Sunday 7th November, 2009 - anthropologed.

Still stiff from yesterday, I felt the lifeblood flow back into me after my second helping of French toast and coffee, and hurried off to make the most of the Bosque Chapultepec - Mexico's Hyde park.

No sooner was I in through the gates than I found myself being herded with the crowds towards the zoo, and before I knew it, was face to face with baboons, chimps, gibbons, orang-utans, giant pandas and sleeping lions. (Isn't there a saying about that?)

Though grateful for the chance to see many of this splendid animals, I did feel a pang of sandness at the poor orang-utan stuck behind a glass cage in what looked like a psychotherpy treatment ward from One Flew Over the Cuckoos' nest - totally unfurnished, with yellowing tiled floors and a bare table. (Isn't there an expression about 'being kept like a caged animal'? If we know it's so bad - why do we do it? Answers on a postcard to 'I want to save the world from the comfort of my armchair.com'..)

After the zoo, I made my way out, and was surprised to find myself running against an increasingly heavy tide of Sunday picnickers, armed with vats of soda and cooling boxes, who were thronging past the hundreds and hundreds of coloured stalls selling brightly red and green coloured 'wotsits', chilli fruits, pork scratchings, crisps, wrestling masks (could be Power Rangers - I'm out of touch..), water, popcorn, candy floss, wooden toys, boxers with bums on, caricaturists and all manner of other unexpected things. And to think people come here to get away from the hustle and bustle of the city! It felt like a brightly coloured London Stock exchange (though the one from the eighties...not today, naturally..), as the vendors screamed to be heard above one another.

One noticeable trend, was the number of families, many of them very young (from where I stand anyway..), with babies in arms, and not a pushchair in sight. Babies and children would be carried around all day, and this stood in stark contrast to the well-heeled American couple pushing the Hummer of all pushchairs, equipped with standard in-house entertainment. It occurred to me that sometimes, we on the other side of the world, with all our cleverness, have developed ourselves out of some of life's smaller pleasures...(Let's see if I'm still saying then when the time comes for me to carry a baby or to invest in the mother of all pushchairs....)

On my way to the Museo de la Anthropologica, I was approached by a keen group of kids who wanted to ask me some questions in English, and film me doing it. Keen to show off my skills (and frankly - having not spoken to anyone all weekend - glad to make conversation..) I agreed, and proceeded to answer a tour de table of "Do you like music?" "What's your favourite song?" "Do you like films?" "What's your favourite film?" "Do you like reading'' "What's your favourite book?""Have you tried mole?" (This one seemed a bit random..) "Do you like Mexican boys?" (Suddenly, I don't like where this is going...)

I gave them a phoney email address and made my way in, feeling like I'd done some heroic civic duty.

The Museum is beautifully laid out (though they could have stuck a big 'START' sign on the door, so that I wouldn't end up reading history backwards and being decidedly impressed at how advanced the vastly older B.C civilisations were, and how strikingly STUPID their more recent ancestors were, who could barely daub an ox on the wall of their cave....really.

The Mayan and Aztec (or Mexica) halls were by far the more fascinating, largely on account of the replicated sacrificial sites and pyramids, and artefacts of scarificial swords used to carve out hearts and cut off heads to appease their, frankly, quite demanding Gods. Their knowledge of astronomy, agriculture and engineering is astounding, and the idea of a 20 day month, in my view, quite appealing.

I managed a few hours before my brain switched off, but not before I'd visited Pankal's highly elaborate and rich tomb (he had wisely had a few men slaughtered - just to keep him company and carry his many riches on his way to the afterlife...good thinking - supermarket trolleys didn't exist back then..), photographed the giant Olmec basalt headstones, read about Oaxaca's history (ahaaa"So that's what that meant!) and tripped over some poor bugger in the dark of a video room.

A disappointing glance round the Gift shop (you can't say I haven't tried), and off I went to the modern mecca of 'Liverpool' store to spend some of those unused pesos. Another happy day. I wonder if my Spanish has improved?

Saturday 6th November - Polanco to Centro Historico

I awoke as a shipwreck this morning. The weekends are killing me.

After arriving here on Friday night, I was delighted to find myself in a wholly cosmopolitan neighbourhood of Mexico City – a leafy suburb not unlike west London in many ways (there are at least as many Starbucks, though possibly slightly fewer organic food delis’..)

My room has a splendid view from the 23rd floor, though it does make me feel slightly woosy on the last stretch of the elevator…like going over a bump in the road.

After a super breakfast of fresh fruit, waffles and French toast (my newfound love..), I carefully planned my day’s travels. Having lost of mobile phone on Friday, including all the numbers of people I know here, plus ‘safe’ taxis.. (don’t grimace Mother – it wasn’t my fault – and it’s only temporary I hope), I was most concerned about finding myself anywhere beyond walking distance of the hotel. However, not wanting to deny myself, I brought a whole new meaning to the concept of ‘wallking distance’ as I limped back yesterday evening, seven hours after leaving the hotel, and some 120km later. (I’m making that figure up, I really have no idea how far I walked…but judging by my blisters, numb thighs and headache, it really was quite far..)

Paseo de la reforma - bench madness..Out of the hotel and past the Chapultepec park, I ambled carefree for the first few kilometres, down the long ‘Paseo de la reforma’ which currently exhibits a photo collection of ‘Mexico by Mexicans’ as well as the permanent collection of well-known historical Mexican figures, odd public benches and a semi-permanent installation of ‘alebrijes’ – brightly coloured papier-mâché Mexican handicrafts that would not look out of place on the set of Harry Potter…

'AlebrijesFirst on my list of sights was the Mercado de Londres, in the Zona Rosa, and apparently known for its silver crafts. The only problem was, 174 calle de Londres seemed not to exist, and I found myself feeling somewhat vulnerable as I spotted the sign that read ‘Tourists, careful..” or something to that effect. I made a quick getaway, and gratefully found myself soon after outside a giant, gleaming shopping mall with Starbucks, Sanborns and Calvin Kleinnbeaming happily down at me.

I continued on a while longer, deviating this time towards the ‘Mercado Artisanal de Buenavista’, (you'd think I might have learned..) which was down the longest road in the city, and ensconced among a hoard of gothic, metal-head and skateboardy types, many of whom were negotiating skateboard wares in the midst of the crowds. It feel like being outside Wembly on match day. But I was wrong to think that they were queuing for the Mercado Artesanal…..The Mercado was full of….I guess typical stuff, which though much of it was very..typical, I couldn’t really find a sound reason to part with my persos, so wandered off back through the metal-heads and skaters.

By now I was famished and my head hurting, so I hunted down the nearest Sanborns with the skill of a bush-tracker, and found one huddled in between Paseo de la reforma and the Centro historico.

My belly now better, I muddled my way into the craziness of the Centro historico, took a few snaps of the beautiful art deco ‘Palacio de bella artes’, and headed towards the Zocalo or main plaza, past row after row of gold and silver jewellery shops. (Again, I tried – and nearly parted with some pesos for a small silver treasure chest and matching pennies, but it occurred to me that might not be so cute out of context, and I left it be).

In front of the Zocalo, I witnessed some aromatic witchcraft, as a queue of people lined up to have themselves wafted with native Indian incense (which was actually some kind of brush of leaves or herbs), while others had the Shaman blow at them with a conch shell. Fascinating.

The Zocale was unsurprisingly PACKED, including some poor French lad who kept moaning incessantly to his girlfriend that his feet were killing him and he was hungry. I miss JL.

Past the rows of portaloos and the streams of people eating dark green, stiff tortillas covered in spices, cottage cheese and other stuff, I decided that since I was here, I may as well try and visit the ‘Templo Mayor’ – the original site where the Aztecs set up Tenotchtitlàn (what is now Mexico City) and do at least one cultural activity today. However, fate was not on my side, and I managed to walk around the entire Zocale EXCEPT the bit with the bloody Templo Mayor in it (I got to thinking that it can’t be that bloody mayor if it was this hard to find..) and when I did eventually come upon it, was disappointed to see that it was just a hunk of old ruins.

“What do you like most about Mexico?”

“Oh, the history….definitely. Fascinating…”

The Zocalo area though, is fascinating, and history (and a trip to the Museo de la Anthropologica) tells us that the Aztecs set up the city here after their tribal God spotted an eagle fulfil a long-held prophecy by landing on a cactus and devouring a snake. As you do. Of course, the fact that the spot was in the middle of an island was no obstacle to the Aztecs, they simply invented the engineering and waterworks skills needed to work around that.

Exhausted by the crowds, I made one last stop at the ‘Dulaceria de celaya’ on Cinco de Mayo, before retracing my path back to the hotel, along the long, long, long, long Paseo de la Reforma.

As I skipped past the cactus trees that line the middle of the pavement along the Paseo, I reflected on just quite how bnkers the Centro historico is - and began thinking that if I was mayor of Mexico City, I would make an immediate improvement by taking car horns of all of my citizens, and ban traffic police officers from using their whistles. It would make the place a whole lot more pleasant, with only a few lives lost as diehard pedestrians would step out in front of the red and yellow taxis. A small price to pay.. And while I was at it – I might just put a curfew on girlfriends too (or any lovers for that matter), as Mexicans are just far too smugly amourous for my liking. Can’t they just pretend to bear each other like we do back home? Instead of walking arms in arm, chest-to-shoulder, in base of neck, or united as one, one clasped behind the other as they march in time together? Really..…there’s no need for it.

I guess I really do miss JL….

A quick weeks summary

Well, the week has been pretty uneventful, as I've finally recovered from jet lag, got into the office rhythmn (though not quite the 3 o'clock lunch pattern..) and managed to learn about six new Spanish words (one of which is 'penis' and another which is 'dildo'. I probably didn't need to write those down...vive UNAIDS..)

My only spare time was spent wandering the streets in search of much longed-for blandness. How I long for some blandness in this overly flavoursome country! Even the air is flavoured. I've been haunted by a longing for plain (and not sweet) bread, sandwiches without mayonnaise, coffee without syrup, crisps without chillies, fruit without jalapeños! Try as I might, there's always some flavour lurking in there. Indeed, even in otherwise nonchalent nondescript streets, there're often parked cars selling flavour out of their boot, dribbling on to the pavement out of polystrene boxes. Mexicans have no aversions to picking up their lunch out of the back of a lorry it would seem, provided they can put some alcoholic jelly on their hands before going back to work...
Not that I want to fault them on the hygiene front - many cafés and restaurants ensure their staff are wearing facemasks, if not hairnets. It's like eating on the set of E.R..

On the other hand, for those who are slightly more fussy (don't look at me like that..) there's a whole other population of lunchtime picnickers - whose wares are forked out of a tupperware. The tin of tuna and jalapeño peppers has to win the prize for the least imaginative (not to mention the least appealing...she bothered to carry a plate with her for that?)

Anyway, I'm now comfortably ensconsed on the 23rd floor of the hotel Intercontinental, and strutting around the neighbourhood like some movie star, feeling independent and invincible. So invincible, that I dared walk a block away from the hotel, to 'Lyna's café', where I spent a happy evening with a sopa de verduras and a shwarma del pollo, and last summer's edition of 'People' magazine. Poor Brangelina. And was Jennifer someone, really playing tennis in those heels? I suspect not..

(I did catch myself being surprisingly uncool though, as I reached for the seat belt on my chair once seated in the restaurant! The food is spicy, but racy too? Hmm..)

The weekend ahead looks promising. The Museum of Anthropology, a little jaunt round the Chapultepec park, a roam around the saturday market and hopefully, a spot of shopping!

Buenas noches.

Monte Albán: Zapotec castle-building

Pàn de muertos and 'muertitos' heads.

Monday, 2nd November 2009

Fresh from my long nights rest, I rose early and met Jose Antonio for (yes....hot cakes..), dead-head bread and coffee.

We headed out around 9.30 towards Monte Alban - one of the most historic sites of Zapotec civilization, that was miraculously unspoilt by those meanie Spanish conquistadors since it was preserved on top of a mound over which the grass and shrubbage had grown, and well away from the valley of Oaxaca. Indeed, the nasty Spaniards of the times had a destructive tendency to demolish everything pre-them, and pillage their stones to make their own castles. (Remember that spoilt little boy on every beach across the world, who spitefully knocks down a rival little boy's sandcastle. He's re-enacting history...)

Monte Alban is a series of temples, built on an as yet unexplained flat-topped mountain (unexplained since when it was first built, back in 1,500 BC, neither animals big enough nor tools significant enough to scrape away a mountain top had been invented or imported). The site comes complete with 'pelota' sports court, (a distant cousin of pelote basque - or squash, but with the quirky difference that the winner gets to die! Novel thought!), an uber cutting edge sundial statue, astromony-viewing platform and stone carvings depicting various surgical interventions practiced at the time. (Frightening to think that they had the tools to carry out highly technical medical surgery, but not to write it down on anything more convenient than a four floot stone slab in cartoon graphics).

More interestingly though, was the contrast between what had been presented in my 'trusty' Western guide book as 'scenes of torture of prisoners of war', and what was very plausibly described by our guide as early medical interventions. Colonization lives, it would seem...

The site is built according to principles of science from the time, that pre-dated the Spanish catholic religion - so that buildings, each reflecting a particular God (these being a 'politeist' - or multi-Godded bunch of people) are built to accomodate the various sun and season configurations. The representation of the cross symbol too - indissociable to our minds from religion, was a scientific symbol for signalling directions. Genius.

We also learned that in the pre-colombian era, many numbers of races lived in these parts, and if I'd had to meet any of them, I would certainly go for the sense-of-humour endowed 'viscos', who would place a pebble between their eyes to encourage their going cross-eyed - a recognised a sign of beauty. Good times...

After treipsing round the mound for a good hour and a bit, we headed off to the other side of Oaxaca to visit Mitla, the site that replaced Monte Alban as the centre of Zapotec business, but which suffered at the hands of the conquistadors, who kicked it down and built a Catholic sandcastle in its place.

Our cultural tour ended with yet more mole - but home-made this time, at the most amazing house in the country (I've checked..it is..). I'm mole'd up. Time for bed. (Or a 6 hour bus ride back to Mexico...como lo quieres.)

Buenas noches.

Sunday 1st November - (but who would know?!)

The place is buzzing - nothing like Sunday back home! Seized by the headache from hell that was actually making me feel sick and half blind, I was suitably zombified for the día del muertos - so headed out for breakfast (ahh, more pancakes and dead-head bread..mmm...), and sat next to a couple of construction workers who were happily tucking into a plate of enchiladas by all accounts. It must take years of training to reach this level of intestinal discipline...

I packed my things and wondered down to the centro historico - past a maze of beautiful, terraced, low rise coloured colonial buildings, (most of which were actually modern hotels and bars..) through a lush park full of touristas, fountains, street vendors and marigolds (and that pink flower..often seen in hot countries...dammit..) and zigzagged my way to the Santo Domingo cathedral square, even more animated than yesterday, and got a full daylight view of the impressive tapetes, multiple offerings to the dead and overflowing cafes.

It was around 10.45am by now, so time for 'almeuerzo' - the mid-morning snack to keep those hungry Mexicans going till lunchtime. (I'd had this notion explained to me several times, but somewhow, the multiple meal syndrome just kept escaping me. 'Breakfast' (desayuno) was the first meal of the day - typically desribed as 'light' and comprised of sweet bread or a patisserie, and coffee. Given that lunch -or 'la comida' doesn't waft it's tablecloth til about 3pm, they naturally get hungry around 11pm, so their elevenses (almeurzo) are a fairly substantial affair, with meat, 'enchiladas', 'tortillas' piled high with stuff, 'tortas', (Mexican sandwiches...that put Marks and Spencers to shame..), eggs, black coffee, fruit juice and 'atole' (a thick maize-based hot chocolate-like drink). Just to keep you going....

From the Zocalo, it was just a short walk past a man with a van selling scrapey-ice lollies (see Panama blog..) and improbably brightly coloured jellies in upside-down plastic glasses sometimes with bits of fruit (I suspect..) in to the Mercado del Juaréz - though once there, it took me a while to figure out how to get in. There were street vendors armed with sugar skulls and chocolate coffins blocking every passageway, and pán del muertos the size of, well, me, piled up high.

Not ones to pass up an opportunity to celebrate death, Mexican stallholders also had a quaint way of stacking the bread on long stretchers, over which they would cast a white sheet -consequently looking not dissimilar to a cadavre of a lately moved on earthling. Tasty...

The market was a veritable labyrinth of odours, noise and colours, from baskets of chillies of all colours and sizes (OK, mostly a variation on red..), baskets of powders, bowls of 'mole' paste and boxes of dried mole, bottles of 'Mezcal' with or without little worm at the bottom (Mezcal is an agave-plant liquor, fairly similar to Tequila - though don't tell the purists I said that..) , bags of quesillo and little woven baskets of 'queso de canasta', beautifully wrapped 'tamales', vintage market stall bags with 'la Catarina' skeleton and Frida Kahlo, potions, lotions, belts, sombreros, cowboy hats and boots, traditional dress and Halloween fancy dress, burning incense and smoking sausages and long strips of meat (some of which were so long and thin, they must have unrolled an entire cow from head to tail..)

At the food bars, entire families jostled for space around the pile of tortillas and plates of salad, limes and chillies onto which were being dished steaming hot meat, sauce, salsa and God knows what else.

Exhausted by the sheer fun of it all, I tried to find my way out of this part of town towards the mercado del slightly más rustico, but ended up in some possibly dodgy areas of town where ladies not unlike those we put on the front of our 'AIDS epidemic update' booklets, stood in very little garb on their doorsteps beckoning the cowboys to stop in for some...well, I don't like to think.

It was at this point I realised how cunning Hansel had been to leave a trail of breadcrumbs behind him, because the old town was a maze of similar looking streets, and it took me HOURS to find my way back to the little park by my hotel. At one point, convinced I was on the right track (yes, I definitely recognise that tree up there...definitely..), I found myself at what I thought must be a visiting funfair. Ha! EL DIA DEL MUERTOS strikes again!

This lively, noisy, strongly aromatic place with food, music and flower stalls was no other than the biggest cemetery (pantéon) in town! Huge swathes of people thronged through the street, and as I peeked through the cemetry gates, I saw the most cinematic, heaven-like scene of lightness and flowers, and colours and joy! It suddenly became clear to me, this manifestation of an old Indian tradition to consider life as just a passageway. Offerings of food would be left for the departed, to last them on the journey to the next life. In stricter Catholic families, prayers would be sent back and forwards among the family for whole month of November.

Of couse, this was all very well and nice, but it was getting late and my piernas were beginning to feel a bit numb, and since that wasn't the tree I thought I had recognised after all, I retraced my steps and finally found my way back to the hotel for a well earned rest. Of about half an hour. Before Jose Antonio turned up looking fresh and full of the joys of November. Sigh...

We had been invited to lunch that afternoon by JA's friends - an incredible locals-only typical Oaxacan restaurant in Zaachilla. I say incredible - it all turned slightly sour when a bowl of chapulines was plumped in front of me...grasshoppers. To eat. My table pals wasted no time in filling their tortillas with the crunchy red littles beasts, as I looked on in horror and gulped down some coke to calm my nerves.

"What's the weirdest thing you eat in your country Rebekah?" Um...(I would say supernoodles, but I'm not sure they'd get it..) fried mars bar? Tete de veau? Frogs legs? Snails? Finally, I guess we're not all that different...

After the trauma of grasshoppers, I opted for the mole negro - a thick, oozing black sauce made of over 30 ing

redients (cinammon, dried bread, tomatoes, onio

n, chillies, plantain, chocolate and 23 other things..). It was, delicious. One down, six other mole's to try.

Why oh why though did I try to finish it? No sooner was my plate removed, that a brandy snap type thing was plopped down in front of me, filled with sliced coconut and cream. A nice finish.

To try and wash away some of this greed that was soiling my insides, I agreed to coffee, and to taste a cafe del ollo (which I pronounced 'de oyo' to the delight of everyone present - though none of whom were willing to tell me what I'd said..) This is a particularly sugary, cinammon-flavoured coffee. A perfectly reasonable end to a perfectly unreasonable repas I think. What do you think?

My stomach now having assumed cartoon-like proportions, I waddled my way over to the car, and we headed off to prepare for the evening's fancy dress competition.

Several hours later, as the time approached for us to go out and party, I gutlessly withdrew, feeling neither able to stay up past 10pm, ingest another centimetre of anything or speak in any language known to man. A better choice for all concerned I told myself. Shame on you. But I did get a good night's rest. And Notting Hill is such a lovely film...

Saturday 31st October, 2009

After waking early, and managing to fall back to sleep (there was a chance I could have stayed awake, but what would it prove?), I was rudely re-awakened by a nice man from the phone company who was simply enquiring whether my newly acquired mobile phone was working properly. AT 8.30AM?? I DON'T SPEAK BLOODY SPANISH - NOW YOU CAN SEE ITS WORKING CAN'T YOU?! ADÍOS! Bloody foreigners...

I rose and dressed (showering, of course..) and at reception was handed a note from yet another kindly well meaning person who had been nominated my guide for the day! When would it end?

I moseyed down the road to the hotel restaurant (twice, as I wasn't quite sure I had understood, but it was indeed, down the road and on the corner) and was served a pile of delicious and thick fluffy pancakes ('hot cakes' in Spanish....go figure..), with maple syrup, delicious coffee, more pán del muertos (this time with a small head poking out - how cute - yet unappetizing - this one looked like Frida Kahlo..) and some watermelon (seved with a bit of lime - combination which I have yet to fathom - it's not Corona...but there's a bit of lime in it...but it's not Corona..).

Fully contented by this fabulous start to the day, I was then met by Lesvia (who has three other names but I can't tell you because I'm discreet...can't pronounce any of them, and have anyway forgotten them) and her son who would be back to pick me up at 11am for my days outing. So this is what it's like to be retired!

After a little stroll down the local park, past yet more skeletons, hanging bodies and traffic, Mme Lesvia returned and whisked me off to visit a local HIV AIDS clinic where she worked, the biggest in the county. We stopped to pick up her hubby on the way, who - God only could have arranged - just happened to be an English teacher who hadn't actually spoken properly (English, I'm assuming..) in years, so who relished the chance of speaking with me. Oh, go on then. If you insist...

The clinic was indeed mightily impressive, though some remarks made previously by JA did make me me wonder whether it was entirely right that AIDS gets 40% of the national health budget. I'm hoping I mistook that figure in my jetlag, although this spankingly new, fully-stocked and comprehensive health facility might just be evidence that I didn't.

After a full tour, we headed down the road to San Bartolo, home to Doña Rosa’s famous black pottery or 'barro negro' farm. They are pretty cool –amazing shiny black , mineral-like coloured pots, sculptures and other useless tools. We watched the son of la famosa Doña turn his hand to the pots, and also test his sarcasm on the group of grannies bussed in specially for the occasion. There is also an interesting urban myth surrounding this pottery, that it was tested for NASA as an appropriate coating for their spaceships. I can see how that might have slipped out of Doña Rosa Junior’s demonstration – and caught on as a verity.

I left with a small collection of random balls and vases, and we drove out to see the 2,000 year old ‘Tule’ tree named after the Tule village. Well, it’s a big tree. And 2,000 years old. But it still looks like a broccoli to me..

By this time, the pancakes seemed an eternity away, so I was taken to lunch in a wicked little local restaurant where they did the absolutely best thing in these circumstances, and ordered for me. I’m still reeling. For starters, a smorgasboard (what is the Spanish for a smorga?) of tortillas of various sizes, memelitas, filled with local cheese (quesilla), guacamole, salsa and pork scratchings (chicharrón, though how they’ve made pork scratchings such a success over here is testimony to the miracle of marketing …). This was enough for me, but this was just an 'antojito' (appetizer or tapas – appekiller if you ask me..), and I had a plate of finely sliced beef - tejado al carbon - (my favourite..) with yet more tortillas, refried beans and one of the town's seven famous ‘mole’ still to come.

Now as my friends will testify, I love getting my hands dirty – especially in times of cholera, so this was a real treat. That aside, it was all pretty tasty, just a tad ‘demasiado’, not to mention that it was getting on for 4 o’ clock tea (and we were a good way from lunch o’ clock thinly sliced beef..) Still, quite an experience, and I felt truly like a local. (The only possible giveaway was my constantly contorted shapes as I strained myself across the table in between bowls of green and black salsa to catch and then translate to myself the various conversations we were having..quite remarkable).
We dropped Mister off for his nap and then Ma’am and I headed into Oaxaca’s historical centre, to catch the contraverse (or something) – the ghostly, deathly procession of brass bands (which are NOTHING like our brass bands, and I’m not just talking about the moustaches…these actually make you want to listen..), followed by entranced ghouls down jiving the colonial streets to the main square (zocale).

Decorating the main square were enormous ‘tapetes’ – a huge sandpit full of carvings of skeletal and deathly yet comical images around which the band would dance, and dotted around, hundreds of altars, each representing a particular village from the surrounding countryside, and with their own speciality food. Manzanilla’s, walnuts, pomegranates, chocolate, more rarking pán, apples, plantain, and plenty of marigold petals. By this time, my brain was about ready to explode so we made our way home.

What will tommorrow bring. And will I have the strength to face it?

A ver.

Buena noches.

Friday 30th October 2009

OK, so a flight was a bit ambitious - and at first glance, the bus seemed like a good and inexpensive alternative, but after 7 and a half hours, (the first of which was spent feeling sick after a stupid, stupid choice of VANILLA flavoured cappuccino which was more like a heavy syrup that had only met coffee once in a distant and hungover past), in a tight, potentially H1N1 infested space subjected to Kung Fu Panda (in Spanish), I wondered whether this really was a totally sound plan. (I was going to struggle to hide my 'dolor de espalda' on Monday at the office...and would probably be frisked on entry for the flu.)

To make matters worse for my context-confused brain, I chose to lose myself in a great though tragic book on multi-cultural immigration in Britain, while watching an Asian themed, Spanish-speaking, American cartoon film. No wonder I ended up taking someone else's bag when I arrived in Oaxaca at midnight.

But before that realisation occurred, I was first met by a small welcoming committee of Jose Antonio's friend and her sons, both of whom had learnt impeccable English in Dublin some years before. (Is it me, or did I see a particular expectant look in their regard to me? Why wasn't I drunk? Why wasn't I in a short skirt? Why wasn't I swearing like a trooper?) Anyways, they hid their disappointment well, and ever so kindly took me to my hotel, checked me in, offered to take me to a bar or dinner (dudes? It's midnight! Duh!!) and reluctantly let me be.

It was only once I'd walked the full length of my ridiculously long suite that I received a call telling me I'd picked up the wrong bag at the coach station. I guess the 'PUMA' stamped across it in bold, and the smelly trainers poking out of one end should have given it away (I'd bought mine earlier that day at Woolworths - still going strong down here in Mexico..there'll never NOT be a need for penny sweets as long as 'el día del muertos' exists...) but it was dark and I was contextually confused.

Thankfully the kindly lady who's son's bag I had pinched happened to know where I was staying, as she'd spent the last two hours chatting with my lift as they waited for our bus to arrive. La honte. So they came to the hotel, they took their bag, their patted me kindly, and they went. And so to bed. Sandwich first. Then to bed. Oh no, wait, there's a film with Samuel L Jackson TV.....and the menu for breakfast...and I wonder if my phone works? And I wonder if I should hang up my jacket? Where's my charger? Oh, there's whats-her-face Hunt in this film too. Hmm...child-napping huh? Oh, it's 2am. Can't wait for pancakes for breakfast......

Thursday 29th October, 2009

As promised, Jose Antonio was to insist that I would speak only Spanish to his colleagues and they to me - (which has worked for the most part, as they now pretty much leave me alone.)

Upon arrival on my first day at the office, I was asked at reception if I had any fever/headaches other pains to declare, (I held my tongue on the slight backache incurred from the plane...I would know better this time..) and was given a free squirt of KY jelly into my palms (this is the National AIDS programme after all, I told myself, and nothing to do with H1N1...)

After meeting the population of Mexico and their assistant (the pile of names just slipped right off my brain after all that KY jelly..), I was shown to my office, just outside the window of which, a circus of Mexican muchachos were performing improbable (and un-secured) acrobatics on top of tall poles of wires, and making a helluva racket about it too.

I was dragged up and down the stairs a few times to collect more short-lived names, and then (finally) taken to lunch by the lovely Mauricio at around 2.30pm. A healthy vegetable soup and cottage cheese enchilada later, and my Spanish improving by the minute, I felt newly invigorated, until, (after a further 4 hours in the office), I could barely find the strength to keep my eyes afloat.
(Hmm..and it seems my office is on a slope. If only I had a malteser I could test the degree of the slant..or perhaps I've just been stocking all those 'pán del muertos' on my left side... )

At just after 7pm, as Carlos kindly sped me down the road to Jose Antonio's, my fatigue was mulled somewhat by news that the office were trying to organize a weekend trip for me (these guys are amazing...I can't tell you - though I do secretly suspect they were unsure what else to do with me given that I didn't speak bloody Spanish...)

JA would be off to Oaxaca - a poor state of southern Mexico but one of the most 'culturally' rich melting pots of Mexico, and a famous spot to watch the 'I see dead people' festivities unfold - on the weekend, and they were trying to find me a flight to join him. I celebrated this good news with a salad-bowl full of cinammon flavoured cereal followed by a glass of Hersheys chocolate milk (see above), and died a calcium-overdosed death in my sofa bed at around 9pm.