After two months to the day, I have waved goodbye to Mexico and begun my journey south. The time has gone scarily fast and I have loved just about every minute of it. Some of my favourite things done, seen and visited include:
Guadalajara- of course. My home for 7 weeks, a cultural centre which forced me to learn spanish. Meeting Rosie and her family, their crazy dogs and experiened first-hand the ups and downs of close-family life. I befriended the locals, went to some crazy house parties, got some writing experience and frequented the art gallery. I saw my first humingbird. One day I will go back, fluent in spanish,and finally have a real conversation with theboy in the corner shop, from whom I bought far too many hershey's bars and who humoured my terrible spanish.
Puerto Vallarta- My first dip in the Mexican pacific, too many coctails and a fiesta featuring a transvestite show.
Mexico City- The weekend which spurred on my hunger to travel around, and completely disproved my expectations of danger and unfriendliness in the big city.
Cancun- a crazy few days of partying and emotions. I met a kitten and some people that I will never forget.
When I first planned this trip, it wasn't Mexico that I was particularly excited about. I came here purely for my internship and as a stepping stone to Central America. But I have completely fallen in love with the place- despite their obsession with tortillas, lack of kettles and the way they use their ovens to store tupperware. I also came prepared to trust nobody and stay hard as nails, but Mexicans are the friendliest, kindest people. There is no concept of personal space or understood problem with calling me "white girl", but the people are honest and almost always have helpful intentions.
From Playa del Carmen, I headed down to Chetumal yesterday. Chetumal is a funny place- the capital of Quintana Roo (best name for a state ever) but there is absolutely nothing going on there. Because my plans were fairly spontanous, I turned up to one of the two hostels found online without a booking. It was basically a family home with a couple of rooms, but was comfortable and friendly. The landlady served me a big plate of lunch as I came in, despite the fact that she wasn't expeting me and it wasn't included with my stay. She was a kind lady with a very knowing look about her- I didn't have to explain anything to her for her to understand me.
I shared my room with a fierce looking German girl. We had a good chat though, and she encouraged me to de-clutter my life a little. This was a physical necessity however, because my bag had split on the journey down and somehow caught my leg and given me a war-wound. We set out for the one supermarket, which sold one suitcase... I took it and reorganised myself before leaving to get the daily passenger boat to Belize.
Leaving Mexico felt odd, a little sad, but the natural progression. Chetumal already had a very tropical feel to it- only remaining Mexican by principle and law. The port was decked out in palm trees, signs warned me about the crocodiles, and Bob Marley songs could already be heard- the doorway to the caribbean.
Two bracing boat journeys later and I am in Caye Caulker, Belize. We were met off the boat by locals with dreadlocks and coconuts, welcoming us to paradise. I am staying in what is essentially a treehouse in a cat sanctuary (no joke...) and have already met half the islanders during my short trip to the bank. I'm excited for what tomorrow will bring.
Showing posts with label Mexico. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mexico. Show all posts
Monday, 18 March 2013
Saturday, 16 March 2013
Cancun and all its artificial glory
Cancun was humid and hectic. From the moment I arrived until this morning when I got the bus to Playa del Carmen, life became hazy and uncertain. A tourist town with fake souvenirs, fake stories and fake promises. The Las Vegas of Mexico and Bermuda Triangle of the mind which royally screwed me over.
Don't get me wrong: I had a fantastic time, but something changed, the dream broke and last night I realised I needed to snap out and escape. I have barely had any sleep in the last week at all and no voice for just as long. Fruit and veg have gone out of the window and been replaced with tequila limes.
Drinking games, Coco-Bongo club, Mayan ruins on white powder beaches; Australians and a resident kitten who reponded to whistling. I was always too aware that none of it was real. Not just due to lack of sleep either- it was the feeling of being picked up, spun around, given a puppet show and then seeing the strings and artificial props.
Cancun is the only place so far where a taxi driver has complimented me on my spanish and given me a hug.
Playa del Carmen is just a bus ride away from Cancun, and I already passed through it once to get to Tulum, but I feel as if I have woken up. With the realisation that I hadn't eaten in 24 hours, I went to a Walmart for the first time in my life. I sat there in the canteen, staring into my rice dish and was joined by a man whose name I never asked. He told me his life story and made me cry. Then he got up and left me with the saying that "if we could see the invisible, we could create the impossible". I wonder if the phrase works more in spanish.
Sometimes I think that travellers are just sporadic groups of lost people hoping to take something from the places they visit and replace their emptiness with little nuggests of worldliness and other people's stories. Even the most confident of rugged backpackers has a purpose which goes beyond their itinery.
I went to the laundrette and sat there for a while with the owner's little girl and her dog. She saw my camera in my bag and asked if she could take a picture. I showed her how to do so and she showed me her book. It's the most I've ever bonded with a small person before- I usually avoid it, but I think we were on a similar wavelength this sleepy morning, her and I.Then I remembered that I was still carrying round some english story books- my original intention being to give them to the orphanage (which I bailed after a couple of days). I gave her a book called "All about Alice" to keep, and she asked me to take a photo of her with it.
Tomorrow I'll head to Chetumal which is on the border of Belize and prepare myself to leave Mexico. But not for the last time.
Don't get me wrong: I had a fantastic time, but something changed, the dream broke and last night I realised I needed to snap out and escape. I have barely had any sleep in the last week at all and no voice for just as long. Fruit and veg have gone out of the window and been replaced with tequila limes.
Drinking games, Coco-Bongo club, Mayan ruins on white powder beaches; Australians and a resident kitten who reponded to whistling. I was always too aware that none of it was real. Not just due to lack of sleep either- it was the feeling of being picked up, spun around, given a puppet show and then seeing the strings and artificial props.
Cancun is the only place so far where a taxi driver has complimented me on my spanish and given me a hug.
Playa del Carmen is just a bus ride away from Cancun, and I already passed through it once to get to Tulum, but I feel as if I have woken up. With the realisation that I hadn't eaten in 24 hours, I went to a Walmart for the first time in my life. I sat there in the canteen, staring into my rice dish and was joined by a man whose name I never asked. He told me his life story and made me cry. Then he got up and left me with the saying that "if we could see the invisible, we could create the impossible". I wonder if the phrase works more in spanish.
Sometimes I think that travellers are just sporadic groups of lost people hoping to take something from the places they visit and replace their emptiness with little nuggests of worldliness and other people's stories. Even the most confident of rugged backpackers has a purpose which goes beyond their itinery.
I went to the laundrette and sat there for a while with the owner's little girl and her dog. She saw my camera in my bag and asked if she could take a picture. I showed her how to do so and she showed me her book. It's the most I've ever bonded with a small person before- I usually avoid it, but I think we were on a similar wavelength this sleepy morning, her and I.Then I remembered that I was still carrying round some english story books- my original intention being to give them to the orphanage (which I bailed after a couple of days). I gave her a book called "All about Alice" to keep, and she asked me to take a photo of her with it.
Tomorrow I'll head to Chetumal which is on the border of Belize and prepare myself to leave Mexico. But not for the last time.
Tuesday, 12 March 2013
Leaving Guadalajara
I left Guadalajara today- it was heartbreaking. I've met so many
fantastic people here, had so many crazy experiences. The only way I can
deal with leaving is by telling myself that I'll come here again one
day.
The last few days have been pretty hectic. As I write this, I'm sitting in Toluca airport waiting for my connection to Cancun after 2 hours sleep- since I had to be up before dawn anyway, I decided that I was going to stay up all night in order to make the most of Guadalajara. Of course my brain had other plans and I had a little nap before getting up at 6, which was probably for the best...
On Friday we went to see the ruins in Teotihuacan. We all had it in our heads that this place was about an hour away, but 2 and a half hours later, we were still sitting on a crammed packed bus, passing through every obscure little hamlet in the area. Teotihuacan itself was a strange little place- pretty, very Mexican, but completely devoid of people. A ghost town.
The ruins themselves were up a pretty steep hill, but overlooked the town, lake, mountains and Tequila volcano. The air felt really fresh after Guadalajara, and after exploring the ancient circular pyramid and surrounding ruins, we sat on a bench to enjoy the view.
Out of nowhere, a man appeared- dressed in double-denim and with a satisfying mustache. "Do you feel the presence here?" he asked us in Spanish. Beth asked him what he meant, and while her Spanish is the best out of all of us, she still didn't completely understand him when he started talking about a man on the hill- we all thought he was trying to tell us that a man was watching us and we were in danger (?!) After some miming of hanging and death, we realised that double-denim man was talking about a cowboy who had hung himself from the tree we were sat in front of, and that his ghost was here. He said a lot of other stuff about the mountain and ghostly presences, which sufficiently freaked us out and we decided to head back before it got dark. I didn't fancy missing the last bus and spending the night around an ancient burial ground. I have enjoyed whispering Fi's ear "do you feel the presence here?" and remain convinced that double-denim man was actually the dead cowboy ghost himself.
That night, we met up with a local friend and were taken to a cantina- the most Mexican of all Mexican cantinas, with a long room packed full of locals drinking cheap corona and singing songs. A mariarchy band circulated the room, which made me far too happy because it confirmed that mariarchy bands are actually enjoyed by real Mexican people and not just tourists on beaches. I was a little overwhelmed to be surrounded by so many loud, crazy (and drunk) people, and didn't feel nearly as caught up on beer as the rest of my table.
Suddenly, a man in a musician's blouse (that's the only way I can describe it) tapped me on the shoulder and introduced himself. He said he had never seen a blonde girl in there before and that it was a great honour to meet a "blue eyed mystery". He introduced me to his friend, who looked very embarrassed, and apparently a fantastic opera singer. "What would you like him to sing to you?" the man asked. "Opera?" I said, and before I knew what was happening, the quiet friend had burst into song. He had an incredible voice! He took both my hands so that I couldn't run away, and sang right into my face, substituting odd words with "Rachael". The room went quiet and I felt as if hundreds of eyes were on me and realised I was crying- with laughter, slight hysteria and shock I think. I think at that moment I could have happily married that man and been his abiding, taco-serving wife, but luckily I was pulled back to the table- and reality- and the opera man was gone.
The night became blurrier after that moment. We found ourselves at a club, which I didn't have ID for, but got into anyway for free, largely because I was female and foreign and one of the guys knew people in there. We drank, we danced, we puzzled over how camply Mexican men dance, and as the night ended, we were invited onto a house-party.
Surrounded by drunk drivers and groups of ten people packed into 5 seater cars, our group split into taxis. Somehwhat ironically, the taxi which Beth and Molly took was crashed into by another car. They were absolutely fine, but a little shaken up, and we decided that it was time for bed. As I got into bed (and tipsily skype- called a friend at home [sorry!]), Rosie was already getting up to go to work.
Saturday was a day of feeling tired , burning my parting and eating cake with Fi. In the evening we strolled along Chapultapec markets and went for pizza.
When Sunday arrived and I realised it was my last day in GDL, I went into a daze and found myself walking around staring up at everything like some kind of simpleton, trying to absorb everything at once. I had lunch at the cafe in the square for the last time, and sat in the house, watching Rosie's sons drag everything out of the house- 50 year-old oven, washing machine and all. Actually, the washing machine was lowered down from the roof with a dodgy piece of rope, which was an exciting moment.
Did I mention that the couple I lived with moved out yesterday? Well, they moved out yesterday. We said our goodbyes, took some photos and ate cake. The house felt so empty, and it made it a lot easier to pack up my own stuff ready to leave.
Since writing this, beer has happened and it will have to be continued at a later date!
The last few days have been pretty hectic. As I write this, I'm sitting in Toluca airport waiting for my connection to Cancun after 2 hours sleep- since I had to be up before dawn anyway, I decided that I was going to stay up all night in order to make the most of Guadalajara. Of course my brain had other plans and I had a little nap before getting up at 6, which was probably for the best...
On Friday we went to see the ruins in Teotihuacan. We all had it in our heads that this place was about an hour away, but 2 and a half hours later, we were still sitting on a crammed packed bus, passing through every obscure little hamlet in the area. Teotihuacan itself was a strange little place- pretty, very Mexican, but completely devoid of people. A ghost town.
The ruins themselves were up a pretty steep hill, but overlooked the town, lake, mountains and Tequila volcano. The air felt really fresh after Guadalajara, and after exploring the ancient circular pyramid and surrounding ruins, we sat on a bench to enjoy the view.
Out of nowhere, a man appeared- dressed in double-denim and with a satisfying mustache. "Do you feel the presence here?" he asked us in Spanish. Beth asked him what he meant, and while her Spanish is the best out of all of us, she still didn't completely understand him when he started talking about a man on the hill- we all thought he was trying to tell us that a man was watching us and we were in danger (?!) After some miming of hanging and death, we realised that double-denim man was talking about a cowboy who had hung himself from the tree we were sat in front of, and that his ghost was here. He said a lot of other stuff about the mountain and ghostly presences, which sufficiently freaked us out and we decided to head back before it got dark. I didn't fancy missing the last bus and spending the night around an ancient burial ground. I have enjoyed whispering Fi's ear "do you feel the presence here?" and remain convinced that double-denim man was actually the dead cowboy ghost himself.
That night, we met up with a local friend and were taken to a cantina- the most Mexican of all Mexican cantinas, with a long room packed full of locals drinking cheap corona and singing songs. A mariarchy band circulated the room, which made me far too happy because it confirmed that mariarchy bands are actually enjoyed by real Mexican people and not just tourists on beaches. I was a little overwhelmed to be surrounded by so many loud, crazy (and drunk) people, and didn't feel nearly as caught up on beer as the rest of my table.
Suddenly, a man in a musician's blouse (that's the only way I can describe it) tapped me on the shoulder and introduced himself. He said he had never seen a blonde girl in there before and that it was a great honour to meet a "blue eyed mystery". He introduced me to his friend, who looked very embarrassed, and apparently a fantastic opera singer. "What would you like him to sing to you?" the man asked. "Opera?" I said, and before I knew what was happening, the quiet friend had burst into song. He had an incredible voice! He took both my hands so that I couldn't run away, and sang right into my face, substituting odd words with "Rachael". The room went quiet and I felt as if hundreds of eyes were on me and realised I was crying- with laughter, slight hysteria and shock I think. I think at that moment I could have happily married that man and been his abiding, taco-serving wife, but luckily I was pulled back to the table- and reality- and the opera man was gone.
The night became blurrier after that moment. We found ourselves at a club, which I didn't have ID for, but got into anyway for free, largely because I was female and foreign and one of the guys knew people in there. We drank, we danced, we puzzled over how camply Mexican men dance, and as the night ended, we were invited onto a house-party.
Surrounded by drunk drivers and groups of ten people packed into 5 seater cars, our group split into taxis. Somehwhat ironically, the taxi which Beth and Molly took was crashed into by another car. They were absolutely fine, but a little shaken up, and we decided that it was time for bed. As I got into bed (and tipsily skype- called a friend at home [sorry!]), Rosie was already getting up to go to work.
Saturday was a day of feeling tired , burning my parting and eating cake with Fi. In the evening we strolled along Chapultapec markets and went for pizza.
When Sunday arrived and I realised it was my last day in GDL, I went into a daze and found myself walking around staring up at everything like some kind of simpleton, trying to absorb everything at once. I had lunch at the cafe in the square for the last time, and sat in the house, watching Rosie's sons drag everything out of the house- 50 year-old oven, washing machine and all. Actually, the washing machine was lowered down from the roof with a dodgy piece of rope, which was an exciting moment.
Did I mention that the couple I lived with moved out yesterday? Well, they moved out yesterday. We said our goodbyes, took some photos and ate cake. The house felt so empty, and it made it a lot easier to pack up my own stuff ready to leave.
Since writing this, beer has happened and it will have to be continued at a later date!
Friday, 8 March 2013
Big stories, big hats, and great big bottles of tequila.
I finished at the newspaper on Wednesday, which was a little bit sad, but not too sad because it means that it's almost time to go travelling. Over the last months I have written articles, been on a mini field trip to Chapala, proof-read, and updated the entire online business directory... I can now safely say that I never want to fall into a job with the generic title of "admin".
I have enjoyed it though, mainly because Mexican news is completely insane. I've only been here for a few weeks, but here are some of the biggest and best news stories the paper has covered in that time:
Pemex gas explosion in Mexico City:
Because I wrote this, and it made the front page.
Nine-year-old gives birth in Guadalajara:
A crazy story, which turned out to be not so crazy and just sad once it was confirmed that she was actually 15, and the baby was her step-father's. It did result in me going for drinks with a guy from the Daily Mail, however.
New government elected:
After 18 years of ruling by a centre-right government, a new 'liberal' party have taken over as of this month.
The most powerful woman in Mexico was arrested:
The head of the teacher's union, Elba Esther Gordillo was finally arrested by the new government for the charge of embezzling 2 BILLION pesos. That's more than 104 MILLION British Pounds. The average monthly wage for a teacher in Mexico is 2,760 Pounds... can you imagine the head of the NUT in the UK stealing that much money and getting away with it for years simply because they were friends with the Prime Minister? Well, possibly. The crazy thing is that all the old government had to say about the situation was that Gordillo was only arrested as a political move. Also true, but does nobody care how terrible the crime really is?
Mother arrested for kidnapping own daughter:
The ultimate chav? Maria de Lourdes Rangel Aguilar stole her own 6-year-old from the father she was living with so that she could hold a ransom for 200,000 pesos. She eventually returned her daughter in exchange for only 47,500 pesos. I wonder how that little girl will feel when she grows up to realise the exact amount of pesos that her own mother valued her at.
Reconsidering stereotypes after penniless sojourn in Mexico City:
Because I wrote this as well.
Mexican man is world's richest for 4th year in a row:
The owner of Telcel mobile network is worth an estimated US$73 billion. This was also written by yours truly and appeared on the front page.
Tigers in the cartel house:
Drugs cartels have some pretty unique security, apparently!
And several nasty stories about tourists being raped, people being beheaded, dumped bodies, hoaxes about dumped bodies, and general sky-high crime rates. But I do love the way the newspaper will always put a positive spin on things, for instance:
Kidnappers ask for lower ransoms:
At least it's becoming more affordable to retrieve your loved ones from the mafia.
Yesterday I found myself on a tour of the pretty famous nearby town of Tequila, with some Puerto Vallarta friends who have come up to visit. I'd been looking forward to this trip, and told myself that I wouldn't stay out that late the night before, since the trip started early in the morning and I was already pretty shattered from the week.
At 3am the night before, we finally emerged from a bar in Chapultapec where the barmen wore pleasingly stereotypical Mexican moustaches and our bill was mysteriously missing half the drinks we'd had... I can pinpoint the exact moment that my 8-hour sleep rule disintegrated as the one where I finished off the tumbler of Mezcal that nobody else would drink. Getting up at 7.30 on Thursday morning was difficult.
Our coach took about 45 minutes to get to the first Agave fields from Guadalajara. We hadn't gone far before the landscape suddenly looked inredibly, well, Mexican. Mountains and cacti and the funny blue plants called agave, from which tequila is made. We stopped at the first distillery to watch a moustachio'd man slice up one of the plants and talk about how the tequila is made. It was complusary to wear big straw hats through all of this, of course. We were given parts of the plant to eat, which to be honest tasted very bland considering that we were alarmingly told not to touch our eyes after eating it. I always find it amusing at places like this where they are obviously determind not to waste any of the prized plant/fruit/object, and insist that every single part is delicious and useful. I am pretty sure that no Mexican farmers sit at their breakfast tables tucking into agave plant and leaves.
Inside the distillary, the tour group were sat around a table with 5 bottles of varying shades of tequila- and this was just the beginning. By 11am we were all pretty drunk and singing Mexican drinking songs, led by the tour guide... I don´t think it helped that the four of us still had the alcohol from last night running through us.
Tequila itself is a small but pretty town, with small, straight and colourful roads highlighting the mountains at the end of them. We made a stop at the Jose Cuervo distillary where we had two-for-one margaritas, before dashing into the local museum to see the largest tequila bottle in the world.
The rest of the day consisted of a slow, hot lunch in the hills and several stops to try more kinds of tequila creams and liquors. Hardly anyone bought anything, (despite there being 5litre bottles for 10 pounds!) but this didn´t seem to matter... nor did the fact that we were all rapidly dehydrating and dizzy. It was probably part of the tour plan, so that our day would become a happy blurry haze and we´d need to do it again. We enjoyed ourselves though. And when I finally got to bed last night, I think I completely passed out. I love Mexico.
I have enjoyed it though, mainly because Mexican news is completely insane. I've only been here for a few weeks, but here are some of the biggest and best news stories the paper has covered in that time:
Pemex gas explosion in Mexico City:
Because I wrote this, and it made the front page.
Nine-year-old gives birth in Guadalajara:
A crazy story, which turned out to be not so crazy and just sad once it was confirmed that she was actually 15, and the baby was her step-father's. It did result in me going for drinks with a guy from the Daily Mail, however.
New government elected:
After 18 years of ruling by a centre-right government, a new 'liberal' party have taken over as of this month.
The most powerful woman in Mexico was arrested:
The head of the teacher's union, Elba Esther Gordillo was finally arrested by the new government for the charge of embezzling 2 BILLION pesos. That's more than 104 MILLION British Pounds. The average monthly wage for a teacher in Mexico is 2,760 Pounds... can you imagine the head of the NUT in the UK stealing that much money and getting away with it for years simply because they were friends with the Prime Minister? Well, possibly. The crazy thing is that all the old government had to say about the situation was that Gordillo was only arrested as a political move. Also true, but does nobody care how terrible the crime really is?
Mother arrested for kidnapping own daughter:
The ultimate chav? Maria de Lourdes Rangel Aguilar stole her own 6-year-old from the father she was living with so that she could hold a ransom for 200,000 pesos. She eventually returned her daughter in exchange for only 47,500 pesos. I wonder how that little girl will feel when she grows up to realise the exact amount of pesos that her own mother valued her at.
Reconsidering stereotypes after penniless sojourn in Mexico City:
Because I wrote this as well.
Mexican man is world's richest for 4th year in a row:
The owner of Telcel mobile network is worth an estimated US$73 billion. This was also written by yours truly and appeared on the front page.
Tigers in the cartel house:
Drugs cartels have some pretty unique security, apparently!
And several nasty stories about tourists being raped, people being beheaded, dumped bodies, hoaxes about dumped bodies, and general sky-high crime rates. But I do love the way the newspaper will always put a positive spin on things, for instance:
Kidnappers ask for lower ransoms:
At least it's becoming more affordable to retrieve your loved ones from the mafia.
Yesterday I found myself on a tour of the pretty famous nearby town of Tequila, with some Puerto Vallarta friends who have come up to visit. I'd been looking forward to this trip, and told myself that I wouldn't stay out that late the night before, since the trip started early in the morning and I was already pretty shattered from the week.
At 3am the night before, we finally emerged from a bar in Chapultapec where the barmen wore pleasingly stereotypical Mexican moustaches and our bill was mysteriously missing half the drinks we'd had... I can pinpoint the exact moment that my 8-hour sleep rule disintegrated as the one where I finished off the tumbler of Mezcal that nobody else would drink. Getting up at 7.30 on Thursday morning was difficult.
Our coach took about 45 minutes to get to the first Agave fields from Guadalajara. We hadn't gone far before the landscape suddenly looked inredibly, well, Mexican. Mountains and cacti and the funny blue plants called agave, from which tequila is made. We stopped at the first distillery to watch a moustachio'd man slice up one of the plants and talk about how the tequila is made. It was complusary to wear big straw hats through all of this, of course. We were given parts of the plant to eat, which to be honest tasted very bland considering that we were alarmingly told not to touch our eyes after eating it. I always find it amusing at places like this where they are obviously determind not to waste any of the prized plant/fruit/object, and insist that every single part is delicious and useful. I am pretty sure that no Mexican farmers sit at their breakfast tables tucking into agave plant and leaves.
Inside the distillary, the tour group were sat around a table with 5 bottles of varying shades of tequila- and this was just the beginning. By 11am we were all pretty drunk and singing Mexican drinking songs, led by the tour guide... I don´t think it helped that the four of us still had the alcohol from last night running through us.
Tequila itself is a small but pretty town, with small, straight and colourful roads highlighting the mountains at the end of them. We made a stop at the Jose Cuervo distillary where we had two-for-one margaritas, before dashing into the local museum to see the largest tequila bottle in the world.
The rest of the day consisted of a slow, hot lunch in the hills and several stops to try more kinds of tequila creams and liquors. Hardly anyone bought anything, (despite there being 5litre bottles for 10 pounds!) but this didn´t seem to matter... nor did the fact that we were all rapidly dehydrating and dizzy. It was probably part of the tour plan, so that our day would become a happy blurry haze and we´d need to do it again. We enjoyed ourselves though. And when I finally got to bed last night, I think I completely passed out. I love Mexico.
Friday, 1 March 2013
Muchos Palabras
Today is a sad day: I am finally throwing out my shoes.
Goodbye shoes, we had a good run. But it's time I replaced you.
I've pretty much exhausted my minimal wardrobe now. At home I have an excessive amount of clothes, and while I cannot think of anything in particular that I wish I had with me,* I do miss having the choice. Clothes shops here are pretty dire- everything they sell is polyester or stretchy lycra stuff which is cheap and sweaty and hideous. Apparently, rich Mexicans get the coach to Texas in the US for weekends just so they can visit the malls and stock up... Crazy. I have no idea how much that would all cost, but with the visa alone it must be a lot. I think I'll just wait until I'm on the coast and can live in sarongs and grass skirts.
[*Note to my mother: This does NOT mean that I won't notice if you throw anything out. I will come home and I will check and I will know.]
Other things that I have been up to over the past few days:
Spinning- Yes, that's right. I was previously of the belief that spinning was an activity strictly for people (like my mother), who spend far too much time at the gym "doing lunch" and complaining about their children and their overpriced schools. But after more than a month of zero real exercise, I've been feeling pretty unfit, and finally agreed to tag along to a spin class with the Polish girl who has been staying here. She is so nice, and gorgeous- and makes me feel guilty for being such a slob, so I followed her good example. I thought I was going to die. Why do people do that for a whole hour? It's even more frustrating that your bike is stationary- it's like you're trying so hard but going nowhere. A perfect metaphor for my life. (I'm joking). But it must have been good for something, because I went back this week for round 2 and found it a lot easier.
Writing- So many words. Too many words. I've been writing for two websites, my local Suffolk-based magazine, the newspaper here, replying to emails, as well as personal statements, articles and interviews for my MA applications (which no, I still have not finished...). Not to mention this blog, of course. But I enjoy writing this most. I would like to have some way of working out just how many words I've written this month- I'm sure I'd have a dissertation by now.
<--Eating this- There are fruit stands selling pots similar to this everywhere, but as good as they all look, I have avoided it all so far because it's such an easy to way to get ill. Fruit like strawberries and apples which aren't peeled can carry lots of bugs (as Montse worries) and might be washed with tap water. It's hard to trust any kind of water which has a pungent smell to it... But anyway. There is a woman with a fruit stand on my walk home from the office, who only uses fruit with skins, such as watermelon and mango. She chopped them all up in front of me, and true to Mexican form offered salt, sugar, chile sauce or a combination of the three (ew). I was happy with just the fruit, and for less than a pound I had the best walk home ever. Simple pleasures!
Wednesday, 27 February 2013
Frustration and the City
OH Mexico City: a fun but most frustrating weekend. My credit card was blocked and I stupidly left my other card in GDL, so spent far too much time out of my already fleeting trip trying to get cash out and trying to contact my bank. But- I saw the place, at least.
I left GDL main bus terminal at 8am and arrived at the north terminal in MEX 7 hours later. The coaches are pretty good here- not cheap, but comfortable, safe and I even got a free sandwich. I then spent almost an hour trying every single ATM in the building along with a queue of other people having similar problems. Eventually, i set up camp by a tourist information desk and waited for the attendant to return from her lunch. The most depressing thing was that a ticket for the metro was only 3pesos (15p), but I only had 70 cents left in my bag... But just as I began to have visions of living on the streets for the weekend and having to sell my shoes for water, the attendant returned and emptied her purse of coins, insisting that I take them all and get the tram. Weirdly enough, when I got on the tram, the driver shouted a lot of things at me that I couldn't understand, before waving to me to get on for free... I couldn`t complain.
So I made it into the centre and found my hostel, still sans cash but with shoes still in possession. My hostel was amazing, actually: really cheap, modern ensuite rooms and free breakfast and dinner on the roof terrace. I also met a lot of great people, including a girl from New Zealand who had just left her life in Australia and decided that from Mexico she would move to Canada and find a circus-related job.. There were also two German ladies in my dorm, one of whom apologised to me as soon as we met, because ¨most of the world hates Germans¨; the other had done my route through Central America in reverse, and could confirm that she felt completely safe and that it was all ¨a piece of cake¨. I also met a nice Russian man, who told me not to go to Colombia because they have too many invisible drugs, and that Europeans were idiots for believing in 9-11.
On the Saturday, I did a lot of walking. I explored the area before using the very last of my coins to get to the huge Chapultapec park, which felt a little how I imagine Central Park, NYC to be. It has a massive, free zoo in the centre of it, a boating lake, and is surrounded by museums. Having recovered from the stress of failing to get through to Halifax that morning, I set out to find a corner shop where I could try topping up my phone and calling again. My card did seem to let me pay for transactions on and off, I just couldn´t take any cash out... so when the cashier at the corner shop had already added on 100 pesos to my phone and my card was declined, I thought this might be the moment I had to sell my shoes and possibly my dignity in order to get home in one piece. Before I knew what had happened, the guy behind me in the queue had paid my bill for me! It was only 5 pounds, but that´s a lot of money in Mexico. I was really touched (and relieved) and pretty amazed at how kind people were in this supposedly unfriendly city of drug-fuelled decapitations and gangs.
After another failed phone call, I set out to meet a journalist-friend from London, who now happens to be living in Mex. City. I got pretty lost. I got extremely lost. But we found each other eventually and went to a tapas bar in the boho-artsy area of Condesa. Journalism Man lent me some cash to get me through the weekend, and Sunday was a more successful day.
With globe-trotting New Zealand girl, I saw the Diego Rivera murals in the Palacio National- an impressive building with a heavy slant to it, due to the fact that everything in the city is sinking (by 3 inches a year!) having been built on really soft, aqueous ground. The theatre used to have steps leading up to it, but now has steps leading down... Pretty crazy. One can´t help but feel that one day the city will all be swallowed up by some kind of swamp monster, and completely disappear underground. The murals were amazing, but I have to say I still prefer Orozco`s in Guadalajara.
Later we went to the museum of Anthropology, located in the main park. Museums are free on Sundays in Mexico City, but this one still charged non-Mexicans. I wouldn't have minded so much, but the security people picked us out of the queue before we'd even spoken to them on the assumption that we were foreign. Yes, obviously we were actually foreign... I will never be able to disguise myself as Mexican. But I did wish I could speak fluent Spanish at that moment just to shock them.
I planned on getting the midnight bus back to GDL, so that I could sleep through the journey, and killed time at the bus terminal by watching the Oscars in spanish with 100 other Mexican travellers and bus drivers, before having a good old wash in the public toilets just like a tramp (and not for the first time, either.) Annoyingly, I found that my return bus was a lot newer than the one I had spent half a day on when arriving- this one had TV/computer screens on the backs of seats like on a plane, and so I spent most of the night watching mediocre spanish films rather than sleeping. Actually, none of the films were half as terrible as "Runaway Train" which was playing on my bus trip to Puerto Vallarta- it's a train, it's running on rails. If Denzel had just snapped to it and cut off the electricity the problem would have been solved within 20 seconds.
Again, it was nice to get "home" to Guadalajara, but I'm trying to tell myself that once I'm travelling properly I won't miss it.
In other news I'm famous in Felixstowe (as if I wasn't before...) and have had a couple of articles published online and for the newspaper. The links are very handily copied into the "Portfolio" page of this blog. Self promotion and accepting the fact that the world can see and judge my writing is a lot easier when I am 5684.61 miles away from home.
I left GDL main bus terminal at 8am and arrived at the north terminal in MEX 7 hours later. The coaches are pretty good here- not cheap, but comfortable, safe and I even got a free sandwich. I then spent almost an hour trying every single ATM in the building along with a queue of other people having similar problems. Eventually, i set up camp by a tourist information desk and waited for the attendant to return from her lunch. The most depressing thing was that a ticket for the metro was only 3pesos (15p), but I only had 70 cents left in my bag... But just as I began to have visions of living on the streets for the weekend and having to sell my shoes for water, the attendant returned and emptied her purse of coins, insisting that I take them all and get the tram. Weirdly enough, when I got on the tram, the driver shouted a lot of things at me that I couldn't understand, before waving to me to get on for free... I couldn`t complain.
So I made it into the centre and found my hostel, still sans cash but with shoes still in possession. My hostel was amazing, actually: really cheap, modern ensuite rooms and free breakfast and dinner on the roof terrace. I also met a lot of great people, including a girl from New Zealand who had just left her life in Australia and decided that from Mexico she would move to Canada and find a circus-related job.. There were also two German ladies in my dorm, one of whom apologised to me as soon as we met, because ¨most of the world hates Germans¨; the other had done my route through Central America in reverse, and could confirm that she felt completely safe and that it was all ¨a piece of cake¨. I also met a nice Russian man, who told me not to go to Colombia because they have too many invisible drugs, and that Europeans were idiots for believing in 9-11.
On the Saturday, I did a lot of walking. I explored the area before using the very last of my coins to get to the huge Chapultapec park, which felt a little how I imagine Central Park, NYC to be. It has a massive, free zoo in the centre of it, a boating lake, and is surrounded by museums. Having recovered from the stress of failing to get through to Halifax that morning, I set out to find a corner shop where I could try topping up my phone and calling again. My card did seem to let me pay for transactions on and off, I just couldn´t take any cash out... so when the cashier at the corner shop had already added on 100 pesos to my phone and my card was declined, I thought this might be the moment I had to sell my shoes and possibly my dignity in order to get home in one piece. Before I knew what had happened, the guy behind me in the queue had paid my bill for me! It was only 5 pounds, but that´s a lot of money in Mexico. I was really touched (and relieved) and pretty amazed at how kind people were in this supposedly unfriendly city of drug-fuelled decapitations and gangs.
 |
| National Theatre |
After another failed phone call, I set out to meet a journalist-friend from London, who now happens to be living in Mex. City. I got pretty lost. I got extremely lost. But we found each other eventually and went to a tapas bar in the boho-artsy area of Condesa. Journalism Man lent me some cash to get me through the weekend, and Sunday was a more successful day.
With globe-trotting New Zealand girl, I saw the Diego Rivera murals in the Palacio National- an impressive building with a heavy slant to it, due to the fact that everything in the city is sinking (by 3 inches a year!) having been built on really soft, aqueous ground. The theatre used to have steps leading up to it, but now has steps leading down... Pretty crazy. One can´t help but feel that one day the city will all be swallowed up by some kind of swamp monster, and completely disappear underground. The murals were amazing, but I have to say I still prefer Orozco`s in Guadalajara.
 |
| Diego Rivera murals |
Later we went to the museum of Anthropology, located in the main park. Museums are free on Sundays in Mexico City, but this one still charged non-Mexicans. I wouldn't have minded so much, but the security people picked us out of the queue before we'd even spoken to them on the assumption that we were foreign. Yes, obviously we were actually foreign... I will never be able to disguise myself as Mexican. But I did wish I could speak fluent Spanish at that moment just to shock them.
 |
| Me holding up the Aztec calendar |
I planned on getting the midnight bus back to GDL, so that I could sleep through the journey, and killed time at the bus terminal by watching the Oscars in spanish with 100 other Mexican travellers and bus drivers, before having a good old wash in the public toilets just like a tramp (and not for the first time, either.) Annoyingly, I found that my return bus was a lot newer than the one I had spent half a day on when arriving- this one had TV/computer screens on the backs of seats like on a plane, and so I spent most of the night watching mediocre spanish films rather than sleeping. Actually, none of the films were half as terrible as "Runaway Train" which was playing on my bus trip to Puerto Vallarta- it's a train, it's running on rails. If Denzel had just snapped to it and cut off the electricity the problem would have been solved within 20 seconds.
Again, it was nice to get "home" to Guadalajara, but I'm trying to tell myself that once I'm travelling properly I won't miss it.
In other news I'm famous in Felixstowe (as if I wasn't before...) and have had a couple of articles published online and for the newspaper. The links are very handily copied into the "Portfolio" page of this blog. Self promotion and accepting the fact that the world can see and judge my writing is a lot easier when I am 5684.61 miles away from home.
Wednesday, 20 February 2013
I'm really very cultured, don't you know
The power cut out again last night(!) so I went to see a film called Deuxieme Souffle, as part of the ongoing free arts festival to celebrate the city's four-hundred-and-somethingeth anniversary. The film was in french with spanish subtitles- I'm not quite sure what I was trying to achieve... maybe some kind of franish learning experience. It was also two and a half hours long, which is something I didn't realise until I was there... I stuck it out though. Surprisingly, I understood more of the spanish than the french, most probably because french gangsters talk too fast and the spanish words were there for me to read. I think it was a successful learning experience, although being a pretty standard 1960's style action film complete with dependent, stilletto wearing blonde, the result would have been just as easy to grasp in Swahili.
Two and a half hours of triple translating seems to have helped me somehow, as I discovered today at the newspaper, when given the task of translating all of the day's local papers into english and re-writing the arts and entertainment sections. I managed it, and felt pretty proud (but no I did not read 200+ pages word for word...). I wish that mexican people came with subtitles. Maybe they could appear automatically across the person's forehead.
In terms of reading, I have finished The Power and the Glory by Graham Green, which I found in my room left by the ghost of tenants past, and would highly recommend. So then I came up with the crazy idea that I should buy a novel in spanish to translate, and at the market in Chapultapec on Saturday night I did just that. Not just any novel, in fact- but a Gabriel Garcia Marquez one... just to punish myself. I blame Cake Boy, who also insisted that I haggle to reduce the crazy price of 30pesos (one pound fifty)... I thought I gave a pretty convincing argument but the seller just laughed at me, eventually knocking 5 pesos off out of pity, I think. Laugh, he may have done, but I was definitly the winner that evening because those extra 5 pesos bought me a bookmark with Hitler's face on it to go with my book, which I bought because... well, I found it just a little bit funny.
So far, I have read two pages. There is a corpse (cadaver) and a boy who is wearing green chords, which are too tight for him. Prizes to anone who can guess which book I have... because I still can't work out the title of it. Or haven't got round to it. Shh...
Other new words I learnt today through translating articles include:
encuesta (survey)
desnudo (naked)
and camello (camel, and also drug-pusher!)
Such useful vocabulary.
Two and a half hours of triple translating seems to have helped me somehow, as I discovered today at the newspaper, when given the task of translating all of the day's local papers into english and re-writing the arts and entertainment sections. I managed it, and felt pretty proud (but no I did not read 200+ pages word for word...). I wish that mexican people came with subtitles. Maybe they could appear automatically across the person's forehead.
In terms of reading, I have finished The Power and the Glory by Graham Green, which I found in my room left by the ghost of tenants past, and would highly recommend. So then I came up with the crazy idea that I should buy a novel in spanish to translate, and at the market in Chapultapec on Saturday night I did just that. Not just any novel, in fact- but a Gabriel Garcia Marquez one... just to punish myself. I blame Cake Boy, who also insisted that I haggle to reduce the crazy price of 30pesos (one pound fifty)... I thought I gave a pretty convincing argument but the seller just laughed at me, eventually knocking 5 pesos off out of pity, I think. Laugh, he may have done, but I was definitly the winner that evening because those extra 5 pesos bought me a bookmark with Hitler's face on it to go with my book, which I bought because... well, I found it just a little bit funny.
So far, I have read two pages. There is a corpse (cadaver) and a boy who is wearing green chords, which are too tight for him. Prizes to anone who can guess which book I have... because I still can't work out the title of it. Or haven't got round to it. Shh...
Other new words I learnt today through translating articles include:
encuesta (survey)
desnudo (naked)
and camello (camel, and also drug-pusher!)
Such useful vocabulary.
Sunday, 17 February 2013
Tacos
I don't feel healthy today.
I went to a party last night in Chapultapec: the studenty-social area of the city. On Saturday evenings, the main avenue of this area is closed off totraffic, to make way for art sellers, musicians, food stalls, dancers and even a pop up cinema screen. The atmosphere is buzzing; families, couples, friends and dogs all meet to hang out until around midnight when small children will finally be taken home to bed, and others will move on to nearby bars, clubs and house-parties.
Our party was thriving- it was a huge old house split into studio flats and ensuite rooms, a garden with what was once a pool but is now an empty pit and extra party space. A few (really good!) live bands played, and we salsa danced. Some of us not so well as others. I left at around 4.30am and the party was far from over... I needed to sleep, but primarily I needed food.
Which is the source of today's discomfort- not alcohol, but tacos. People don't tend to binge drink here- or even get very drunk, but then it's impossible to compare anywhere else with the drinking culture we have at home. Apart from tramps, of course. When they're not so high they're kung-fu fighting trees on the street.
The 5am taco run is Mexico's equivalent to the greasy British kebab, although a lot healthier I should think. Most of the time... This particular stand was offering various parts of cow to eat in tortillas, including lip, brain and intestine. I'm pretty sure I got simple beef steak kind of beef, but you never know when a dodgy taco will strike. It may just have been a bug picked up from somebody serving them. It can't have helped that somebody put the hot chile salsa on my plate and set my mouth on fire... Maybe the man threw in some cow eyeball or rectum just because I was foreign. Either way, it turned out badly and I have not achieved anything very prouctive today whatsoever.
This is a picture of a taco stand which resulted in a happier experience. It's known as the "gay" taco and I'm not sure I want to know why.
Pretty much all the street food here is good and fresh. Tacos usually cost around $7 pesos (30p) and consist of a double layer of tortilla, meat of choice (chicken if you're lucky; intestines if you're not) served with onions, herbs, radishes and dressings. The salsa is there to catch people out, I'm sure. There is usually at least one red and one green, but it's a gamle as to which is hot and which is mild. And the hot will definitly be that.
Most taco stands will have little stools and makeshift tables. It's a pretty pleasant social experience, and pretty much guarenteed not to have the stereotypical kebab shop drunks falling around, sitting on the floor and drooling into their polystyrene take-away boxes.
It still might take a little while before I fancy tacos again.
After all this talk of my digestive system, here is a picture of an amazing dog I saw as compensation:
I went to a party last night in Chapultapec: the studenty-social area of the city. On Saturday evenings, the main avenue of this area is closed off totraffic, to make way for art sellers, musicians, food stalls, dancers and even a pop up cinema screen. The atmosphere is buzzing; families, couples, friends and dogs all meet to hang out until around midnight when small children will finally be taken home to bed, and others will move on to nearby bars, clubs and house-parties.
Our party was thriving- it was a huge old house split into studio flats and ensuite rooms, a garden with what was once a pool but is now an empty pit and extra party space. A few (really good!) live bands played, and we salsa danced. Some of us not so well as others. I left at around 4.30am and the party was far from over... I needed to sleep, but primarily I needed food.
Which is the source of today's discomfort- not alcohol, but tacos. People don't tend to binge drink here- or even get very drunk, but then it's impossible to compare anywhere else with the drinking culture we have at home. Apart from tramps, of course. When they're not so high they're kung-fu fighting trees on the street.
The 5am taco run is Mexico's equivalent to the greasy British kebab, although a lot healthier I should think. Most of the time... This particular stand was offering various parts of cow to eat in tortillas, including lip, brain and intestine. I'm pretty sure I got simple beef steak kind of beef, but you never know when a dodgy taco will strike. It may just have been a bug picked up from somebody serving them. It can't have helped that somebody put the hot chile salsa on my plate and set my mouth on fire... Maybe the man threw in some cow eyeball or rectum just because I was foreign. Either way, it turned out badly and I have not achieved anything very prouctive today whatsoever.
This is a picture of a taco stand which resulted in a happier experience. It's known as the "gay" taco and I'm not sure I want to know why.
Most taco stands will have little stools and makeshift tables. It's a pretty pleasant social experience, and pretty much guarenteed not to have the stereotypical kebab shop drunks falling around, sitting on the floor and drooling into their polystyrene take-away boxes.
It still might take a little while before I fancy tacos again.
After all this talk of my digestive system, here is a picture of an amazing dog I saw as compensation:
Friday, 15 February 2013
Free Love, Free Wine, Free Furniture
It´s been a busy few days, Mexico-side. On Monday, another tenant arrived to rent out Rosie´s top floor room. He is American and has a Polish girlfriend who is staying for a few days... I assume. That or she lives here as well. But I´m not totally sure Rosie and husband know either. I was far too excited about the prospect of another english-speaker living in the house, but so far all my attempts and conversation-making have failed. For example:
Me: So where abouts are you from?
American guy: States.
Me: Cool...
*silence...*
Rosie´s youngest son, Alex, moved out yesterday. It´s a shame- I like Alex, although the house was feeling pretty full what with all the people coming and going at various times of night, loco dogs racing through the house and a whole amalgamation of anonymous toothbrushes in the bathroom (aaaargghhh). I have also inherited Alex´s old bed, which is a bonus- before I was in a bunk bed which I hit my head on every morning.
Rosie seems really sad, and spent most the day sitting on the sofa watching TV. Then the power cut out again, and she sat there watching nothing. It was making me feel really sad for her, but later developments suggest that she might actually have a stomach bug as well. So maybe she´s not that sad, she´s just ill. Or maybe she´s really sad and really ill. Either way, Alex is 33 and it´s about bloody time he moved out of his parents´ house.
On Tuesdays, newspaper bossman drives down to Lake Chapala to catch up with the newspaper contributors who live there. This week, he said I could go with him and take some photos for advertisers, which was exciting, and we arranged to meet at the office at 10.30am.
At 2.30pm, Bossman showed up, ¨real sick¨ from a barely existant man-cold. I will restrain myself from complaining too much, but suffice to say I was irritated and by this point starving hungry. After an hour´s drive to Chapala with the car windows down, I arrived irritated, hungry and complete with a lion´s mane to match my mood. By this time it was close to four, and to my relief Bossman kindly took me for lunch at a really nice restaurant, which I have to say was worth the wait.
Chapala is a beautiful place: one of many towns with surround the huge lake, which in turn is surrounded by mountains. It is also home to the world´s largest population of American ex-pats, a few of whom I had the pleasure of meeting as I took photos of their various businesses for the website directory. I also met a woman named Cecilia: a bit of an ageing hippy originally from Hertfordshire. She had lived in several weird and wonderful places all over the world but had now settled in Mexico with her huge ginger cats and a house full of soveniers from her extensive travels. I wouldn´t be too suprised if I were to turn out like her eventually...
So the lakeside was a good day out. I´d like to go again one day and see some more of the area, although I have to say there is always something a little bit strange about ex-patriate communties... Chapala reminded me a little bit of the town in the film Big Fish- the place where they steal Ewan McGreggor´s shoes in the hope of forcing him to stay, and nobody else ever leaves and everybody wears a huge creepy grin? Yeah...
And onto Valentine´s Day, which in Mexico is referred to as ´El DÃa del Amor y la Amistad`, meaning ´The Day of Love and Friendship´. Mexicans tend to go all out for days like this, and the town was full of people carrying balloons and flowers. In the evening, restaurants and bars were packed out not only with couples, but with families and pairs of friends sharing dinner and presents too, which is quite nice really and not done so much at home. Single people in the UK seem more likely to sit at home in their onesie, sulking.
Needless to say, I had Valentine´s plans. Yes that´s right, I am a woman in demand... I was sent to the American Society of Guadalajara to write an article about their Valentine´s themed lunch. If anyone has seen the episode of Parks and Recreation, where they all have to go along to an OAP Valentine´s dance, you´ll have a fairly accurate representation of my afternoon.
I met a lot of interesting people, some of whom had been retired in Mexico for 20 years or so. Pretty much everyone asked which state I was from, and when I replied "England", they would look at me for a minute and say "no, what state are you from?.." One woman I sat with got quite excited when she learnt that I was British, and said "Oh! I lived in Malta for three years!" as if they might be the same place...
Everyone was really friendly though. I was given lasagne before being shown all around the building, including the roof to see their new solar panels... quite an experience.
When I got home from work, the power was still out. Everyone was sitting out in the street with candles, which was actually really nice. There is only so long one can sit on a step with a candle however, and I went to meet Cake Boy and his friend to see a free performance from the city orchestra.
Every year, Guadalajara celebrates its ´birthday´ through this week with free performances, exhibitions and street shows. This particular evening was held in the old city museum: a beautiful old building with an open square-centre. The place was packed out and the music was superb... as was the free wine afterwards. The first Mexican wine I´d drunk actually. It wasn´t bad.
This weekend will be another of MA application writing and possibly some shopping. I also want to plan a trip to Mexico City soon... I love Guadalajara but driving to the lake on Tuesday brought back that itchy feeling of wanting to travel around again. Maybe I´ll give up the MA apps and buy a caravan instead. Or a donkey and cart... yeah...
Me: So where abouts are you from?
American guy: States.
Me: Cool...
*silence...*
Rosie´s youngest son, Alex, moved out yesterday. It´s a shame- I like Alex, although the house was feeling pretty full what with all the people coming and going at various times of night, loco dogs racing through the house and a whole amalgamation of anonymous toothbrushes in the bathroom (aaaargghhh). I have also inherited Alex´s old bed, which is a bonus- before I was in a bunk bed which I hit my head on every morning.
Rosie seems really sad, and spent most the day sitting on the sofa watching TV. Then the power cut out again, and she sat there watching nothing. It was making me feel really sad for her, but later developments suggest that she might actually have a stomach bug as well. So maybe she´s not that sad, she´s just ill. Or maybe she´s really sad and really ill. Either way, Alex is 33 and it´s about bloody time he moved out of his parents´ house.
On Tuesdays, newspaper bossman drives down to Lake Chapala to catch up with the newspaper contributors who live there. This week, he said I could go with him and take some photos for advertisers, which was exciting, and we arranged to meet at the office at 10.30am.
At 2.30pm, Bossman showed up, ¨real sick¨ from a barely existant man-cold. I will restrain myself from complaining too much, but suffice to say I was irritated and by this point starving hungry. After an hour´s drive to Chapala with the car windows down, I arrived irritated, hungry and complete with a lion´s mane to match my mood. By this time it was close to four, and to my relief Bossman kindly took me for lunch at a really nice restaurant, which I have to say was worth the wait.
Chapala is a beautiful place: one of many towns with surround the huge lake, which in turn is surrounded by mountains. It is also home to the world´s largest population of American ex-pats, a few of whom I had the pleasure of meeting as I took photos of their various businesses for the website directory. I also met a woman named Cecilia: a bit of an ageing hippy originally from Hertfordshire. She had lived in several weird and wonderful places all over the world but had now settled in Mexico with her huge ginger cats and a house full of soveniers from her extensive travels. I wouldn´t be too suprised if I were to turn out like her eventually...
So the lakeside was a good day out. I´d like to go again one day and see some more of the area, although I have to say there is always something a little bit strange about ex-patriate communties... Chapala reminded me a little bit of the town in the film Big Fish- the place where they steal Ewan McGreggor´s shoes in the hope of forcing him to stay, and nobody else ever leaves and everybody wears a huge creepy grin? Yeah...
And onto Valentine´s Day, which in Mexico is referred to as ´El DÃa del Amor y la Amistad`, meaning ´The Day of Love and Friendship´. Mexicans tend to go all out for days like this, and the town was full of people carrying balloons and flowers. In the evening, restaurants and bars were packed out not only with couples, but with families and pairs of friends sharing dinner and presents too, which is quite nice really and not done so much at home. Single people in the UK seem more likely to sit at home in their onesie, sulking.
Needless to say, I had Valentine´s plans. Yes that´s right, I am a woman in demand... I was sent to the American Society of Guadalajara to write an article about their Valentine´s themed lunch. If anyone has seen the episode of Parks and Recreation, where they all have to go along to an OAP Valentine´s dance, you´ll have a fairly accurate representation of my afternoon.
I met a lot of interesting people, some of whom had been retired in Mexico for 20 years or so. Pretty much everyone asked which state I was from, and when I replied "England", they would look at me for a minute and say "no, what state are you from?.." One woman I sat with got quite excited when she learnt that I was British, and said "Oh! I lived in Malta for three years!" as if they might be the same place...
Everyone was really friendly though. I was given lasagne before being shown all around the building, including the roof to see their new solar panels... quite an experience.
When I got home from work, the power was still out. Everyone was sitting out in the street with candles, which was actually really nice. There is only so long one can sit on a step with a candle however, and I went to meet Cake Boy and his friend to see a free performance from the city orchestra.
Every year, Guadalajara celebrates its ´birthday´ through this week with free performances, exhibitions and street shows. This particular evening was held in the old city museum: a beautiful old building with an open square-centre. The place was packed out and the music was superb... as was the free wine afterwards. The first Mexican wine I´d drunk actually. It wasn´t bad.
This weekend will be another of MA application writing and possibly some shopping. I also want to plan a trip to Mexico City soon... I love Guadalajara but driving to the lake on Tuesday brought back that itchy feeling of wanting to travel around again. Maybe I´ll give up the MA apps and buy a caravan instead. Or a donkey and cart... yeah...
Sunday, 10 February 2013
Car-Park Rap Battles and Casual Mexican Racism
Last night, I experienced my first car-park party.
It was better than it sounds.
I've become quite friendly with a guy who sells cake on a trolley. Which is also better than it sounds. When I first saw him pushing the bizarre invention down the road, I was standing outside my house, looking for my keys. He called out, asking if I wanted to buy something. When I didn't respond, he said it again in several languages until he worked out that I was english- fairly impressive. Having bumped into him a couple of times after that, I bought some cake and we got chatting. He invited me to a party with his friends, to which I agreed to go, figuring that I could always back-out later once I'd assessed the rape-ability levels.
Of course when Saturday came, I didn't feel as if I could say no... I asked Montse if she wanted to come with me, thinking that if I were to be raped and murdered, I'd rather it be with someone else I vaguely knew, but Montse was working and couldn't save me.
I thought it all through and decided to just go. Cake Boy seemed like a genuinely nice person, and was probably the first I'd met who didn't seem overly fussed that I was foreign, which was refreshing.
Needless to say, I was not raped or murdered. After collecting me from my house, Cake Boy and I went to meet Cake Boy's friends outside the 7-11, where local youths a-plenty were taking their used beer bottles to be re-filled at a discount price. (Pretty clever-why don't we do that at home??) From there we went to another friend's house, which was full of students, crazy-bright art-work on the inside walls, and possibly the most stoned kitten in Mexico.
Everyone I met was super-nice and laid-back. Most spoke some english, but I did have quite a good conversation with someone who spoke none- it would seem that alcohol improves my spanish tenfold! I spoke to a couple of guys from Chiuaua, who told me some pretty horrendous stories of the violence up there. I also learnt why Guadalajara is so safe: it's because all the mafia's cchildren go to school and live here... so they want to keeep the place trouble-free. How touching(!)
After a drink and another house, we moved on to find a party in a local parking lot. It was actually an organised thing- local people set the place up for a party, with a beer table, music etc. and anyone from the area could pay a small fee to get in. It was a strange feeling- a bit like being in a club, but then I'd look up and see stars. I was delighted to witness a rap-battle, followed by some guy throwing fire about in a professional manner, all of which took place as a couple of graffiti- artists covered the car-park walls. Pretty different from the croquet-garden parties that my friends hold at home... but I had fun.
I had a couple of funny conversations where we mentioned skin tone or the fact that I was foriegn and how people react to it. The guys I were talking to kept stopping to think of how to say things in a non-offensive, non-racist way, which was hilarious and very strange to be on the other side of ethnic minority. They asked if people had shouted "gringa" at me, which is pparently offensive, but I'm pretty sure the people at the newspaper name us/them as gringos almost affectionately. Perhaps "gringo" is the white person's version of the N word. I still don't feel very 'street' though, unfortunately.
Casual Racism in Mexico
Otherwise, I get "werita" shouted at me all over the place. Usually from taxis or truck-driers, but sometimes someone passing me on the street will just stare at me out of interest and say "werita!" in a factual tone. They don't mean to be rude, they're just surprised to see me.
I dress pretty modestly in the city- far more so than most of the local girls. Somehow, it's normal for them to wear something backless, or a tiny skirt (along with their great big anorak and scarf), yet when I wear a knee-length dress, the truck drivers react as if I've stepped outside naked. It's just not fair.
In other news, I went to Tonala market today- It's about 40 minutes from the centre and the usual 6 pesos (<30p) to get there on the bus. The market was HUge. You could buy anything from jewellery to furniture, to food, knives, puppies or brightly dyed chicks... I didn't buy anything apart from enchilladas, although I was tempted to buy all the neon chicks and shave their feathers before setting them free... They were pretty cute though. And no wonder everyone has pets here- ther are far too many baby animals for sale.
Montse went to sleep after work, but heard me come in at 4 and decided to get up and find a party. As one does. When I woke up this morning, she had just got back and was puking. Mental.
It was better than it sounds.
I've become quite friendly with a guy who sells cake on a trolley. Which is also better than it sounds. When I first saw him pushing the bizarre invention down the road, I was standing outside my house, looking for my keys. He called out, asking if I wanted to buy something. When I didn't respond, he said it again in several languages until he worked out that I was english- fairly impressive. Having bumped into him a couple of times after that, I bought some cake and we got chatting. He invited me to a party with his friends, to which I agreed to go, figuring that I could always back-out later once I'd assessed the rape-ability levels.
Of course when Saturday came, I didn't feel as if I could say no... I asked Montse if she wanted to come with me, thinking that if I were to be raped and murdered, I'd rather it be with someone else I vaguely knew, but Montse was working and couldn't save me.
I thought it all through and decided to just go. Cake Boy seemed like a genuinely nice person, and was probably the first I'd met who didn't seem overly fussed that I was foreign, which was refreshing.
Needless to say, I was not raped or murdered. After collecting me from my house, Cake Boy and I went to meet Cake Boy's friends outside the 7-11, where local youths a-plenty were taking their used beer bottles to be re-filled at a discount price. (Pretty clever-why don't we do that at home??) From there we went to another friend's house, which was full of students, crazy-bright art-work on the inside walls, and possibly the most stoned kitten in Mexico.
Everyone I met was super-nice and laid-back. Most spoke some english, but I did have quite a good conversation with someone who spoke none- it would seem that alcohol improves my spanish tenfold! I spoke to a couple of guys from Chiuaua, who told me some pretty horrendous stories of the violence up there. I also learnt why Guadalajara is so safe: it's because all the mafia's cchildren go to school and live here... so they want to keeep the place trouble-free. How touching(!)
After a drink and another house, we moved on to find a party in a local parking lot. It was actually an organised thing- local people set the place up for a party, with a beer table, music etc. and anyone from the area could pay a small fee to get in. It was a strange feeling- a bit like being in a club, but then I'd look up and see stars. I was delighted to witness a rap-battle, followed by some guy throwing fire about in a professional manner, all of which took place as a couple of graffiti- artists covered the car-park walls. Pretty different from the croquet-garden parties that my friends hold at home... but I had fun.
I had a couple of funny conversations where we mentioned skin tone or the fact that I was foriegn and how people react to it. The guys I were talking to kept stopping to think of how to say things in a non-offensive, non-racist way, which was hilarious and very strange to be on the other side of ethnic minority. They asked if people had shouted "gringa" at me, which is pparently offensive, but I'm pretty sure the people at the newspaper name us/them as gringos almost affectionately. Perhaps "gringo" is the white person's version of the N word. I still don't feel very 'street' though, unfortunately.
Casual Racism in Mexico
- I have actually started responding to "Werita", which means "white girl".
Otherwise, I get "werita" shouted at me all over the place. Usually from taxis or truck-driers, but sometimes someone passing me on the street will just stare at me out of interest and say "werita!" in a factual tone. They don't mean to be rude, they're just surprised to see me.
- Being mistaken for a prostitute.
I dress pretty modestly in the city- far more so than most of the local girls. Somehow, it's normal for them to wear something backless, or a tiny skirt (along with their great big anorak and scarf), yet when I wear a knee-length dress, the truck drivers react as if I've stepped outside naked. It's just not fair.
In other news, I went to Tonala market today- It's about 40 minutes from the centre and the usual 6 pesos (<30p) to get there on the bus. The market was HUge. You could buy anything from jewellery to furniture, to food, knives, puppies or brightly dyed chicks... I didn't buy anything apart from enchilladas, although I was tempted to buy all the neon chicks and shave their feathers before setting them free... They were pretty cute though. And no wonder everyone has pets here- ther are far too many baby animals for sale.
Montse went to sleep after work, but heard me come in at 4 and decided to get up and find a party. As one does. When I woke up this morning, she had just got back and was puking. Mental.
Saturday, 9 February 2013
What News
This week at the newspaper was quite interesting: the article I wrote about the gas explosion in Mexico City ended up on the front page, which was a nice suprise. Funny how easy it is for me to write headline news on these work experience placements (!) No, I am not smug at all.
There was also a fairly gruesome story about a local girl who had a baby, supposedly aged 9. The world's media picked up on it, including the Daily Mail, who flew a reporter from New York straight out to meet us about it. I say "us"- I am sure he had no desire to meet me at all, but I was taken along for drinks after work, which was thoughtful.
He was a nice guy, you know, for a tabloid reporter. He had moved from the UK to Brooklyn, NY, to work for the expanding American Daily Mail website. His life seems pretty desirable, but he repeatedly asked me why I wanted to go into journalism, and repeatedly told me that I shouldn't... but then I am yet to meet anyone who has told me "Yes, do my job," (of various types) "I love it and every day I wake up happy to be alive". I still kind of think that if I end up working for National Geographic or similar, then I will in fact be one of those people. So I remain undeterred.
As far as the baby-story goes, it's become understood that the mother is most probably about 15 rather than 9, but lied about being 9 due to a dodgy birth certificate... It's all very dodgy, and also very sad because there are most probably hundreds of similar stories from the area, and yet the only reason the press have picked up on her is the fact that she may or may not be 9.
There are a few horrible stories about at the moment, particularly regarding Mexico and travellers. I won't name them here just in case my mother is yet to discover them and worry, but my point is, despite all the gore, I'm still confident about travelling next month. I still believe that most places are very safe, as long as one knows what not to do and where not to go. I actually think a traveller is less likely to find trouble if they are travelling solo, because when one is alone they are less likely to take risks, go out at night or talk to strangers. I am sure that most girls both home and abroad are more likely to humour a stranger's drunken conversation when out with a group of friends, because being in a group gives them a false sense of security and feeling of invincibility. If those same girls were walking home individually for instance, they would avoid a talkative stranger like the plague.
Personally, I'm very good at ignoring people to the point of rudness- probably because I'm British. So I'm not worried and neither should anyone else be.
On Friday morning, I woke up to no electricity, gas, hot water, internet or purified drinking water. This was not ideal, seeing as I was very much looking forward to washing away the remnants of alcohol and in desperate need of re-hydration. I'm still not sure why there was a problem, but when I left the house (after having had a cold shower and reluctantly drunk a glass of milk), I saw several dug out holes in the street and pavement, along with small groups of Mexican men scratching their heads, which I assumed must have something to do with either the root or the solution of the problem, or both. All is ok again now, though.
This weekend's adventures will hopefully include a bus trip to Tonala, where there is a huge Sunday market.
Rosie and husband told me that I could stay with them forever if I liked. I am quite tempted. They suggested I ship over my parents and my dogs- Rosie said that they would be my surrogate grandparents (at least I think that's what she said...) I told her that was a nice thought, but that she is actually the same age as my mother. Then I told her that I have a 92 year-old grandmother and she nearly passed out from amazement. They are such a nice family and I am really happy to be able to stay with them.
There was also a fairly gruesome story about a local girl who had a baby, supposedly aged 9. The world's media picked up on it, including the Daily Mail, who flew a reporter from New York straight out to meet us about it. I say "us"- I am sure he had no desire to meet me at all, but I was taken along for drinks after work, which was thoughtful.
He was a nice guy, you know, for a tabloid reporter. He had moved from the UK to Brooklyn, NY, to work for the expanding American Daily Mail website. His life seems pretty desirable, but he repeatedly asked me why I wanted to go into journalism, and repeatedly told me that I shouldn't... but then I am yet to meet anyone who has told me "Yes, do my job," (of various types) "I love it and every day I wake up happy to be alive". I still kind of think that if I end up working for National Geographic or similar, then I will in fact be one of those people. So I remain undeterred.
As far as the baby-story goes, it's become understood that the mother is most probably about 15 rather than 9, but lied about being 9 due to a dodgy birth certificate... It's all very dodgy, and also very sad because there are most probably hundreds of similar stories from the area, and yet the only reason the press have picked up on her is the fact that she may or may not be 9.
There are a few horrible stories about at the moment, particularly regarding Mexico and travellers. I won't name them here just in case my mother is yet to discover them and worry, but my point is, despite all the gore, I'm still confident about travelling next month. I still believe that most places are very safe, as long as one knows what not to do and where not to go. I actually think a traveller is less likely to find trouble if they are travelling solo, because when one is alone they are less likely to take risks, go out at night or talk to strangers. I am sure that most girls both home and abroad are more likely to humour a stranger's drunken conversation when out with a group of friends, because being in a group gives them a false sense of security and feeling of invincibility. If those same girls were walking home individually for instance, they would avoid a talkative stranger like the plague.
Personally, I'm very good at ignoring people to the point of rudness- probably because I'm British. So I'm not worried and neither should anyone else be.
On Friday morning, I woke up to no electricity, gas, hot water, internet or purified drinking water. This was not ideal, seeing as I was very much looking forward to washing away the remnants of alcohol and in desperate need of re-hydration. I'm still not sure why there was a problem, but when I left the house (after having had a cold shower and reluctantly drunk a glass of milk), I saw several dug out holes in the street and pavement, along with small groups of Mexican men scratching their heads, which I assumed must have something to do with either the root or the solution of the problem, or both. All is ok again now, though.
This weekend's adventures will hopefully include a bus trip to Tonala, where there is a huge Sunday market.
Rosie and husband told me that I could stay with them forever if I liked. I am quite tempted. They suggested I ship over my parents and my dogs- Rosie said that they would be my surrogate grandparents (at least I think that's what she said...) I told her that was a nice thought, but that she is actually the same age as my mother. Then I told her that I have a 92 year-old grandmother and she nearly passed out from amazement. They are such a nice family and I am really happy to be able to stay with them.
Thursday, 7 February 2013
The Danger of Strawberries
It would make my life an awful lot easier if everyone in Mexico were to speak Spanish. Or English, of course, but recently whenenever I try to create a phrase out of nothing, my brain primarily tries to make me say it in french. I struggled with french in school, but now I don't need it as much, it won't leave me alone... Last year I also did a crash course in Italian, which deserted me as soon as I landed in Venice, but now that I don't need any of it, has come back with a vengence to confuse me even more. The result of all of this is that on days like today when I am super tired, I start to speak in a kind of language which I like to call 'Fritanish'. Forsinstance: "Je voudrais un poquito mas de pollo en mi... sandwich please." That's a made up example. Usually my desperately poor smatterings of languages are more sneaky and mix up the linking words or ponunciation: Lots of words are very similarly spelt in spanish and italian, but have very different pronnciations... Tomorrow I might try communicating everything I want to say through a series of interpretative dance.
That said, it is quite easy for me to speak in English at the newspaper office. Which probably doesn't help matters at all. There are two editors, one American and one English, but their accents seem to have merged to form a non-descript 'ex-pat' accent. The more English editor is currently in the UK, so I only really hear his voice over Skype. There is also a Bulgarian woman, who conforms to the stereotype. No more neeeds to be said. Her ability to flip between several languages however, is most enviable. Then there are several Mexican emloyees, most of which understand English apart from one lovely but slightly crazy and quite terrifying lady who goes on and on at me in Spanish at a very rapid pace, while I stare blankly and nod. I have a feeling she is confessing her life's secrets me, comforted by the fact that I cannot respond.
Yet.
So the newspaper work is going well. I wrote an article on the Mexico City gas explosion, but then spent most of today and yesterday re-sizing photos for their new website. Pretty tedious, but I don't really mind; such is the life of an intern. The only thing which really does irritate me about working in American-English is the date system. I spent the day selecting photographs from date-organised folders... it probably took longer than it should have because I just cannot get my head around the american datings. "October 2", rather than "the 2nd of October". Which makes it 10-2-12 rather than 02-10-12. Silliness!!
In other news, there is a new member of the household. A Mexican girl called Montse (as in Montserrat...) is renting Rosie's spare room. It was a few days before I caught sighting of her, but since then we have had a couple of roof-top chats, and she is really ni ce. She goes to the university just down the road and smokes a lot. She once rented a room across the road, so she knows the area really well. We bonded over our shared annoyance by the bar across the road playing really bad music. She told me a charming story of how some drug-dealer got shot just outside a few years ago. I asked her if all the shoes hanging on telephone wires outside meant that drug-dealers still lived there. "No," she replied, "that's just when people get bored and throw their shoes over the wires".
Today Montse told me all about how strawberries are dangerous because they carry so many little bugs and apparently Meningitis, too. I'm not quite sure how that works, but I politely declined anyway. I'll stick to peelable fruits.
Monday, 4 February 2013
Billy-no-mates´ Big Adventure
I've been having some problems with Blogger- sometimes it just won't let me type, which is a bit of an issue. I'd be posting a lot more otherwise. (So perhaps it's for the best...!)
I have just receieved my first mosquito bite. After over two weeks here with one weekend at the coast, I shouldn´t really complain, but I feel angry at the little sod for catching m unawares by hiding under a desk.
I went into the newspaper office at 11 on Friday to learn how to upload the articles to their website, pretty simple really. After a couple of hours the work was finished for the week, as Fridays are their distribution days. I can´t help but compare the newspaper to the one in The Rum Diary (one of my very favourite books) just because everyone seems so relaxed... but then I think that´s just Mexico. I´m sure the children go to school at some point, but there always seem to be teenagers hanging around in town at all hours of the day. Similarly, I´m sure most people must have to go to work at some point, and yet I don´t really see it.The day quite often doesn´t start until after lunch- which can be anytime between one and three pm... It´s a very different routine to home.
I just killed the mosquito.
I have just receieved my first mosquito bite. After over two weeks here with one weekend at the coast, I shouldn´t really complain, but I feel angry at the little sod for catching m unawares by hiding under a desk.
I went into the newspaper office at 11 on Friday to learn how to upload the articles to their website, pretty simple really. After a couple of hours the work was finished for the week, as Fridays are their distribution days. I can´t help but compare the newspaper to the one in The Rum Diary (one of my very favourite books) just because everyone seems so relaxed... but then I think that´s just Mexico. I´m sure the children go to school at some point, but there always seem to be teenagers hanging around in town at all hours of the day. Similarly, I´m sure most people must have to go to work at some point, and yet I don´t really see it.The day quite often doesn´t start until after lunch- which can be anytime between one and three pm... It´s a very different routine to home.
I just killed the mosquito.
On Saturday night, I did something very brave. I went to the cinema... by myself! Isn't it tragic that I had absolutely no fear of flying to a country on the other side of the world, where I knew no-one and didn't speak the language, yet when it came to asking for a single ticket to see a film, I was terrified?
I have a friend at home who admitted to me that she'd been to the cinema by herself one Saturday afternoon. Of course my immediate (and bad) reaction was to laugh at her for it, joking that she was a billy-no-mates. In reality, I knew there was no problem with it- nobody polite sits chatting to their friend in the cinema anyway- in fact, there's nothing very social about the whole experience at all, so why not go alone? But it is just a bit weird... There's the overhanging fear that people will assume that you simply have no friends to go with.
Well, I am in Mexico and I actually had no friends to go with. But "flip it," thought I, "It's a Saturday night and I'm going to the flipping cinema."
I considered going to see Life of Pi with spanish dubbing- this was an educational experience too, after all, but then I discovered a place where it was showing in english, and all my 'educational' intentions were thrown out the widow. I practised all the right spanish phrases ("One ticket to see Life of Pi, please", "Is it English with Spanish subtitles?", "That's perfect"', "Where is the bathroom?") only to discover that my ticket vendor was the first english speaking youth I would come across. "Hey, you're a foreigner! Only one ticket?" he asked in an annoying American twang, "Yes." I growled.
To make matters worse, I walked into the screen to find it totally deserted. Through the ordeal, I had forgotton that Mexicans rarely show up for anything on time, let alone early, Even if it is a film they have just paid to see. So I sat, totally alone, watching the trailers, right in the middle of the seating, imagining that this is what life would be like having survived a zombie apocalypse. At that point, I broke another cinema rule: I opened my crisps before the film had started. In fact, I ate them all. And they were cheesey. And once my neighbours showed up they probably hated me for it. But I just didn't care.
The film was ah-mazing. I ws so absorbed that I temporarily forgot that I was in Mexico, and once the lights came up, felt a little irritated, remembering that I had to struggle on in spanish once again. But I'm glad I went. I am probably even more of a Strong Independent Woman for having conquered solo cinema-going. I might put it on my CV.
Rosie isn't obliged to cook for me on weekends (which allows me time to stock up on vitamins and create space in my internal sugar-stores for the coming week), but as I walked in last night she presented me with a bowl of rice pudding, because she knows we have it in England. I was touched, and ate the whole thing (even though I kind of hate rice-pudding).
This morning, I struggled to get up, after dreaming about being in a boat all night. I caught up with a friend, followed by the parents on Skype- who announced that they are off to South Africa for three weeks, when really they ought to be sitting at home crying over me having gone...
After a chicken salad and orange juice on the square for lunch, it was Sunday Adventure Time. I'd been getting the number 51 bus to the newspaper office: a journey which was less than ten minutes, but I knew that all the city buses run in a loop and thought I'd sit on it for the full ride to see where I ended up- the whole journey was only 25p, after all.
The bus left the familiar central roads and wound through the residential suburbs. The further we drove on, the less fanciful the areas became, until we were driving on cobbled roads past houses made of stones, houses with no rooves looking eternally unfinished. The piles of rubbish grew on the street corners and the people hopping on and off the bus watched me with increasingly untrusting eyes... I didn't blame them really- I was a slightly sunburnt blonde girl sitting on a public Mexican bus, far away from any hotel, restaurant or Starbucks- and I was taking photos of them and their litter. I was probably a pretty funny sight to see.
We finally came to a point where the road ended and a dirt track took its place. The bus stopped to cool off before returning to the city, and I hopped out, glad for some air. Then I looked around, properly: the view was amazing! We had reached the very edge of the city and stood right in front of mountains, up which I could see tiny settlements and cowboy-hatted, cowboy-booted men (actual cowboy-men?!) riding horses. That felt like real Mexico.
Tomorrow is a bank holiday, which means that there are lots of excitable Mexicans dancing in the square outside tonight. I popped out to find some tacos or something for dinner, and walked into a huge market with music, dancing, food and crafts for sale. I bought a spinach and feta crepe, as well as the best piece of chocolate cake I have ever had, which I sat and ate whilst watching the crazy dancing.
Photos to come!
Photos to come!
Friday, 1 February 2013
Return of the Chicken
...My aforementioned amazing lunch was not destined to stay down for long.
I don't think it was anything to do with the chicken, though- I went to a cafe that afternoon where lo and behold, they served black "tea". When it arrived, I spent a good while examining the liquid, which looked and smelled more likehot chocolate, yet...wasn't. I drank it anyway, preoccupied with mentally congratulating myself at being able to hold a semi-conversation with the barman. In hindsight, the drink was only luke warm and possibly made from tap-water. Suffice to say, I spent a lot of the next day in the bathroom. Nothing too drastic, though.
ANYWAY.
Yesterday was my first proper day at the newspaper. As I walked in, I was offered a beer(!). I politely delined, saying I could do with some caffeine first. Most excitingly, I was told there were black teabags downstairs and that I could help myself. Which brings me onto a couple more Mexican oddities:
1) There are no such things as kettles. Anywhere.
I've seen people sitting in the square with ipads, and yet the common way for Mexican people to make tea or coffee is in the microwave. WHAT?! It makes even less sense that using the stove. But cold water, a teabag and 2minutes of radiation is how it's done, apparently.
2) It is seemingly impossible to buy shower gel.
Everywhere I've seen just sells bars of soap, mostly. Makes sense I suppose, just a bit... rustic.
3) Mexican "winter".
It gets hotter every day and I'm sweating like a beast after my 'shortcut' into town, and yet I stumble across... a outdoor ice rink.
Anyway.
The day was good; I proof-read the entire newspaper, training myself to think in American- English (the wrong way!) and then decided that since it was a balmy evening and not quite dark, I would walk home.
Half an hour later,I turned back and got the bus.
I do this a lot: yesterday (once my digestive system had recovered), I decided to walk to town a different way. Since Leon and the road into the centre are (in my mind) parallel, it makes perfect sense to get to the centre by walking along Calle Leon.
It is impossible to walk to the centre along Calle Leon. And yet I keep trying...
I did however bump into the museum of journalism and graphic design. I wandered in (most places have free entry here, which is great) and attempted to translate some old telegrams until I got a headache. Upstairs was an exhibition by a photographer called Felix Marquez, who specialises in war photography. There were some incredible photos from behind the eyes of a sniper (presumably in Mexico somewhere) as well as some rather poiniant shots of children drawing ´the government´ in a classroom- the kind of obvious our-government-is-corrupt message which seems to pop up everywhere here.
So it´s good to get lost sometimes.
The sugar intensive diet continues: more often than not, my morning cornflakes are replaced with Frosties; my fruit drowned in sugary pink yoghurt. A couple of days ago, dinner was replaced with pancakes and honey. The 8-year-old inside me is loving it, but most of me craves spinach, lentils, porridge and all those bland but super-healthy things which I secretly love and which usually allow me to balance out my chocolate and red wine binges. Oh well. At least the sugar replaces the lack of caffeine, which I would usually need to get going in the mornings.
I don't think it was anything to do with the chicken, though- I went to a cafe that afternoon where lo and behold, they served black "tea". When it arrived, I spent a good while examining the liquid, which looked and smelled more likehot chocolate, yet...wasn't. I drank it anyway, preoccupied with mentally congratulating myself at being able to hold a semi-conversation with the barman. In hindsight, the drink was only luke warm and possibly made from tap-water. Suffice to say, I spent a lot of the next day in the bathroom. Nothing too drastic, though.
ANYWAY.
Yesterday was my first proper day at the newspaper. As I walked in, I was offered a beer(!). I politely delined, saying I could do with some caffeine first. Most excitingly, I was told there were black teabags downstairs and that I could help myself. Which brings me onto a couple more Mexican oddities:
1) There are no such things as kettles. Anywhere.
I've seen people sitting in the square with ipads, and yet the common way for Mexican people to make tea or coffee is in the microwave. WHAT?! It makes even less sense that using the stove. But cold water, a teabag and 2minutes of radiation is how it's done, apparently.
2) It is seemingly impossible to buy shower gel.
 |
| The beautiful cathedral obscured by the ugly and bizarre outdoor ice-rink |
3) Mexican "winter".
It gets hotter every day and I'm sweating like a beast after my 'shortcut' into town, and yet I stumble across... a outdoor ice rink.
Anyway.
The day was good; I proof-read the entire newspaper, training myself to think in American- English (the wrong way!) and then decided that since it was a balmy evening and not quite dark, I would walk home.
Half an hour later,I turned back and got the bus.
I do this a lot: yesterday (once my digestive system had recovered), I decided to walk to town a different way. Since Leon and the road into the centre are (in my mind) parallel, it makes perfect sense to get to the centre by walking along Calle Leon.
It is impossible to walk to the centre along Calle Leon. And yet I keep trying...
I did however bump into the museum of journalism and graphic design. I wandered in (most places have free entry here, which is great) and attempted to translate some old telegrams until I got a headache. Upstairs was an exhibition by a photographer called Felix Marquez, who specialises in war photography. There were some incredible photos from behind the eyes of a sniper (presumably in Mexico somewhere) as well as some rather poiniant shots of children drawing ´the government´ in a classroom- the kind of obvious our-government-is-corrupt message which seems to pop up everywhere here.
So it´s good to get lost sometimes.
The sugar intensive diet continues: more often than not, my morning cornflakes are replaced with Frosties; my fruit drowned in sugary pink yoghurt. A couple of days ago, dinner was replaced with pancakes and honey. The 8-year-old inside me is loving it, but most of me craves spinach, lentils, porridge and all those bland but super-healthy things which I secretly love and which usually allow me to balance out my chocolate and red wine binges. Oh well. At least the sugar replaces the lack of caffeine, which I would usually need to get going in the mornings.
Tuesday, 29 January 2013
Holy Potatoes
Some of my favourite Mexican quirks so far:
and finally (for now):
I'm in a really good mood today. I think it began with lunch: I had the best lunch... Husband cooked it. We had a roast chicken in a bowl of juices and spices (but not hot spices), a side plate with beans and what I think was goat's cheese. On the table was a basket of warm tortillas and freshly made guacamole, onions, limes and alfalfa. I was in my element.
Rosie continues on her quest to fatten me up, though: I've started getting chocolate milkshake instead of fruit juice, which is tasty but less agreeable. Ariel asks when I am going to get a tan and when I am going to start putting on weight- I told him that I am a freak of nature and he needs to get over it.
In the afternoon, I had a meeting with the editor from the newspaper, who was American- hurrah! I can look forward to understanding what I'm asked to do (hopefully) and will begin with some proof-reading this week.
I've also been emailing a couple of other online magazines and local newspapers who are quite interested in me doing some writing for them, which is exciting :-)
 |
| This silly little dog has his very own silly little chair, too... |
- Silly little dogs in silly little jackets.
- Spanish language surprises.
- Bus journey surprises.
and finally (for now):
- Mexican phone surprises.
I'm in a really good mood today. I think it began with lunch: I had the best lunch... Husband cooked it. We had a roast chicken in a bowl of juices and spices (but not hot spices), a side plate with beans and what I think was goat's cheese. On the table was a basket of warm tortillas and freshly made guacamole, onions, limes and alfalfa. I was in my element.
Rosie continues on her quest to fatten me up, though: I've started getting chocolate milkshake instead of fruit juice, which is tasty but less agreeable. Ariel asks when I am going to get a tan and when I am going to start putting on weight- I told him that I am a freak of nature and he needs to get over it.
In the afternoon, I had a meeting with the editor from the newspaper, who was American- hurrah! I can look forward to understanding what I'm asked to do (hopefully) and will begin with some proof-reading this week.
I've also been emailing a couple of other online magazines and local newspapers who are quite interested in me doing some writing for them, which is exciting :-)
Monday, 28 January 2013
Puerto Vallarta and Everythings are Bueno
Treating myself to another internet cafe session today-at 15p an hour, I really do spoil myself. Today there is a boy running the desk who looks like he has just stepped out of a time machine from Ipswich in 1992. He has long greasy curtains, chains on his jeans, and is forcing me to listen to some non-descript, dated thrash metal.
This weekend I went away to Puerto Vallerta on the Pacific coast to visit Fi, a really good friend of mine who happens to be there doing a similarish travelling project. I was really excited to see her, and also at the prospect of being about to chat to somebody English.
I set off at about 8am on Friday, all backpacked up and keen. The bus to the central bus station stops just around the corner from my house, but for some bizarre reason I got horribly lost again. I think because it was early, I wasn´t awake, and tend to get stuck in wandering mindset where I just follow my feet in a stubborn determination not to turn around or ask for directions. I knew I´d gone way out in the wrong direction long before I reached a tube station (turns out Guadalajara has a subway system?!) but actually, I quite enjoyed the opportunity to try it out. There is something quite comforting about subways- as much as I hate being underground, tubes tend to be pretty idiot-proof no matter which country one is in. It cost 3 pesos to get in through the gate (less than 15p!) which I didn´t have in exact change, but a nice man paid for me.
At Zapopan bus station, I muddled my way through buying a ticket to Puerto Vallerta, which cost about fifteen pounds for a 5 hour journey. The coaches were pretty comfy as well, complete with a TV screening films with hilarious Spanish dubbing. I watched something with Reese Witherspoon in it for a while, in the hope that I might learn something, but gave up after eventually realising that without a proper dialogue, not a lot really happens in Rom Coms. It was just a series of scenes with the actors alternating between looking giddy and depressed. I assumed the film would end with the giddy expressions and listened to my ipod whilst watching the impressive scenery outside the window.
Puerto Vallarta is a small but busy coastal town- pretty but very touristy. It was quite bizarre coming from such a non-english speaking place to an American holiday hub, with english signs and hitched up prices. The beach was gorgeous though, and I really felt like I was on holiday.
The weekend was spent eating, drinking and melting in the heat. I had my first experience of a Mexican club- quite a contrast from British clubs simply because Mexicans can ALL dance. Really well. But I´d had enough cocktails to believe that I could dance just as well, so it was fine. The 3am kebabs or cheesy chips were replaced with tacos, and we finally retreated to our respective homes and hostel.
On the Sunday, we spotted humpback whales breaching close to the beach, and I went in the sea- with waves to big I had to dive in through them. I'd say it was with the grace of a mermaid, but I would be lying. I am still finding sand in my ears.
That evening, Fi and Molly's host family were holding a fiesta, which I gladly gatecrashed. In true Mexican style, the party mostly took place in the street, causing passing buses to occasionally reverse back down the road rather than attempt to drive through the inflatable bucking bronco which attendees of all ages were having a go on. The snail salad and tequila were plentiful, although I'm ashamed to say I had neither as I needed to awake and healthy for the journey back later that night.
There were several young muchachos who were clearly quite baffled and excited by the group of white girls, and several hilarious spanglish conversations ensued. One boy proceeded to tell us all in turn that we had beautiful eyes, but soon after that had exhausted his english vocabulary and spent the rest of the night repeating the only other phrase he could drunkenly remember: "Hey, how is everything?" (emphasis on the EVerything), "Everythings are good?"
Luckily, a beautiful man dressed up as Shakira soon burst through the front of the house and began a (REALLY impressive) belly-dance and lip-sync show along to Shakira's music. This beautiful wig-wearing, bum-padded interderminate-gendered being turned out to be the son of the house owner, Ivan: a professional transvestite. I can honestly say I have never been so confused by or so attracted to such a confusingly attractive being. The mexicans were all over it.
And then it was my queue to go and catch th night bus back to Guadalajara. Not the best sleep I've ever had, but I did feel pretty invincible once I made it back to the city and crept into the house like a ninja at 7am. Pretty good weekend.
This weekend I went away to Puerto Vallerta on the Pacific coast to visit Fi, a really good friend of mine who happens to be there doing a similarish travelling project. I was really excited to see her, and also at the prospect of being about to chat to somebody English.
I set off at about 8am on Friday, all backpacked up and keen. The bus to the central bus station stops just around the corner from my house, but for some bizarre reason I got horribly lost again. I think because it was early, I wasn´t awake, and tend to get stuck in wandering mindset where I just follow my feet in a stubborn determination not to turn around or ask for directions. I knew I´d gone way out in the wrong direction long before I reached a tube station (turns out Guadalajara has a subway system?!) but actually, I quite enjoyed the opportunity to try it out. There is something quite comforting about subways- as much as I hate being underground, tubes tend to be pretty idiot-proof no matter which country one is in. It cost 3 pesos to get in through the gate (less than 15p!) which I didn´t have in exact change, but a nice man paid for me.
At Zapopan bus station, I muddled my way through buying a ticket to Puerto Vallerta, which cost about fifteen pounds for a 5 hour journey. The coaches were pretty comfy as well, complete with a TV screening films with hilarious Spanish dubbing. I watched something with Reese Witherspoon in it for a while, in the hope that I might learn something, but gave up after eventually realising that without a proper dialogue, not a lot really happens in Rom Coms. It was just a series of scenes with the actors alternating between looking giddy and depressed. I assumed the film would end with the giddy expressions and listened to my ipod whilst watching the impressive scenery outside the window.
As I stepped off the coach in PV, I could literally feel my hair expand with the humidity. A weekend looking like Simba was to be expected, really.Another bus ride and I was on the beach, meeting Fi and her friends from the project. Really quite surreal.
 |
| Me and my cocktails... |
 |
| Fi, looking like a local with Beth and Molly |
 |
| Anna practising her fire dancing on the beach |
The weekend was spent eating, drinking and melting in the heat. I had my first experience of a Mexican club- quite a contrast from British clubs simply because Mexicans can ALL dance. Really well. But I´d had enough cocktails to believe that I could dance just as well, so it was fine. The 3am kebabs or cheesy chips were replaced with tacos, and we finally retreated to our respective homes and hostel.
On the Sunday, we spotted humpback whales breaching close to the beach, and I went in the sea- with waves to big I had to dive in through them. I'd say it was with the grace of a mermaid, but I would be lying. I am still finding sand in my ears.
That evening, Fi and Molly's host family were holding a fiesta, which I gladly gatecrashed. In true Mexican style, the party mostly took place in the street, causing passing buses to occasionally reverse back down the road rather than attempt to drive through the inflatable bucking bronco which attendees of all ages were having a go on. The snail salad and tequila were plentiful, although I'm ashamed to say I had neither as I needed to awake and healthy for the journey back later that night.
There were several young muchachos who were clearly quite baffled and excited by the group of white girls, and several hilarious spanglish conversations ensued. One boy proceeded to tell us all in turn that we had beautiful eyes, but soon after that had exhausted his english vocabulary and spent the rest of the night repeating the only other phrase he could drunkenly remember: "Hey, how is everything?" (emphasis on the EVerything), "Everythings are good?"
Luckily, a beautiful man dressed up as Shakira soon burst through the front of the house and began a (REALLY impressive) belly-dance and lip-sync show along to Shakira's music. This beautiful wig-wearing, bum-padded interderminate-gendered being turned out to be the son of the house owner, Ivan: a professional transvestite. I can honestly say I have never been so confused by or so attracted to such a confusingly attractive being. The mexicans were all over it.
And then it was my queue to go and catch th night bus back to Guadalajara. Not the best sleep I've ever had, but I did feel pretty invincible once I made it back to the city and crept into the house like a ninja at 7am. Pretty good weekend.
 |
Thursday, 24 January 2013
La Familia
I have the luxury of a real keyboard at an internet cafe today, as I had to type up an article. As I sit here in a suspiciously private little booth, I am painfully aware that if I am to catch some kind of nasty jungle disease on my travels, it will be from this keyboard.
I´m enjoying my temporary home. Rosie cooks fantastic, traditional Mexican food which more often than not includes tacos and black beans, but it´s tasty. This morning I had a pawpaw/papaya (whatever you want to call it) on my corn flakes along with some mint tea. In the first few days I was given a well-stewed cup of coffee with every meal, which in turn found its way to the plant outside my room. I wait with great anticipation to see whether this plant dies or turns into some kind of pimped up Super Plant.
In the mornings before going to the Orphanage, I tend to either walk into town or sit on the roof in the sunshine. Yesterday I accomplished my set mission of Finding The Post Office- Mexicans just don´t seem to send mail! There are hardly any postboxes and you can´t buy stamps anywhere... But there's nothing quite like chilling on the roof with the herbs and the dog faeces. The husband (I still don´t know his name, and everyone tends to refer to him as "Rosie´s Husband") spends most of his time on the roof fiddling about with a broken washing machine. He sits in his coat while I sweat it out in a t-shirt, and spends a lot of time taking the machine apart and putting it back together again. From time to time he growls and mutters at the mad dog who runs around in circles, eating his own foot or tail: "eeeehhhhh.... Pinche Flacco. Flacco loco", which means "Goddamn Flacco. Crazy Flacco..." I am beginning to suspect that the husband doesn´t really want to fix the machine and uses it as an excuse to have some peace from Rosie.
They both like music and always have multiple radios playing the house-mostly cheesy stereotypical Mexican music, but the other night I heard husband singing and playing a ballad on his guitar. I think he thought that nobody else was in.
Rosie sings as she cooks, and does her best to learn the english words for things from me, while I try to learn the spanish from her. We have a slight problem with the word "fork", though. I've decided it's better to teach her to just refer to it as 'cutlery'. The other day Rosie came flying in the house later than usual, and showed me that she'd been to an English class for retired people, which was quite sweet.
I'm finding it really frustrating not being able to understand people mostof the time- especially in the orphanage. NObody here speaks English, apart from Ariel, the co-ordinator guy. I do a lot of miming and muddle through, but I do have to remind myself that I've only been here a week now, and that I am actually picking things up fairly quickly, all things considered. God knows why it makes sense for me to spend two weeks at the orphange to "help my spanish" before I go to the English-language newspaper, where presumably somebody must speak English... Mexican logic.
I´m enjoying my temporary home. Rosie cooks fantastic, traditional Mexican food which more often than not includes tacos and black beans, but it´s tasty. This morning I had a pawpaw/papaya (whatever you want to call it) on my corn flakes along with some mint tea. In the first few days I was given a well-stewed cup of coffee with every meal, which in turn found its way to the plant outside my room. I wait with great anticipation to see whether this plant dies or turns into some kind of pimped up Super Plant.
In the mornings before going to the Orphanage, I tend to either walk into town or sit on the roof in the sunshine. Yesterday I accomplished my set mission of Finding The Post Office- Mexicans just don´t seem to send mail! There are hardly any postboxes and you can´t buy stamps anywhere... But there's nothing quite like chilling on the roof with the herbs and the dog faeces. The husband (I still don´t know his name, and everyone tends to refer to him as "Rosie´s Husband") spends most of his time on the roof fiddling about with a broken washing machine. He sits in his coat while I sweat it out in a t-shirt, and spends a lot of time taking the machine apart and putting it back together again. From time to time he growls and mutters at the mad dog who runs around in circles, eating his own foot or tail: "eeeehhhhh.... Pinche Flacco. Flacco loco", which means "Goddamn Flacco. Crazy Flacco..." I am beginning to suspect that the husband doesn´t really want to fix the machine and uses it as an excuse to have some peace from Rosie.
They both like music and always have multiple radios playing the house-mostly cheesy stereotypical Mexican music, but the other night I heard husband singing and playing a ballad on his guitar. I think he thought that nobody else was in.
Rosie sings as she cooks, and does her best to learn the english words for things from me, while I try to learn the spanish from her. We have a slight problem with the word "fork", though. I've decided it's better to teach her to just refer to it as 'cutlery'. The other day Rosie came flying in the house later than usual, and showed me that she'd been to an English class for retired people, which was quite sweet.
I'm finding it really frustrating not being able to understand people mostof the time- especially in the orphanage. NObody here speaks English, apart from Ariel, the co-ordinator guy. I do a lot of miming and muddle through, but I do have to remind myself that I've only been here a week now, and that I am actually picking things up fairly quickly, all things considered. God knows why it makes sense for me to spend two weeks at the orphange to "help my spanish" before I go to the English-language newspaper, where presumably somebody must speak English... Mexican logic.
A police car just drove past which cues the dogs to run the window and howl like some kind of dog-sacred ritual. And I can smell tortillas,which means lunch will soon be ready.
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| Luna (on a rare occasion sans pink fleece) and Flacco, behind |
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| Chucita |
Tuesday, 22 January 2013
On the Taxi Mafia Hitlist
Yesterday was a little bit difficult. I'm really tired- although I'm sleeping like a dead dog every night despite the live music across the road.
Ariel said he would pick me up around ten to take me to the orphange.At around eleven-thirty, he appeared and we set off to the street corner for a lesson in Mexican bus travel...
For 6 pesos (about 30p), you can buy a bus ticket which will take you in a loop around the whole of the city. That is, if you manage to a) flag down a bus and b)survive the journey. Ariel warned me that the drivers get pretty bored of driving in a circle all day every day, and often race each other at twice the speed limit. The buses are also ridiculously designed so that the driver sits so high up over a big fat bonnet, he cannot see any pedestrians within a very close range, and so anyone stupid enough to walk in front of the bus will more than likely find themselves under it without the driver even noticing. They are however, very well equipped for disabled people, with three or four seats marked at the front of the bus in yellow. These seats are reserved stricly for the elderly and disabled and anyone less in need can be fined for using them. This means that, much like in the UK, a bus will often be packed to bursting with people standing and clinging on for dear life, yet those three seats will remain free as a bird. Perhaps the erradic driving is an attempt to create more disabled people to fill the spaces.
Two buses and a military-strict lesson from Ariel on landmarks later, we arrived in a pretty fancy area of the city- complete with Sloppy Joe's and a Starbucks. The orphange building itself was donated by wealthy Catholics, and the place, like many, is run and dependent on volunteers from the church.
Today was my first proper day at the orphange, which was difficult, butnot for the reasons I was expecting... Firstly, the street where I would catch the first bus from was closed off dueto an accident (probably bus related). After wasting a lot of time hunting around for my bus, I hailed a taxi which took me to completely the wrong place. After a good hour wandering around asking several people for directions in shops and on the street, I called Ariel for help. I found it really quite strange that pretty much nobody has heard of the quite famous orphanage.
Another bus ride and finally at my destination, I was handed a baby and sat feeding it pulped fish for over an hour. It was pretty rank. All the children at the home have cerebral palsy, and a lot of them have brain damage or other impairments too. A select few go to school in the morning, but most are very disabled and some cannot move at all. It's desperately sad, but I can't say that I felt particularly upset of sorry for the children, because they are so well looked-after. I was glad to be of help there, but I've never fed or even held a baby before in my life and it didn't come naturally. Without meaning to sound totally heartless, I definitely won't be adopting anyone. But I will write about them.
Ariel has arranged a Spanish tutor for me this week, starting tonight at 8pm... The journey home was a riot. I felt quite relieved to be going home as I sat on the 634, but a few stops later- many before my own, the driver stopped and told us all to get off. I could see los policia in the distance and deduced that either another road was closed, or the driver needed a quick getaway... so I was stranded once again. With nothing in my pockets, I hailed another taxi- this one with a driver who chewed on a stick and didn't seem to respond to my persistant chanting of "Priscilio Sanchez- expetorio?"... A couple of streets down, he stopped to open the glove compartment: "no me gafas!" and it all made sense- he hadn't got his glasses with him.
Suffice to say, I made it home. I told him to wait uno momento while I ran in- thirty minutes late for my lesson- to grab some cash.When I came back out, he was gone... Just another day in Mexico, really!
Ariel said he would pick me up around ten to take me to the orphange.At around eleven-thirty, he appeared and we set off to the street corner for a lesson in Mexican bus travel...
For 6 pesos (about 30p), you can buy a bus ticket which will take you in a loop around the whole of the city. That is, if you manage to a) flag down a bus and b)survive the journey. Ariel warned me that the drivers get pretty bored of driving in a circle all day every day, and often race each other at twice the speed limit. The buses are also ridiculously designed so that the driver sits so high up over a big fat bonnet, he cannot see any pedestrians within a very close range, and so anyone stupid enough to walk in front of the bus will more than likely find themselves under it without the driver even noticing. They are however, very well equipped for disabled people, with three or four seats marked at the front of the bus in yellow. These seats are reserved stricly for the elderly and disabled and anyone less in need can be fined for using them. This means that, much like in the UK, a bus will often be packed to bursting with people standing and clinging on for dear life, yet those three seats will remain free as a bird. Perhaps the erradic driving is an attempt to create more disabled people to fill the spaces.
Two buses and a military-strict lesson from Ariel on landmarks later, we arrived in a pretty fancy area of the city- complete with Sloppy Joe's and a Starbucks. The orphange building itself was donated by wealthy Catholics, and the place, like many, is run and dependent on volunteers from the church.
Today was my first proper day at the orphange, which was difficult, butnot for the reasons I was expecting... Firstly, the street where I would catch the first bus from was closed off dueto an accident (probably bus related). After wasting a lot of time hunting around for my bus, I hailed a taxi which took me to completely the wrong place. After a good hour wandering around asking several people for directions in shops and on the street, I called Ariel for help. I found it really quite strange that pretty much nobody has heard of the quite famous orphanage.
Another bus ride and finally at my destination, I was handed a baby and sat feeding it pulped fish for over an hour. It was pretty rank. All the children at the home have cerebral palsy, and a lot of them have brain damage or other impairments too. A select few go to school in the morning, but most are very disabled and some cannot move at all. It's desperately sad, but I can't say that I felt particularly upset of sorry for the children, because they are so well looked-after. I was glad to be of help there, but I've never fed or even held a baby before in my life and it didn't come naturally. Without meaning to sound totally heartless, I definitely won't be adopting anyone. But I will write about them.
Ariel has arranged a Spanish tutor for me this week, starting tonight at 8pm... The journey home was a riot. I felt quite relieved to be going home as I sat on the 634, but a few stops later- many before my own, the driver stopped and told us all to get off. I could see los policia in the distance and deduced that either another road was closed, or the driver needed a quick getaway... so I was stranded once again. With nothing in my pockets, I hailed another taxi- this one with a driver who chewed on a stick and didn't seem to respond to my persistant chanting of "Priscilio Sanchez- expetorio?"... A couple of streets down, he stopped to open the glove compartment: "no me gafas!" and it all made sense- he hadn't got his glasses with him.
Suffice to say, I made it home. I told him to wait uno momento while I ran in- thirty minutes late for my lesson- to grab some cash.When I came back out, he was gone... Just another day in Mexico, really!
Monday, 21 January 2013
And on the Fourth Day
...I finally worked out how to use the shower.
DO not panic, I have been washing up until this point, but Mexican bathrooms are complicated things.
The shower is created using a series of clever pipes,running across the roof to warm up before coming down into the bathroom, via the sink and shower head. This means that most of the time, all water is tepid-from either hot or cold tap. Depending on how many people have used the shower and how closely together of course, the roof-warrmed water soon runs out, resulting in a very cold shower indeed.
Yesterday, I learnt that there is in fact a boiler, which one must light by hand- with a match- to have a lovely hot shower.I got a little overexcited by this and left the water boiling for too long, pretty much scalding myself. And of course the tap marked as cold is actualy hot, and the tap marked as hot dosn't work at all when the boiler is running... it's all pretty stressful.
But today, I felt ready for the shower. I turned on the boiler, had some breakfast, and turned it of again. I waited two minutes before indulging in pure, temporal shower bliss.
DO not panic, I have been washing up until this point, but Mexican bathrooms are complicated things.
The shower is created using a series of clever pipes,running across the roof to warm up before coming down into the bathroom, via the sink and shower head. This means that most of the time, all water is tepid-from either hot or cold tap. Depending on how many people have used the shower and how closely together of course, the roof-warrmed water soon runs out, resulting in a very cold shower indeed.
Yesterday, I learnt that there is in fact a boiler, which one must light by hand- with a match- to have a lovely hot shower.I got a little overexcited by this and left the water boiling for too long, pretty much scalding myself. And of course the tap marked as cold is actualy hot, and the tap marked as hot dosn't work at all when the boiler is running... it's all pretty stressful.
But today, I felt ready for the shower. I turned on the boiler, had some breakfast, and turned it of again. I waited two minutes before indulging in pure, temporal shower bliss.
Sunday, 20 January 2013
Zapapon and Stolen Fruit
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| The church and square near my house |
I live right in the centre of Guadalajara on a tiny, pretty street, but if you step around the corner, you'll bump straight into a pretty massive church on a buzzing square. Rosie is out this evening visiting her family, so I sat on this square this afternoon after a pretty busy day's explorations and had a grilled chicken salad for about two pounds fifty.*
[* I have just discovered that this keyboard has no pound sign. This could drive me slightly mad.]
On Friday afternoon, just after I'd arrived, Ariel took me on a little walking tour of the city. This helped me to get a feel of the place as well as relax a bit as I saw for myself how safe and laid-back the place is. Ariel assured me that although I do very much stick out like a sore thumb, it's perfectly ok for me to walk around by myself with my camera and not be hassled by anyone, as long as I kept some money in my shoes and my bra: "just in cases". Wise man indeed.
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| Central Guadalajara cathedral in the evening light |
It was nice to get to know Ariel a bit, too- walking past the street-sellars he'd often stop and chat to them about what they were selling. A lot of people seemed to know him and would come over to hug him or shake hands, often shaking mine too as I was his associate. This makes Ariel sound like some kind of local celebrity, which is not exactly the impression I got, rather just that he has a lot of friends and cares about helping the local community. As we walked, he bought some crisps from one such street-seller, who smothered them in a hot sauce and lime juice for us to share. "It's important to support the locals," he told me, and in turn showed me which stalls were stocked with good quality Mexican goods, and which were Chinese imports.
I look forward to hearing Ariel's life story one day: on the drive back from the airport on Friday, we stopped at some traffic lights and some rather grubby looking travellers came over to the window asking for change. I was hardly shocked by this- in South Africa this kind of begging was to be expected, and most people were pretty hardened to it, ignoring the beggars and driving on- we did; it's understandable. But Ariel shook one guy's hand and gave hhim some change. Later he explained to me that they were travellers from further south- Honduras or Nicaragua, maybe, and were making their way via freight trains up to the USA border. "I like to support them, to try and keep them safe, because I did that trip once myself, at 18," he said. "America is shit and they might not be happy there at all, but they're chasing the American dream, so I can't tell them that."
After a day of exploring the local area yesterday, my plan for today was to get a bus somewhere slightly further afield. Emma and James were off to the coast for a few days, soset off pretty early, but as I set out past the square a couple of hours later, I bumped into them. The bus they were planning to catch hadn't turned up, perhaps because it was a Sunday, which didn't bode well for my plans either. They decided to get a taxi to Zapapon, a place where buses might be more plentiful, so I hopped i with them.
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| Child by Zapopan Basilica |
Zapapon offered us yet another massive church, which at that moment was in the process of holding a service, but oddly enough was rather drowned out by the bells and chanting of a group of native tribespeople, positioned in front. I sat watching them for a while, mesmorized, wondering if it was some kind of anti-Catholocism protest.
A little while later, I wandered into a modern art museum, which turned out to be full of trippy, erotic cartoons: all lovingly drawn by one doped up "artist" who obviously didn't have a girlfriend. Walking through the totally empty gallery, along very high walls filled with hundreds of those cartoons, I could hear sporadic bells and chimes from the Indians outside, and pretty soon began to think that I too, was going mad. It was time to leave Zapopan.A comedy-scene ensued, featuring me attempting to haggle with taxi drivers,telling the front-most that his ego was "out of control"- because it was one of the few phrases I culd remember, and it was probably true. His friend then drove down the road to find me and drove me back for half the price.
The best part of my day had to be back in the centre, trying to buy a single orange from the market. The boy on the stall laughed at me when he realised that one was all I wanted, and picked out the "best", giving it to me for free. And it was probably one of the best oranges I've ever had.
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