I meet someone new (usually someone who hasn’t had a huge amount of contact with white, English, Spanish-speaking people) no longer tickles me, but I grin and bear it and answer it with the same feigned spontaneity as when I was first asked the same questions a lifetime ago.

The big family fiesta we had at the beginning of the month was a brilliant start to the year, with the entire family united in the palapa, soaking up the 80s music. I took on the role of waitress par excellence, scuttling around making sure everyone had a beer, a plate of tacos and a bowl of beans. Whilst this meant I got unsightly blisters on my little toes (which were a lot more debilitating than they should have been considering their size), I also got the chance to chat to, dance with and raise a glass with absolutely everyone present. I got that warm fuzzy feeling which can only be attracted to corny contentment in one’s own situation, when I felt effortlessly embraced by the family. I didn’t feel like an invited outsider, just one of the bunch, telling jokes (albeit in a dodgy accent) and hugging the birthday boy. I got a similar feeling of peaceful homeliness when we took a trip to the beach with the kids to splash and eat fresh-as-a-‘frijol’-fart fish and seafood.

Fresh from the wanderings of the end of the year, Kyle’s van’s groupies were reunited in Cordoba for Matt the Chat’s 24^th, which gave me the perfect excuse to see Cordoba, and we hopped across to Veracruz Port for a mosie on the Saturday to the Sunday. The birthday night, the bus journeys and the burning of the proverbial candle drained our energy and our savings, and it means that I am now biting my nails waiting for the long-awaited pay from the SEP. Though apparently the waiting time could be shortened by a persuasive email or two to people in high places. There’s a silver lining to everything, though as of yet, not my pockets.

On the road again

I had torn priorities when I set off from Cosolea with my backpack and my bus ticket on Boxing Day: making the most of my scant holidays to see the rest of the country Vs staying at home and enjoying the time with no work with the family and friends I value so much. But the ticket was bought, and I can never deny my travelling glands a little airing. First stop was Campeche, a sleepy little walled town which was picturesque but not the most stimulating place. The few churches, museums and sights of interest were ticked off in a day, so we turned to wandering the streets, going to the waterfront to enjoy the local specialty, ‘pan de cazon’, a sort of shark meat lasagne, and getting used to be doing tourists again. Matt and I used our few days there, and at the Mayan ruins of Edzna, to settle into the nomadic spirit, living out of a backpack again, and catching up after a long time apart. Next stop was Cancun, where our 5am arrival was not the best introduction to the mean streets of downtown Cancun. Slowly but surely other assistants descended upon the town and joined us in our hostel, ready for the 31^st. Cancun itself is a concrete and plaster monstrosity, all prices in dollars, almost all faces white with American accents, and the small corners of beach which aren’t reserved for the hotels are overcrowded and right next to ferry terminals. Still got to dip in the water and have a gander at where the rich people play. And I can’t paint Cancun in too much of a negative light because it’s where NYE 2010-11 was spent, and that can’t be shrugged off with a grunt of dollars and over-hyped blaséness. Our celebrations started at around brunch-time in Jezzabel’s tutor’s house, as soon as the bottle of tequila was opened and the music was turned on. We sipped, laughed and chatted under the Cancun sun with the family, and were joined later on by the girls, only deeming it time to leave when the kids brandished shaving foam and confetti at us. I’ve had too many experiences recently of thinking I’m defecating confetti to stick around any time I catch a whiff of coloured devil-paper, so we scooted and headed off into the night. What started off as a farcical dash to find a place with no cover charge to toast in the New Year turned into a night of young and free reckless rolling around Cancun in Karl’s van, taking in the beach, the Beatles, some (male) topless singing and a poor attempt to get into some parties.

Karl’s van wasn’t just a one-night stand either. In the back of that dusty green motor of love, we travelled to Isla Mujeres: beautiful, and best seen from a speeding, wheely-ing golf cart; Chitchen Itza: impressive Mayan ruins where the acoustics mean that clapping sounds like a bouncy ball and the pyramids have been mind-bogglingly restored to shining glory; and Tulum, a new favourite place, where the water is like a blue diamond and the prices are comparable to one. The Mayans must have had European tourists in mind when they erected their town on the seafront, with handy stairs leading down to the beach, even leaving informative tourist information panels around the site. Clever Mayans. If I could choose the perfect mochilero companions they would definitely be Kyle and Elias. In their van, nothing was unacceptable, everybody was welcome, and I would imagine that a life that existed purely in the back of her would be fulfilling. For she was clearly a woman. I like to think so anyway, as otherwise I was the only Tortuga on that trip. After parting ways in Tulum, the three of us, Matto the Chato, Jezbian and I, spent one last day on the beach, trying to sand off the bottom sores from our frantic and sweaty bike ride there, and then a very uncomfortable 5 hour journey to Merida trying to ignore the itching from the sand and chafing of the beach and even more frantic and rushed bike ride back to catch said bus.

La Blanca Merida was as beautiful as I had been told, but more touristy and overpriced than I thought. We all seemed to have had the wind kicked out of us by the week’s exertions, but Rachel did a fantastic job of showing around her home town and letting us in on some Yucatecan specialities.

Recounting the banter would be lost on all but those who were present, so instead I’ll say a big thank you to Jeremy, Matt, Kyle and Elias of Karl’s van fame (it’s all getting a bit awkward, so I won’t get soppy) who definitely killed the holiday shotgun style, Rachel, Karen, Anna, Nicola, who made up for shortness of time with us by being top-notch, and to Ana German, Colin, the Argentinean yummy mummy and her precocious sprog, Che, the Puebla scouts and the French crêpe-er in Campeche for stopping and chatting along the way. Oh, and check out mochilero4humanity.org. If you haven’t’ already. It’s bigger than Facebook apparently.

Marathon sprint to the tinsel finish line

It’s not because I’ve become bored with my surroundings. Nor is it because I’m too lazy. Nor can I say that I have nothing to write. Blogging is a strange thing. I’m yet to pinpoint exactly who I write it for, though I’ve realised that I certainly benefit from it as I’m finding it hard to get a good ‘overall’ picture of what I frittered away the month of December’s time and salary on. Committing observations to this colourful, virtual page in what may seem a pedestrian and trivialising way helps to keep me grounded, and as far as I can tell, helps let some people know that I haven’t been swiped by drug smugglers yet. It’s not an exercise in literary technique, but if I’m ever discovered as the next big thing in the printed word then I suppose it will be something to show for my misspent youth.

I’m still recovering from what Cosoleacanecos affectionately call the ‘Maraton Guadalupe-Reyes’, the 3 week period between the celebrations for the Virgin of Guadalupe on the 12^th and Epiphany, the 6^th December. This ‘marathon’ is an excuse to party every day for long enough to pickle your organs, become severely lacking in sleep, and need another holiday after the ones you’re already afforded. My philosophy of never saying no to any invitation made my days largely busy and often intense, from primary school end-of-year shows to gatherings of friends until the early mornings. Every grouping of colleagues, students, friends and families put on their own ‘posadas’ which traditionally is a sung re-enactment of Mary and Joseph going round the houses of Bethlehem looking for a place to kip. Some of these are highly religious, like the one I accompanied Mama Cali to, where half of the preachers stand outside the house and the others inside, and there’s a lot of singing, a lot of tamales, and a dangerous amount of candles and fairy lights. Others are just an excuse to party, and involve piñatas with 5 protruding horns, representing sins (not sure why), and music and food a-plenty. In my school the kids put on a talent show, and were rewarded with tacos and cake, followed by free-for-all dancing in the classrooms. Everyone got an eyeful of teacher Claire dancing. I’ve got no shame in admitting that I felt slightly uncomfortable when the scantily-clad teenage girls seemed to be grinding against their teachers, but I appreciate being in a country where a classroom can be turned into a tropical dance floor on a Wednesday morning. I also accompanied Enrique to an end-of-year do put on by the big bosses at Pemex, pretty powerful, big cheeses, which made warbling away on the karaoke with them even more ridiculous. However, I wasn’t complaining when I carried away the first prize in the raffle, and got my grubby peasanty mitts on 20 year old bubbly, good French and Italian wines and Spanish nibbles, not every day snacks here.

The lights I spewed over my house, the tree and nativity scene which invaded the living room, the festive jellies and pastries we churned out day in and day out and the presents I lovingly bought for the family were all a forerunner for the big day, the 24^th. Not the 25^th as I’m used to, but the previous night, which we spent in the family bakery, eating the tamales I helped to make, singing carols and being merry until the early hours, when we went home for our own Christmas dinner of meat, meat and meat. The tears I shed at 2am, as the fireworks lit up the droplets falling out of the corners of my eyes as I stood in what I thought was a secluded corner, were a result of sheer happiness in where I was but nostalgia for Christmases spent in sunny Barnet, ‘en famille’. Christmas is very much a family time, and like in any household, there’s the rituals, the unavoidable customs, and I had endless appreciation for this family who opened their home to me on a day when I was far from my English home, but felt very much at home in my surroundings.

Day 114

Since I was last on the blog (I’m enjoying the resemblance of this word to a toilet), I have celebrated two different birthdays, in two different cities, done an annoyingly large amount of solo classroom teaching, and realised that cold has been redefined. Surprisingly, I’ve enjoyed all of these things, although I moaned and moaned and moaned about the solo teaching. Life isn’t interesting if there isn’t one thing marring the perfection.

The weekend was spent in Xalapa, with a gaggle of other assistants, for Jezzabel’s birthday. Cue salsa dancing, tequila, mariachi concert and a personal serenade for Jezza, karaoke and nigh-outnumbering Mexicans in sheer British presence. There are some points during this weekend which are a little hazy - we can blame that on number two on the above list. Sometimes I forgot what country I was in – number six can be held responsible for this. And I had a top-notch fin de semana – all of the above should plead guilty for this. The party was in a family restaurant, which was taken over by us for the night, along with a vat of mole and a ridiculous amount of confetti. I’m still finding bits of the coloured poison in my belongings, thanks to kids thinking it’s funny to throw it over you all night. Even when you’re holding a drink.

Mama Callie notched up another year this week as well, and so a late-night jarrocho band session (one harp, three jaranas – those little Mexican guitars which provoke a slightly ecstatic reaction in my being) along with coffee, sandwiches and an improvised biscuit cake from yours truly. Bearing in mind it was my handiwork, it wasn’t too laughable. You can at least make out the name written on it, and along with the huge heartfelt hug I gave her, it was apt for Mama’s 64^th year.

The days are getting nippier at the moment, I’m whipping the jumpers out, and even considering investing in a jacket. The rain which seems to be accompanying it is an unwelcome visitor, but the refreshing weather makes me feel that bit closer to the blizzard in Europe. I also had my first major nostalgic moment since I got to Mexico. It happened during a private French class I was giving to an adult student. I was talking about the weather, and about clothes, and as usual, most of the lesson was me giving ‘cultural’ titbits. We’d hit the point where I test him on words we’ve seen so far, and I found my mind wondering, for an instant, to the French Alpes, and more specifically, to idyllic, innocent times spent with my mémé, my maternal grandma. Before my student could even remember what the word I’d asked him meant, I felt tears suddenly welling up. I blinked them away as soon as I felt my ducts prickle and carried on being a competent tutor. But I enjoyed the visit to my childhood memory bank. Thanks mémé.

Now for a little aside. I’ve come to realise that it looks from the outside...oh, and sod it, the inside too, that most of my entourage are of the opposite sex. Most of my mates have members. A good deal of my company emanate testosterone. And so? Cosoleacauqe is a small place. I mean, no bank in the town small. Girls/women (can’t quite decide which I want to be yet) my age are either students who are stuck to their boyfriends’ mouths and are rabid with jealousy when they see me approaching with my louche English air, or they already have a husband and offspring. Most girls around here don’t go out drinking, or sit around chatting until the early hours. Instead I have ‘big brothers’, mates, people who I feel comfortable with. I don’t check what’s in their underwear before I embark on a friendship. I follow the way the breeze of circumstances blows me. And this is where I am right now. I do have female friends, and the girls in the house are the people who I can talk to most frankly. Unless I’m chatting to Guy Franks – then it’s pretty ‘Frank’ arfarf.

Disco-Teco

Oaxaca is to the average Mexican what London was to the average comrade of Dick Whittington: for all intents and purposes, it is paved with gold. Something about the traditions, the food, the people, the lifestyle, or the vistas makes this particular member state of the Estados Unidos de Mexico the one to be celebrated throughout the southern half of the country. Here in Veracruz a Oaxaceño (also known as a Teco) can more or less be found on every corner, as a staggeringly large proportion of residents have Oaxacan roots. The Oaxacans are known for their beer-full parties and hospitable demeanour. This makes for one happy resident Guera.

Every Monday I pay a fun-filled morning in two different primary schools in Minatitlan, doing the things that make teaching English fun: playing games, giving sweets to small children (although that also comprises the daily activities of people who should most definitely be kept away from small children), singing Wheels on the Bus and being asked by pouting infants ‘Why do you only come once a week?’ So yesterday-Monday, instead of heading straight back home to my beloved Cosolea after the final bell rung at midday (oh, it is a hard life), I hung around with Nora, a fellow teacher who happens to be from Oaxaca originally, and so the lavishing of attention, surprises and all-round undeserved and unrelenting generosity began. First things first, we got our hair done. A maze of plaits was elaborated in a sweltering salon, only to be complete ob

scured by a two-part flower, hair and ribbon-based headdress. The next most important task was, of course, eating. Nora happens to be an amazing cook. I also happen to be a fantastic eater. So the melt-in-the-mouth cochinita (something to do with pork) and creamy spaghetti, tortillas and cream cake for afters were demolished by the hairstyled, mming and aahing pale white girl she had let into her spotless house. I then did what every girl dreams of after watching Walt Disney Princess films: I got laced into a corset. We stopped short of performing full-blown cartoon lace-tightening, foot resting on buttocks and organs jumping up into the throat.

Fully decked out in our traditional Teca regalia, waved off by her daughter and mother, Nora and I waded into the party. An entire street was decked out with tables, many an ice-box, a live band, a dance floor and an abundance e of food. None of that compared to the amount of people crammed into a relatively modest space. It seems that old Santa Cecilia is someone worth celebrating. And she also happens to be the patron saint of music, so the volume was pumped up full blast. I pushed my corset to the limits, with the oodles of prawns, tamales, ceviche, beer and, most notably, illegally smuggled tortoise eggs which I was plied with. A quick word on tortoise eggs: next time someone tells me to make a hole, whack some salsa in then ‘suck hard’, I will explore all possible alternatives before blindly obeying. At least the clapping and whooping distracted me from the slimy yet oddly firm mass I was chewing and which was also hanging off my chin.

With music comes dancing, and in this case it was like a discotheque of the third age. My boogeying companions were generally upward of 50 years old, all wearing an equal amount of velvet, taffeta and fake gold, but the set-up was oh-so-familiar, evoking memories of Klute nights, club nights and teenage parties, taking turns in the circle, getting down low and pushing your friends into the middle to crack a move or two, preferably without cracking a bone or two. A personal highlight was my dance-off with a gentleman of around three-score years and five, in which I was trounced by his shoulder-shake move. I left with an invitation to the next fiesta, a love for the golden streets of Oaxaca and the golden hearts of its people, and a desire to dress like Frida Kahlo every day.