Gay Pride Mexico

Gay times and Grey times DF,

This morning was horrid. Me and Angela were disgusting pigs yesterday, and filled the void our hangovers had created, with a steady stream of calorific goods. Consequently, today I woke up with an aching stomach, after horrible dreams and a restless night thinking about the semi raw gingerbread we had stuffed into our faces just before bed. My £1/potentially stolen headphones stopped working halfway through my journey, so I literally ripped them apart, in a fit of rage- much to the alarm of the other people on the platform. I was hobbling like a pirate, as usual- on what remains of my feet after this trip. Angela and I have three pairs of shoes between us; shoes in various states of disrepair that fit neither of us, little alone make us look like we might be responsible for the education of others. I have given up feigning professionalism or style, and taken to wearing flip-flops and letting my slashed toes breath freely. I make sure though, that every time they begin to heal, I reapply the slippers of Bogota agony again in order to lacerate them further, for optimum discomfort. Today was a flipflop day, but the scars from the weekend remain. 

I also drank my usual litre of coffee before leaving the house, so spent the latter half of my trip, on a journey of a separate and more personal nature, going from mild discomfort to utter horror, in terms of how much I needed to pee. I still haven't been, but am now at least sitting down, waiting in the wee security man's room for the class to turn up. It's extremely rude that I'm perched on his sofa, on my phone, ignoring him, but we both look secretly relieved that there is to be no excruciating exchange of Spanglish. 

Despite the fact I seem to have nothing good to say about this morning, I did have a fantastic day at Gay Pride on Saturday. I was woken early by the dulcet tones of YMCA, blasting through my ears courtesy of Angela, who loves to subvert cliché if nothing else. I crawled out of bed to a breakfast of cereal accompanied by rum coffee made with condensed milk. It was a sign of things to come, but we naively sipped our delicious beverage whilst applying glitter to our jolly faces. Can I recommend it as maybe the best thing I've ever drunk. It had about half a tin of condensed milk in it, and 4 spoons of sugar, so no great shakes for the bikini body, but as we know, that ship sailed about six months and 739829 tortillas ago.

We were a bit worried about finding the parade, as we'd heard different information about its starting location. Needn't have feared, as the semi naked men in chaps and bondage gear, gave us a wee clue as to what direction to take. Saying that we did initially get a bit lost, after following a wild goose trail of camp youths in skinny jeans (which served us right for being presumptuous).

It was such a brilliant parade. Fantastic atmosphere and lots of fabby costumes. Me and Angela were photographed about a million times; I thought it was because we were being perceived as mildly Nordic, lesbian totty, until Angela pointed out that our towering frames, massive hands and generous use of lynx deodorant, meant that it was more likely they thought we were transvestites. I simpered less after that, and I think there were probably a few photos of me looking less than pleased despite the feathers. I also got in a bit of a verbal spat with a wee nearly naked guy, who kept calling me "a fat beetch" and poking my stomach. I think (hope) it was meant to be funny but I got in a befuddled huff like a distressed and bated bear. I got flashbacks to sports day at school; mid forward roll, flailing, and in leggings that were too small. Other than that, it was a conflict free day.  Despite my anxiety that the police would kettle us in a display of catholic machismo, they didn't, and all was well. (Hiya sweepingly judgemental Gabs. good to have you back.) Yes, the whole thing had an utterly delightful atmosphere, with a mixture of men, women and kids (albeit mainly looking suicidal, whist their mums did Right-On stuff). A really nice day out. I won't claim it was the most sophisticated of affairs, but we had a massive late lunch (or four) and my desire to party like it was 1999 turned more into lying on a sofa at matts, stuffing pork tortillas into my face and updating my Facebook. Hmmm. 

Still; we managed to have a jolly wheeze of a day anyway, and I was secretly relieved that we didn't have to go on the predicted wild night out with all our new, topless, teenage-boy pals.  Instead we caught the train home at about 10, after eating a gordita- a deep fried tortilla whose name appropriately means, "small fatty". Oh. My. God. So good. Cheese and some other less relevant stuff, crammed into a tortilla and deep fried; then smothered in chilli sauce and yoghurt. Best end to a day out of all time. 

The weekends seem to be whizzing past in general. Today, as aforementioned has been horrid. I'm finding it so hard to get up at 5. Or, more accurately, to go to bed at a time that means I get up that early without wanting to stab someone. It's not me; I'm a night owl and late riser, whether from a natural indolence, or years of working in bars and restaurants, I'm not sure. It's a sad, wee, lonely morning walk too; still dark and cold, with crap street lighting, which makes my dozy stumbling even more dangerous. On the up-side (I'm trying), folk are nice at 5am. It breeds a kind of camaraderie I guess, so all the wee old men and women who are setting up stalls have started saying "Hola", and the guys who patrol the petrol station are always chatty. That cheers me up a bit I suppose.

I have already developed a revoltingly negligent attitude to the work itself, and do my lesson plans on the subway. This makes me feel awful as I'm usually taking up a seat of an old person carrying a sack of rags or something equally pitiful, but I know I have to do it, so I sit there like an evil cow until I finish.

The classes themselves are going ok.  Mainly through luck, and my ability to smile through ineptitude. I genuinely think there is something wrong with my brain in terms of basic intelligence. I realised today that I hadn't been taking registration for ANY of my classes, so had to spend about two hours straining to remember the names of all the students, whether they had attended and their levels of contribution. 93%of them seem to be called Jose Luis, but I'm pretty sure I've invented a Sergio, and left out some of the less memorable students. I can't believe it, and I'm extremely anxious about my boss reading the report. It could unravel the web of small "exaggerations" as to my capabilities. Not lies exactly; for example, I HAVE done private tuition; its just it was for Danny and the Molloy twins, and they learned nothing, bullied me, and only came for my constant supply of baked goods. I HAVE taught in a school in Ecuador too; it just happened to be for a fortnight, and mainly consisted of working on their website and batting my eyes at a German volunteer who was similarly occupied.  I HAVE looked after/helped educate lots of kids in Ghana, it's just they had no respect for me, treated me as an overgrown climbing frame, and called me Michael Jackson (in a manner which was not complimentary).

I just don't seem to have any common sense, or notion of the appropriate either. I had an interview the other day and told the guy that I didn't like teaching, and wouldn't do it if I had other options. He also looked at my shoes and asked if I had any other ones. I said no. (Incidentally I got the job, which says more about him than it does me).

I suppose if i'm brutally self-reflective, it's indicative of a lack of vested interest in general, which is dreadful. I would feel awful about it if it was kids, or long term, as there's nothing worse than a teacher who doesn't like teaching. In this case it's adults though, and most of my work is just coaching them and prattling to them about whatever subject we are doing, I think it's ok. Oddly I seem to be perceived as being quite reasonable at it, despite my many shortcomings. I suppose I'm not bad at thinking of creative things to do with them, and I also think a lot of tefl teachers are really young and shy, and a class full of latino men could be a bit overwhelming. The first day I was horrified, but I pretended to be un-phased, and gradually it's stopped actually scaring me in real life. They are nice students too which helps. But no, I fear teaching is not the path for me, though its not as bad as I thought it was going to be. They are all really keen to learn which is a blessing I recognise. I have a few little rats (aged approx 40), who talk over me constantly, and make asides that they think I can't hear (I can't understand them, but I hear them fine). This is surely karma for years and years of never shutting up when my poor teachers were trying to talk. I remember once being sent outside the class for the whole afternoon, by a teacher who was so angry she was spitting in rage. At the time I was utterly bewildered and couldn't believe that she was being so psychotic and unreasonable. Now I understand. Sorry Mrs Gonzalez of Christ Church School, Surbiton, Surrey. If nothing else, this job has taught me how much I deserved that day in the hallway, cold, confused and at that point, completely unrepentant.




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Coyoacan

Hiya Mexico!

Hello Mexico!

Here I am. Home in the bosom of the family unit. Oh, I cannot tell you what songs my little heart was singing, when I saw Angela's ole face looming over that of all the wee tiny Mexicans at the airport. My trip was horrid (of course), so I was ready for the contrast.

I know everyone prefers it when things go wrong for me, so I shall tell the arrival story before the good bits.

My flights were even more ridiculous than I first intimated. With my limited, and inaccurate knowledge of Geography, I didn't realise Bogota to Florida, to LA, to Mexico was quite so silly. It was, and it was rendered more so, by the nightmare that was BlueJet. If you ever get the opportunity to fly with them, I caution you to refrain. They were uber crap. Firstly, you don't even get food. You get a rubbish "snack", aka three crumpled pretzels. The seats are tiny, and the staff are rude. 

Our first flight to Florida was late, which meant that when we landed I had about half an hour to recheck my baggage and get to my next flight. When we descended I told the dimwit "managing" the queue, that my flight was about to leave, so could I perhaps go to the front? She didn't know, but thought not. Well, would the flight be held? Probably not, but she wasn't sure. How was she meant to know? It wasn't her fault, ok? 

Loads of the Colombians in the queue were on the same connection, and were spanglishing anxiously. I somehow became the spokesperson for the whole departure lounge, and went into imperious victim mode. I "demanded" (in a quivery voice, so does it count?) to know why the flight wasn't being held for us, seeing as nearly everyone here was supposed to be on it. I used all the classics;

"If you're not responsible, then I want to talk to who is" 

"I'd like to take you're name please. I'm very unhappy and intend to make a complaint."

"This is a joke" 

Etc, etc. Patronising, brusque and dogged in my pursuit of the objective, I was repellant and horrifying, but sadly this achieved results.  Our flight was held, although we were told to run through the entirety of the airport as fast as we could (not very), so I arrived at boarding sweaty and disgusting and looking less Erin Brokovitchy than I felt.  

I had promised to "take care", of a spotty youth behind me in the queue who was terrified and had zero English... Sadly however, he got taken into the scary room at customs, and my fighting-for-the-wee-guy streak, ran out and I scampered off without him. There is only so much of an airport martyr you can be. I felt bad, but not as bad as when the little nyaff at the desk said "chop chop! You're a lucky girl!", which I was too out of breath to respond to. 

When we eventually left for LA, it was about -17 degrees on the plane. I asked for a blanket, and the flight attendant who was stuffing his face with crisps, said that they didn't have any since "swine flu". He agreed(chomp-crunch) that it was chilly (munch-munch) but couldn't be of help (munch-crunch). I used to think my manager in the restaurant was being a fascist when he berated me for stuffing my face in front of customers, but it turns out it IS rude. Who knew.

The seconds part of the journey was another close shave, but entirely self inflicted this time, as I made an extremely bizarre comment whilst going through security, about hiding contraband in my hair.  I have NO idea why; I can only surmise that it was a hysterical response to a long day.  I always get really worried I accidentally take through nuclear explosives, or heroin, and in general can't help but scuttle through customs like a rolling eyed, sweaty crim, even though I'm not actually a smuggler or drugs baron in real life. 

Lucky for me the lass was lovely. She gave me a wry look, and quietly said, "you shouldn't make jokes like that sweetie" before patting down my hair in a gentle way, and shoving me off. I was almost crying with relief. 

Anyway, 24 hours after leaving Bogota, I arrived in Mexico City; a bedraggled, if euphoric mess. Angela had come to pick me up, and we draped ourselves over each other for about three hours, in delight at being reunited.

She has found us a peerie flat in the Coyoacan area, which is where Frida Kahlo lived. It's very arty (the area-NOT the flat), and has a lot of pretty cobbled streets and lovely bunting everywhere. The main square is about 20 minutes away and is full of little street vendors selling whimsical ware. I got my fortune read by a blue bird, a peerie fellow who hops out of his weathered box and selects paper fortunes for you! So beautiful, and much nicer than a mouldy old tarot card. 

The markets are to die for in Coyoacan, with lots of spangled skeletons, exquisite pottery and beautiful traditional fabrics. I am avoiding it as I'm still broke at the moment till I get paid, and every time I leave the hoose I seem to return to it with more artisanal crap and nothing useful, despite the genuine call for practical goods (a tin opener for example).

We've already made the peerie flat into a haven of awful art (paper mâché skeletons, decoupaged bottles and crepe paper bouquets to name a few) and I am thrilled to have a bookshelf, a clothes cupboard, a bathroom cabinet and a spice rack. It's the little things. 

We have used two cans of industrial strength Raid, since we moved in, in an attempt to stem the steady flow of cockroaches. If I start to think about it too much I get hysterical. They are disgusting, especially in their death throes, twitching and flailing in a horrible way, which makes me feel a combination of remorse for the hideous death we've inflicted, and irritation at its delayed effectiveness. Of a similar ilk, there is a man outside our door who sells tacos; all day, every day, from his rickety cart, and which he advertises in a bellowing voice through a megaphone. It was lovely and "ethnic" the first few times, but now it makes me apoplectic with rage. 

Since arriving I've managed to land several teaching jobs. It's gone from the sublime to the ridiculous in terms of personal effort expenditure; I have to get up at 5.00 every day (5.30 if you forgo breakfast and washing), and it takes me two hours travelling to get to my first class of adult learners, who aren't even within Mexico City. Seeing as 22 million other people are, the fact I've managed to source a teaching job in another state, is impressive, even for me.

I have two more classes as well, which are in the business district. Teaching, as I've intimated before is not my cup of tea. It's a genuinely amazing job and I have total respect for teachers of all subjects (except maths), but my God, I don't know how you do it. Probably with a degree more pride and capability than I've found exists in my feeble character.

My students are largely middle aged men, who gawp at me in a very disconcerting manner. They are very interested in my personal life and I shocked them all yesterday by saying I was going to gay pride at the weekend. I had earlier said me and Angela were living in a one bedroomed flat, and with this extra information, I could literally see their minds boggling. They were dying to ask if I was gay, but refrained from direct questioning. I will leave them to ponder it.

I've got about 12 hours teaching a week, which isn't quite enough, so I've  been attending lots of interviews, each more farcical than the last. I went to one the other day, where I managed to be fifteen minutes late, despite having hours to get there. The reason I was late, was because I was waiting for the first coat of paint to dry on my model skeleton. 

I arrived, out of breath, sweating and in disgusting men's shoes, because try as I might, I can't find any women's ones here in my size. My interviews have all  been pretty informal so far, so I was swigging a latte, clad in an anorak and with my hair in even more of a nick than usual. The fact the interview was held in something called, New York Times Building  in the city centre, should have alerted me to the fact that this was all inappropriate. 

I went up in a fancy glass elevator, and emerged into a fragrant office, full of Louis Vuitton clad secretaries and copies of Latin American Vogue, scattered artfully over the chic and minimalist furniture. You could even flush the paper down the toilet! Serious luxury. 

The interviewer was a handsome man in his thirties, which was also a new experience, and I babbled my way through the 20 minutes like an unhinged bag lady. I had to ask exactly what the job was, as I had forgotten, and he spent most of the interview looking at me as if I was a rare and unusual talking monkey. He laughed a lot too, at things that were not jokes. However, my university credentials saved the day, and I was offered the job. I hope it's one on one teaching, as that's so much easier. I have one guy at the moment who is incredibly interesting. I wrote him off as a posher, as he's some big wig in Mexico's biggest bank, but he's had an amazing life.  He told me his mum brought him up alone, in extreme poverty. He occasionally saw his dad, who was a genuine hermit, but mainly spent his childhood in one of Mexico's worst slums. He started working to supplement his mam's income when he was 7, and was obviously super clever, as he got a scholarship to one of Mexico's most illustrious private schools. He used to sit next to the presidents son in class, and then go home to a ghetto so dangerous, his mam wouldn't let him go out to play football. Anyway, he's a fascinating man and very comfortable with probing questions which makes the classes really interesting for nosy chops here. He's very thoughtful about the nature of wealth, and inequality in Mexico, which is refreshing, as I've hitherto found the attitude of wealthy Latin Americans a bit mind boggling. It seems to happen in a lot of places, that the very rich have ill disguised contempt for the poor of their nation; or at least no acknowledgement that often it's just a case of luck. I don't know, I guess I can understand the "anyone can do it" attitude, from someone like this guy, who has slogged his way from the bottom, right to the top, but he is quick to acknowledge his brains were unusual, and his mum and granny incredible in their support, which gave him an advantage.

I like him a lot, I enjoy how open he is, and my poking into his innermost private past is certainly improving his vocabulary, if nothing else. He has referred to our class as a "session" several times, which amuses me, as I do feel I've fallen into a bit of a psychiatrist role, albeit one who would be struck off, for writing about a patient on her blog....

I've not really met anyone else of much note. A nice Spanish guy at work who took us to a party. We rocked up wearing aforementioned men's shoes, and anoraks, munching the smelliest tacos ever, to find it was a soirée full of Mexicos gilded youth. Everyone was wearing designer clothes, and had hair like they were in a shampoo commercial. There was a really tall woman there, who I referred to as "massive like us" illiciting a chilly response, and I spent most of the time in the toilet, trying to sort my hair out. 

We left after an hour, shrieking with merriment at how awful it was, only to meet the host in the hall, who had heard our rude evaluation of his guests. This, quite rightly made us feel awful - as they had been kind enough to let two chat-less strangers come into their home, with their nasty tacos, ugly shoes and poor manners.  

I was also informed at said party, that everyone at the place I work, calls me Brave because I look "exactly the same". This did not go down well, and I'm still banging on about it, hoping for someone to contradict.  It's not as bad as the time someone told me I looked like Mick Hucknall, but it's not great. 

Anyway. I've got another class, so best go and find out what a phrasal verb is.

Chao. (Not ciao- turns out I've been spelling it wrong) 

Sent from my iPho

Toodlepip Colombia

I'm writing this on the bus from Santa Marta to Bogota. I'm two hours into a 17 hour journey, and already feeling regretful that I didn't fork out the extra $70 to take the flight. However, I genuinely feel a little bit bad about all the flights I take, and usually I don't mind buses too much.  If I've got a book, and some edibles, I'm in a good place. This bus is fine, except I'm sitting next to a fatty puff who likes to whistle. I hope his lips get tired soon. I'm a whistler, but a genuinely amazing one, so when I whistle, it's different. 

It was absolutely scorching in Santa Marta, so I slithered onto the bus in a whispy summer dress, which I am beginning to regret as the air con blasts and I realise I'll be arriving in freezing Bogota at 6 am, practically naked. Good oh. The man taking the tickets may have intimated to me that I would regret my choice of travel outfit, but then again, being in Spanish, he may also have been commenting on what the pigeons were doing. Who can say? Certainly not I.

I've had a nice few days, despite the fact Taganga was like something out of the Inbetweeners (without the jokes). Seedy, ugly and unsafe, as a tourist destination, it was without a discernible redeeming feature.

I stayed in a relatively nice hostel though, called Hostel Divanga, and met screeds of lovely people, with whom I ate and drank too much, and danced to questionable 80s rock. I was going to go to Tayrona park-which is supposed to be beautiful- but I actually wasn't very well; partly self inflicted (mojitNO), and partly as a result of germy air cabins, and a resulting head cold. I feel ashamed of my lack of tourist gusto, but also secretly powerful, because nobody can make me do these tourist "must do's" because I am a real adult, responsible for myself and also wandering lonely as a cloud. 

The night I arrived, I couldn't really see what it was like, but I wanted to go and buy some milk for my porridge.  The boy on reception told me I couldn't leave on my own as it was "too dangerous", which was v.reassuring. Seeing as I am pal-less Pamela, I had to have gruel made with water (which you weren't meant to drink), and some old withered raisins that I found in my bag. It was not a promising start, but when I went for a wander the next day I realised I hadn't missed much anyway. 

It is a really sad little village, but I suspect quite typical for the average poor Colombian.  There are lots of scabby fishing boats, litter, tourist drinking spots and no much else. The locals were weary and unfriendly, there were lots of unhealthy looking dogs and cats scurrying about underfoot, and dirty peerie bairns, with enormous eyes, peeping at you from dark doorways. The roads were a mess, and the beach filthy. It all felt a bit depressing, like a giant hangover, and made me think about how 18-30s tourism must be a mixed blessing and a curse, to places like there. 

It didn't stop me contributing to it however, and I went out for drinks and dancing on the Friday with some folk from the hostel.  It was all good fun. Very Posers, circa 2005(no bad thing). I'd been absolutely gagging to go out to The Doncin' after my months of captivity, and it was consequently predictably overly. I woke up feeling like death and ready to take my leave of Taganga. 4evz.

Armoured with my sunglasses and poor mans Irn Bru (a disgusting thing called BubbleGusta or something), I arrived  by bus (HORRID) to the town of Santa Marta, which is only ten minutes/eternity away.

My hostel was right in the centre of the old town, so I scuttled through a lot of markets and street vendors to get there. The fish market was not a pleasant chapter in my book of hangover moments, nor was the seemingly endless hanging-carcass street, but it was a pretty interesting market, with lots going on. I had a delicious corn and honey biscuit, and some fresh coconut water which made me feel loads better. 

I eventually got to the hostel, La Brisa Loca which was in this lovely old colonial building, with a mosaic swimming pool in the middle of the ground floor. Really beautiful hostel, if as usual a bit on the toasty side. I had a small disco nap and then went out to explore.

Santa Marta, like most South American towns, is built in a valley, surrounded by loads of massive mountains. It's a port town, so there is a nice waterfront as well, with lots of restaurants facing the sea. It's really hot and has a pretty lively feeling to it. 

There are the usual pretty plazas, and statues of Simon Bolivar peppered all over them. I liked it, but felt so sorry for myself that I had to beat an early retreat after a rather disgusting, breaded, fish-dinner, which was more like lightly-fished clumps of flour.  Minging. By this point I have to say, I was regretting leaving Cartagena which I truly love. I've waffled on about it long enough but it's just so beautiful. The place, the weather and the people. I love the mix of Caribbean and Colombian, and the fact it's preserved the old colonial features. It's really touristy which other people I met had issues with, but it's like Edinburgh; it's touristy because its so stunning. It's a bit of a cliche with all the horse drawn carriages, antiquated sweet shops and serenading elderly gentlemen, but these things are a cliche because they're fab and wonderful. I love it there, and whilst Santa Marta and Taganga are undoubtedly much more representative of real Colombian life, Cartagena is a much more pleasant stop for a holiday.

 I wish I had gone to Tayrona park because by all accounts it's jaw dropping, but we've been through why I didn't, and it's only an old beach. I must have hit some kind of six month high, because I've actually been looking at tefl jobs in Cartagena- just to see what's out there. Teaching on the whole doesn't seem so bad, if you get to recline in a roasting plaza afterwards to do your marking.... Sadly there doesn't seem to be much requirement for learning English. Probably cos they're too busy sunning themselves and eating coconuts to care about it.  

I decided I better start the long journey to Bogota this afternoon, so I hopped on a bus and here I am. I've only got two more days until I fly and I feel sick with excitement about seeing Matt and Angela. I have been really lucky this past fortnight, in that I've met a lot of lovely friendly folk, but the idea of being in the company of actual friends is beyond irresistible just now. I won't have to try and be nice, or have to make conversation all the time, or worry that I won't have anyone to have dinner with. I also can't wait for a cuddle. I realise how creepy that sounds but you don't really realise how nice it is to get a cuddle off your pals until you've gone weeks without one. Even a pat on the head would be nice just now. Human contact, a massive bacon sandwich, a cup of tea and a long gossip with some of my best pals. Genuinely can't wait. 

Just a quick footnote; NEVER, EVER, EVER get on a long distance bus wearing a wispy summer dress, fastened only by spider gossamer, because you are too lazy to open your bag before it goes under the bus.  You will regret it, and may even feel so cold, that you elevate to some kind of alternative world of sadness and horror.  People will laugh at you shuddering like a drama queen, and when you do fall "asleep" (hahahaha), crouched like a sad little ice-foetus, you may even wake up with all your front buttons popped open, and your pasty limbs (or worse) on display for all to see. Cosy jimjams all the way.