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.

(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.