My first three months in Mexico

It's a typical Friday evening in Mexico City. It's a cool 12 degrees celcius here in "windy city" (literal translation of the suburb name: Colonia Ciudad Brisa). There were a few spectacular fireworks earlier which got all the local dogs barking, and no doubt provided a fine view for the circling aircraft - they go anticlockwise towards Benito Juarez airport with several in view at any one time. Like most nights there was a gentle layer of smog masking the far edges of the city and Popocatepetl, the distant volcano which fairly towers over the massive metropolitan area.

I've been meaning to write something on a blog for a while - before I go native and stop noticing all those little things which so strongly define Mexico. My darling wife Sofia and I were driving down the periferico today back from the centre of town and I was beginning to feel that the heat, dust, hooting of cars and camionetas and the massive looming billboards were home to me.

Sofia and I got married on 2 February 2008 and this felt like a very auspicious date: 2-2-2008 has a nice feel to it and that weekend there was an interesting intersection of venus, the moon and a bright star, whose name I don't know. After weeks of frenzied planning everything fell into place. Dad and Angelika came to stay with us here with Sofia's parents Sofia and Rafael and her sister Susi - and the family meeting and sight-seeing worked out very nicely. The registry office wedding went smoothly under the watchful eyes of a standard Benito Juarez portrait. We followed the formalities with a convivial lunch and later a rocking party with friends and family at Brasserie O in La Condesa. True to Sofia's excellent style and preparations we arrived by bicycle taxi bedecked in lights and red hearts - a truly memorable moment with the Propellerheads' James Bond tune in the background. I was the proudest man on earth as we joined the throng, with my lovely wearing a stunning leopard pattern, turquoise and gold floral pattern dress (yes).

Simon and Veronica gave us a night in a fab hotel in Playa del Carmen and we began a great 10 day honeymoon in Quintana Roo, eventually ending up at Cocalitos campsite in Bacalar, the magical place by the laguna where we met in January 2007.

It's back to work now. We have a daily routine of research and planning, gathering business ideas and refining my plans for teaching business English - a productive means of filling in the time while we sort out my immigration status.

Last week we took a break to go camping at Eliud's parents rancho in Tamaulipas on the east coast close to the border with the USA. We drove for 13 hours across mainly desert. We crossed one desolate ridge beside a lonely Leninist style figure of Miguel Hidalgo - I felt a bit guilty for not knowing who the hell he was or what the hell he did, and this was worsened as we passed a village and other places named after the undoubted hero. Just as I was beginning to think the scrubby monotone backdrop was never-ending, we'd pass a little cemetery bounded with white walls and with white angels and crosses visible inside. The cactuses weren't the standard sort seen in most westerns but sort of pollarded tree shape with mini palms sprouting from the top (if that helps). We passed villages with flat rooved concrete houses painted with lobster pink walls with the typical iron rods sticking up at the corners, as if leaving the option to build a second floor. Some had adverts for Bardahl motor parts painted on the sides or Moctezuma concrete. Then we passed wood huts with cloth drapes fluttering in the wind. I imagined the dust emanated from the open cast (cement?) quarry to the right, but as it increased it was obviously a full scale dust storm, a white out of the finest powder. Ghostly shacks loomed and occasional racks where I gather people sold snake skins. Soon followed a rare roadside advert "Por favor no me compras" (Please don't buy me) referring to the trade of wild species - presumably discarded snake skins were ok. The figures of soldiers loomed at a checkpoint, all the while we looked for the Huizache crossing to take the critical right turn on the fast new road to Ciudad Victoria in Tamaulipas. Signs appeared but gave little help - "don't throw stones on the road" - or "obey the road signs" "don't get distracted while driving". I observed that they should have had "don't get distracted reading unnecessary signs like this". This was met by an instant riposte: at least Mexico doesn't have fucking cameras watching all day like we do in England. We passed two great motor homes each towing a car, as if man could conceive of a better way of wasting petrol. The road continued, slightly less dusty 200km further on, no sign of a flower or a bird...

The dust created a strange impression, a bit of foreground scenery with pale shadows of great hills behind, but nothing to join the two. Gradually we found a new scene, a series of table mountains of various sizes, as if scattered accidentally, as if they could have been better compiled in a table mountain stacking area - why not? There was plenty of space. The road began to wind with glimpses of dry river beds and gradually became greener, we were nearing the coast - well maybe we were within 200 km. There were orange farms and windmills in sight, with a perfect solitary restaurant sponsored by Corona beer. Then we passed the Tropic of Cancer. (On the way back we passed it three times as a result of a wrong turn, much to my irritation as I was driving).

The rancho was a precious experience - I noted on the way in that it was probably 1 1/2 hours from the nearest town, and wondered what people did for hospital and other services. Later when I fell off a horse and bruised my arm and foot rather badly I realised that people are just a little bit more self-sufficient. The ranchero countryside was pretty green for the dry season, rather like mid-Wales except for the palm trees. It was quite an eye opener. Sofia explained that the Nortenyos spoke a bit like Liverpuddlians - and with an endearing roughness. Don Eliud, Eliud's father would call his grandson "cabron" - which translates as something not far from shit-head in terms of strength - but all meant sweetly. The men fixed the equipment, sorted out the ice coolers and drank beer while the women sorted out the food and any crying children. Sofia and I did things our own way and she said to me that the women were all envious of her having a husband who would serve her, sweet.

I should have added, the name of the place was Tepehuajes - or maybe Tepaguajes, I can't be sure as there seem to be various spellings on the maps.

Well, returning to Mexico City, here were are, Sofia and I sitting at our laptops, typing away...