swimming on the edge of the world

We are woken early by a very wide awake toddler. After several attempts at fobbing her off with some toys in her cot we realise its not going to work so we dress and leave in search of coffee. When we step into the street we are totally disorientated. The street full of half built houses and piles of rubble with stray dogs meandering around. At the end of the street the sun is just warming up the stones of the church balanced on top of a pyramid hill. We are in Cholula, our last stop before returning home. We stay in a lovely hippy b&b with delicious fresh food, we had been craving. It turns out that its surprisingly hard to find healthy fresh food on a road trip where you have to take what you can find at the moment you need it.


We stumble across the main square where the children's playground is glistening wet from the gardeners hose. Each street corner seems to have a microgym, its windows steamed up and the noise of pumping and panting mingling with the car horns.

The day before we stopped off at Hierve el Agua, the most stunning natural pool at the edge of a very high cliff, with views across the valley and mountains beyond. A detour down a mountain road is rewarded by this incredible view. We arrive just as the air is beginning to heat up and it looks abandoned, the row of simple wooden shacks waiting to serve the visiting tourists have their chairs stacked on the tables. A wedding couple is having a photo shoot complete with bright red umbrella serving as a parosol and two moody loooking dogs refusing to pose. They finish and walk back up the hill - the bride picks up her long layered dress to reveal massive trainers. We swim in silence with eagles soaring above and the place to ourselves.

Land of the dead

Cactus fence - genius!

Our last night in San Cristobal we book a babysitter and go for a long evening walk around the squares, cobbled streets and dip into bars for a beer. We feel melancholy that the delicate balance between tourism and local development has tipped the wrong way. The 'authentic' mexican life was actually taking place in a messy, smelly market lining a street full of noisy buses and cars, away from the pretty old centre. We stumbled across this on our way to find a museum of traditional mayan medicine, and saw live chickens hanging by their necks casually dangling from the fingers of large colourfully dressed women, poor tiny baby chicks that had been dyed bright pink and blue cheeping to be rescued from a plastic bag - like a mexican version of goldfish at a fair. We bought freshly sliced fruit from the back of a pick-up truck piled high with pineapples, melons and piloncillo, like a voluptuous Rivera painting.

We leave with Gustavo flexing his toes through his new huaraches (sandals) bought from a man making them on the street and the smell of freshly ground coffee filling the car. This is an an epic long drive to San Pablo Villa de Mitla, in Oaxaca countryside.
 

The landscape is stunning, wide flat valley floor surrounded by blue mountains, with bright pink and blue blossom and cactus scattered across the fields. Horse and cart with young men dangling their legs over the side saunter down the hard shoulder of a wide road. While Maya is having her nap, Gustavo takes the wheel and I balance the laptop on my lap and type as Gustavo attempts to dictate his new novel. Maya was amazingly calm being in a car for so long and when we stop off at a little village by the road, we find a simple and sweet public square full of children. Maya runs to join them and is immediately surrounded, one boy then dragging her by the arm and then carrying her to a trampoline.
 

After a good sleep in a wooden bed of brightly painted and carved toucans and flowers, we walk up to Mitla archaeological site picking up pastries and coffees on the way. One of the perks of travelling with a toddler - early mornings - is rewarded when we find the warm ancient stones of Mitla empty except for lizards sunbathing next to the cactus.

Mitla, the Land of the Dead, in Zapotec culture, is made up of these detailed stone carvings all made to fit together like a puzzle without mortar. This was an important religious centre, a gateway between the living and the dead. I climbed into one of the open tombs very nervously.

Mescal, textiles and tacos

We head south down straight open and empty roads through valleys framed by mountains. The cactus change shapes from round and fat to long bony fingers. San Cristobal in Chiapas is the next stop, where we visit three different women's cooperatives.

At Jolom Mayaetik cooperative they are training the women in finance and management as well as ensuring the embroidery skills are passed down to the next generations. The shop is a treasure trove, full of delicious colour and pattern. I find it hard to choose between the colourful stripes and the woven diamons. Here are a few samples of my purchases:

Near the cooperative in Chamula we visit its pretty church, which has been reclaimed as a place of pre-Columbian Mayan worship combined with catholicism. The floor is covered in pine needles and the tables arranged around the edge are covered in candles and lillies. The smell is sweet and the atmosphere is emotional. Several men are kneeling on the floor before ancient women conducting purification rituals involving eggs and coke. Banners of brightly coloured fabric stream down from the roof to the windows. There are no pews and families sit on the floor and pray. 

That evening the combination of a nightwatchman outside our hotel door and a mescal bar within view, is too tempting. So once Maya is asleep we head over the road for just a quick mescal and fish tacos. The father and son owners greet us like regulars (we had been the day before for tacos) and decide to give us samples of their super organic wild cactus mescal. We end up planning our next visit to their home village near Oaxaca where their mescal brewery is, and leave feeling warm and fuzzy with a bottle tucked under our arm.

mountain embroidery women

We began our trip with a weekend in a magical village, at the end of a long, windy mountain road. Pahuatlan, east of Mexico City, from where we drove to Veracruz. Driving down the main cobbled street, lined by brightly coloured houses and stalls, pink and purple bouganvilia, palm trees and mountains behind. We find the only hotel with cool white corridors and sit down to coffee with the local textile expert, the amazing Miguel. The next few days he opens us up to a world of incredible embroiderers.

Looking out over the tiled rooftops of the village at the mountains beyond, Miguel tells us about the women who live in the hills and embroider between looking after their families, chickens and fields. One slightly darker, smaller mountain contains a cave, called the mountain of the women, where they go to conduct rituals that will allow them to dream their next design and pray to the gods to keep their eyesight strong.

That afternoon we drive along the edge of the mountain, and arrive at the first home of a proud woman making colourful tenangos. We discuss and admire her work while Maya plays with the chickens. Miguel takes us to several homes where we see work in progress, and to cooperatives where they are teaching the next generations the techniques.

The day ends with a surreal visit to a school yard where Miguel has kindly arranged for the mothers of the pupils to bring their best embroidery. While I am trying to decide out of a dazzling array of textiles, i realise behind me something else has drifted in with the mountain mist. I turn around and men in drag and masks are scattered acrosss the yard, slowly stomping to the music played by three men in white shirts and cowboy hats. Maya is in Miguel's arms dancing in the middle of this surreal scene with a rose in her hand. The men are part of a carnival which ends with a chicken beheading. Gustavo is invited and in the evening when Maya is asleep, I stay to write while he follows the sound of the music and comes back looking a bit dazed at the 'beheading' which sounded more like the chicken was a piñata.

owls by the lakeshore

We leave Veracruz after the best coffee I've had in Mexico, served with a milk pouring flourish in a wonderful cafe.  A whole ecosystem lives off the cafe - tobacco and newspaper vendors winding around the table, shoe shiners kneeling at the feet of business men, busking musicians and nurses measuring heart rate while the customer sips their strong coffee.

Driving along the coast and then towards the lake of Catemaco, we see landscape changing from tropical coastal to desert to rich, green swamp with amazing trees dripping with vines. Stopping for lunch by the lake, girls in jeans and trainers walk through the water and fishermen elegantly toss their nets from their boats. It is off peak tourism time so we are the only people in the restaurant besides some musicians drinking tequila. They strike up a song with the lines, directed at Gustavo, 'dont worry, we will find you a new wife, yours is clearly a drunk' as I sipped on my cool beer. Gustavo gives them some money for more tunes...

Along the lake we find our spot for the night, and before darkness falls Gustavo and Maya head out in a kayak. Total lack of health and safety culture here has its benefits as Maya is wedged between Gustavo's legs with a life jacket and off they paddle past the iguanas.

Once Maya is asleep we sit on our balcony and watch an owl sitting on a branch opposite, like we are watching the TV. It is well disguised in the tree and doesnt move for a long time until the head suddenly swivels around, stares straight at us indignant at our presence.

When we wake in the morning rain is drumming on our roof and the path is a stream. We pack and leave, picking up breakfast on our way.

Road trip with a toddler

I am crouching on the floor by the bed, swigging JD and coke in a can, waiting for Maya to fall asleep so I can sneak onto the balcony with Gustavo. This is how travelling with a toddler works. Taking your opportunities as you find them. Suddenly all is quiet and I peep over the cot to a sprawled out toddler. I slowly open the door to the tiny balcony and am hit by a warm blast of tropical Veracruz air and the sound of a marimba-off in the square below.

Our hotel takes 'faded grandeur' to a whole new level and I'm not convinced that the balcony is structurally sound. More whisky and I forget about this as Gustavo and I unravel the multiple stories taking place below us:

Two double bases rest against tall, thick palm trees
A transvestite in high white heels, gorgeous long legs and hair to match, walks away down a cobbled street
The next street along a group of tourists find a bar
Hidden among the trees lovers kiss while birds compete with the musicians
Three calypso musicians in identical red and gold embroidered shirts relax on a bench looking in different directions
A red bus with 'Veracruz' spelt out in neon lights saunters by, closely followed by a policy trck with officers blaclavas and machine guns
On the corner a drive-by marriachi birthday cerenade is taking place, the car window rolled down and a man casually leaning out to hear the music
A drummer rests his ipad on his instument
A pregnant woman in pink leans against her stall overflowing with embroidered clothes and trinkets
A drunk meanders around the square dancing to each musician he stumbles across
A bright red motorbike leans against a whilte marble clocktower
A sudden flurry as a group of children chase a red ball between the evening strollers
A tabacco vendor walks along with his box of cigarettes on his head

We discover later that the Hotel Imperial where we are staying is the oldest functioning (only just) hotel in the Americas. Veracruz a humid, tropical and vibrant stop off. We are on a road trip in search of textiles for my new business. Next stop Chiapas. 

Lucha Libre Life

I experienced an amazing night at the Lucha Libre in Mexico City and it was not at all what I was expecting. As someone with a blind spot for anything related to sport, where any imagery or references tend to swirl into a black hole vortex, I was expecting a lot of sweat and pain and watching through my fingers. It turned out to be an amazingly family-friendly pantomime, with little girls wearing capes of their favourite characters attending with their fathers. Everyone, young and old vied to shout out the worst obsenity with boos and hisses for the rudos (the tough guys, the 'baddies') and wows for the tecnicos (the amazingly athletic, good guys). We were in the rudos crowd which gave great excuse for everyone to hurl out cathartic, friday night, abuse. It kept an amazing balance of comedy and athleticism, the final win being the camp kiss planted on the unwilling lips of one of the rudos. The whole crowd were changing 'beso, beso'.

Here is one of the first masked luchadores who became an iconic folk hero, El Santo.

 

Papel Picado

Early tries at paper cutting with the wonderful Sergio. My efforts a bit scruffier than his but I love the satisfaction of hammering a chisel into the soft paper and seeing an image start to emerge.