Laughing in the face of death

Altar to the dead at the Sheraton Isabel Maria hotel

As a Brit in Mexico, I am often painfully aware of my ‘difference’ and this is often accompanied by a strong sense of isolation. However, in embracing the clamour and chaos of the City, one of the biggest lessons I’ve learned is that its tumult can actually combat loneliness.

I only have to open the window and there is the man selling water / gas / tamales / balloons / firecrackers and (on Sundays) ice cream outside our front gate. Every day I can enjoy the sight of Mexicans strolling, playing, trading, studying and courting in their numerous public squares which are used as an extension of their homes. In our local plaza, I am greeted by the old woman on the corner weaving baskets; the young girl in the newspaper kiosk is enjoying a brisk business in lottery tickets (she sells stacks of them, never as many papers – they’re old news whilst the national raffle offers tantalising hope for the future); the old men, wailing their wares, are sheltering from the sun under the colourful portales; the organ grinder has taken up his position outside the church, next to the child selling wooden rosaries; the middle-aged woman with dyed red hair and her over-weight daughter are dipping their boiled corn cobs into chilli and lime for a queue of customers. A tiny boy, he can’t be more than six, wends his way round the customers in a café, using his beautiful dark eyes to sell his miniature packs of chiclets.

Except for the cars, I wonder how much has changed in these plazas over the decades. Anything in one hundred years? Two hundred?

The main reason that solitude no longer frightens me is because Mexico City thrusts you into the here and now. The  past feels unimportant, the future no longer tangible. Sometimes I go for days without hearing from anyone back home. At times, I feel as though I live in a bubble, although much of what goes on around me is gradually becoming more comprehensible. Even in November, the sun can be scorching by midday causing the film of time to slow down. Instead of rushing from pillar to post, I linger over meals, stroll rather than stride through the leafy plazas, pausing to admire a pretty pair of earrings, an unusual clay pot or hand-woven shawl. Mexicans are always happy to talk to me; they want to find out where I are from, where I are headed, or just to laugh playfully at my Spanish.

Death: Dolores Olmedo museum

Another powerful weapon against loneliness is an appreciation and understanding of the Mexican response to death. The writer who has come closest to explaining this is Octavio Paz. In his seminal book of essays, The Labyrinth of Solitude, he declared “Ritual death promotes a Rebirth.” To the ancient Mexicans, “Life, death and resurrection were stages of a cosmic process which repeated itself continuously.” Today, an innate love of ritual encourages Mexicans to continue in their celebration of death and, for many, it still “defines” “reflects” and “illuminates” their existence.

Whilst we celebrate Halloween, all over Mexico altars are erected in the name of the dead. Mexicans love the opportunity to dress up or to decorate something, but the preparation of altars for El Día de Muertos is phenomenal. The Day of the Dead actually lasts two days (on the first, the souls of children are honoured). On the nights of 1 and 2 November a family’s loved ones are tempted back to the land of the living.

Day of the Dead altar: UNAM

Like the very best theatre, all the senses are assailed.  A table of ofrendas (offerings) is prepared, aromatic copal is burned, candles are lit, and the vibrant marigold flowers, known here as cempasúchil, decorate and brighten their way.

Altar to Jose Vasconcelos: UNAM CEPE

On the table itself are set various objects, sweets, and drinks that were enjoyed by the departed souls when alive. Their favourite food is lovingly prepared and laid out each night. Religious images are placed alongside tequila and sugared skulls. A poem or hymn may be composed and left for their perusal. Even a particular pan de muerto (sweet bread) is baked to commemorate the departed. It is best described as a sugary bun adorned with a cross, representing skeletal fingers seeking earthly sustenance.

Altar to Edgar Allen Poe: UNAM

Some of the best examples of altars are to be found in the grounds of Mexico City’s National University. This year, the various departments competed with one another to prepare the most imaginative ofrendas to American author Edgar Allan Poe, born two hundred years ago. The field resembled nothing so much as a Victorian fair-ground. As well as ritual and religiosity, there is a sense of fun. Many of the altars are the height of kitsch.

Giant dolls: UNAM

The fact that many of these miniature temples to the dead are works of art is recognised by the Dolores Olmedo museum, in the south of the City, renowned for its annual exhibition celebrating El Día de Muertos. This year it includes a stunning retrospective of ofrendas that have been displayed since it opened its doors in 1994. These include alters dedicated to muralist Diego Rivera, artist Frida Kahlo and engraver Jose Guadalupe Posada.

In Mexico, death is seen merely an extension of life and part of its immutable cycle. The lightheartedness of this annual ritual hits home. Surrounded by all the colour and vitality of the occasion, there is nothing left to fear. Laughing in the face of death proves a valuable lesson. When fear is absent, so too is loneliness.

Gravestones: UNAM

Candles Dolores Olmedo museum

Marimba Dolores Olmedo museum

A church, a dance and two beautiful bottles of Cognac

Santuario de la Virgen de los Remedios

The tourist poster says it all: Ancient pyramid, surmounted by a colourful church, blue skies and a gigantic snow-capped volcano dominating the horizon. This is the picture of Cholula, in central Mexico, that is used to sell the country to British tourists and adorns the cover of the latest Edition of the Eyewitness travel guide.

Near the colonial city of Puebla, and just 2 hours outside Mexico City, this sleepy town claims the largest pyramid in the world in total volume (it’s squat but with a base of 450×450m) and the longest portales (row of arches) in Latin America. Founded in 500 BC, the local guide also claims that it is “the oldest living city in America”.

Astonishingly, the pyramid is not listed as a world heritage site, but this may contribute to the site’s charm and the fact that it is not overrun by tourists – despite the poster! What they don’t tell you in the local guides to Cholula is that a trip to the pyramid involves around fifteen minutes in a narrow tunnel that is only six feet tall and scarcely wide enough for one person; so if you are tall or obese, this is definitely a health and safety hazard. Apparently, since the 1930s around five miles (8 km) of tunnels have been excavated beneath the pyramid by archaeologists in order to ascertain the various stages of building (it’s believed that the pyramid’s construction was undertaken in four stages beginning around 200 BC).

God knows, how many kilometres we traversed – it felt like forever. I couldn’t help but think of those poor unfortunate souls forced to work in the depths of the pyramids. But my compassionate thoughts were soon forgotten when claustrophobia took a firm hold. We were stuck behind a small tour group who stopped every couple of minutes to gaze at a dusty alcove whilst the guide whittered on and the rest of us sweated it out; I resisted the impulse to throw myself writhing to the ground — there probably wasn’t enough space to squirm. When daylight finally greeted us I ran towards the opening. It really was as though we were being met by divine light at the end of the tunnel.

Emerging from night into day, the first sight of the pyramid – through which we had been travelling – comes as a shock. It resembles nothing more than a grassy hillock; its incline carpeted with wild flowers, with a pretty church, basking in sunlight at the top. At this moment, the suggestion that this might be a pre-Columbian sacred site seems preposterous. The domed church, painted sunset orange, is known as the Santuario de la Virgen de los Remedios (Sanctuary of the Virgin of the Remedies) and was built by the Spanish following a swift takeover of the city. Unnerved by the fervour of the Aztec rituals, involving cannibalism, the dismemberment of sacrificial victims, and the proffering of human hearts as tribute to their gods, the Spanish wasted no time in tearing down whatever they could. As quickly as they tore down the sacred sites and temple, they erected churches on top of the remains. The people of Cholula were evidently keen on sacrificial ritual as the town is famous for the sheer number of churches in use today. Apparently it once boasted 350!

Cholula was one of Mexico’s largest cities, but following the terrible massacre by the conquistadores never regained its former splendour. Interestingly, by the time the Spanish arrived, this particular temple had fallen into ruin and was already overgrown.

When we begin the climb, the remains of the final pyramid finally take shape. Steps once covered all four sides allowing the summit to be approached from any direction, but we decided to follow the natural curve rather than attempting an aggressive incline. Unfortunately we don’t get the poster’s stunning view from the top; clouds obscure the legendary El Popocatépetl volcano that separates the valley from Mexico City.

Voladores de la Papantla

On the way down, next to a small crafts market, a strange sight awaits us. Four men in colourful costumes are swinging upside down, round and round a tall pole. It looks like some strange inversion of maypole dancing. But this, Jaime informs me grandly, is Voladores de Papantla. I watch with my mouth agape. What on earth possesses these men to indulge in an apparently nonsensical and uncomfortable ritual. Jaime shrugs, “what’s the point of any sport!” He’s right. It’s not so different from our own Maypole dancing. I think back to my English childhood spent at country fairs watching brightly attired figures with bells on their shoes, holding onto a coloured ribbon, and skipping around a pole.

This rather more daring ritualistic dance from Veracruz, east of Cholula, is believed to be the last vestige of a pre-Hispanic volador ritual common in western Mexico. Later, I read-up and find out that the five dancers (one sits atop the pole) are meant to represent the five elements of the indigenous world. It looks unearthly and proves strangely mesmerising to watch.

Cholula town reminds me of something out of a Spaghetti Western. Maybe it is the impressive row of arches (portales) in the main square (Zocalo) protecting the various cafés and restaurants. I expect saloon doors to swing open at any moment (there were none) and reveal a raucous cantina full of drunken Mexicans in sombreros (I saw none). The cafes are all busy, and after our hike to the church, it is relaxing to sit back and enjoy a coffee before it is time to return to Puebla.

La Puebla de los Angeles (Town of the Angels) also has many claims to fame; its colonial architecture; handpainted tiles and Talavera pottery; the Mole Poblano which is a spicy Mexican sauce cooked with chocolate to give it a bitter-sweet flavour; and the Cinco de Mayo (5 May) festivity commemorating the 1862 defeat of the French army. We stayed near the Zocalo, its historic heart. Browsing the local stores we met Giovanni Rangel, a local silversmith. He showed us the silver smelting process from rock to precious metal.

A real artisan, he fashions silver into stunningly creative designs. He also makes earrings, pendants, cufflinks and necklaces using tiny slivers of Talavera pottery. I bought an exquisite pendant made from fossilised rock which he had polished and set in silver.

I also manage to sample a vegetarian version of the infamous Mole Poblan0 during an unexpected brunch – they substituted scrambled egg for the meat. The sauce is extraordinarily complex; a good Mole will include a variety of chillies, (roasted and then ground with other spices) and is slow cooked – as long as it takes. It is usually served with turkey or chicken and now makes an appearance at most Mexican holidays or weddings. Chicken or Turkey mole is traditionally cooked to tempt the dead to join the living during the long nights of 1 and 2 November. It has the consistency and kick of a Satay sauce with the same spicy sweetness that I love in Malaysian and Thai cooking.

Despite its many pleasures, Puebla has a darker side that I cannot ignore. I have written many times about the writer Lydia Cacho. In 2005 she published a book (Demons of Eden: the power behind pornography), exposing a Mexican child pornography ring in the popular resort of Cancún. A businessman, José Kamel Nacif Borge, known as the King of Denim, because of his jeans factories in Puebla, accused Cacho of libel. He is cited in the book as having ties with Jean Succar Kuri, the owner of a hotel in Cancún. Kuri was already detained at the time, charged with heading the child pornography and prostitution network. Kamel Nacif did not deny knowing him but claimed that his reputation had suffered as a result of Cacho’s book.

On 16 December 2005, Cacho was arrested at gunpoint by Puebla state officials. She endured a twenty-hour car journey from her home in Cancún to Puebla, where she was physically threatened. Upon arrival she was charged with ‘defamation’ and calumny and faced up to four years in prison if found guilty. The governor who ordered her arrest was one Mario Marín.

In February 2006, taped telephone conversations beween Kamel Nacif and the governor de Puebla Mario Marín, were released to the local media. They revealed the extent to which Marín had been involved in Cacho’s arrest and detention. Kamel Nacif’s fawning tone with the governor caused laughter as well as outrage and was later the basis for a rap song and tv skits widely circulated on YouTube.

Far more chilling was the offer of “two beautiful bottles of cognac” as a token of appreciation for the Governor’s part in the arrest of Cacho. After the tapes came to light, Cacho filed a countersuit for corruption and violation of her human rights. Following a year-long battle, during which she suffered repeated death threats, the defamation charges were dismissed. However, her acquittal was only the result of her case being transferred to another state where defamation is no longer considered a criminal offence. Despite the Mexican Supreme Court’s ruling that there had been ‘no serious violation’ of Cacho’s rights when she was arrested on Marín’s orders, last April the special office set up to investigate crimes against journalists in Mexico ordered the arrest of five public employees for the illegal detention of Cacho. These reportedly included the former attorney general, a government minister, a police commander and various criminal justice system officials, who allegedly falsified paperwork in order to facilitate her arrest. Disappointingly, in June the court in Cacho’s home state of Quintana Roo ruled that although there was evidence of arbitrary detention and torture it could not accept her case for jurisdictional reasons and recommended that she take the case to Puebla.

Cacho claims that it is impossible to get justice in Puebla, particularly given the role of the state authorities in her ordeal. She is now forced to submit her case to the Inter-American Commission on Human Rights, but continues to receive threats to her life for her writing and her work.

With all the too-ing and fro-ing and legalise surrounding the case, I didn’t think to research what had happened to the Governor. I just presumed that when the tapes came to light Marín would have been stripped of office. Not so. I nearly fell off my chair when Jaime told me – in Puebla. Not only will Marín serve his obligatory 6-year term, today he is as popular as ever.

Mexico! This country that I love to hate and hate to love. The levels of crime and corruption are breathtaking. But the landscape is just phenomenal, its ancient civilisation still exerts a magnetism that is palpable and, despite the poverty, Mexicans exude a warmth and generosity that it’s hard to match anywhere in the world.

Picture postcard perfect

As you approach San Miguel de Allende, winding down one of the numerous hills that surround this pretty colonial town, it is the pink spires of La Parroquia (the parish church) that stand out. The façade was added to the original 1683 church by local stone mason Ceferino Gutierrez in 1880. With no formal training as an architect, this is Gutierrez’s idiosyncratic interpretation of a gothic tower. Legend has it that the illiterate mason would sketch out his instructions with a stick in the sand and his builders would follow these drawings.

It is just another example of Mexican ingenuity, a memorable piece of architecture, and I love its kitchness.

San Miguel is a picture-postcard town in Mexico’s central highlands and since the 1940s it has attracted many foreigners (mainly American) to make their homes here. Following World War II, American GIs came to the town to study at the art school run by Sterling Dickinson. Later, others followed and when McCarthy began his witch-hunts in the late 1940s, San Miguel also attracted American political expatriates seeking a refuge.

In the sixties, Beat writer Neal Cassady famously died just outside San Miguel after a wedding party in town – it is not known whether his death was as a result of exposure or because of a lethal cocktail of drugs. Cassady, together with Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg and, later, Bob Dylan, helped immortalise San Miguel’s most down-at-heel cantina, La Cucaracha (the cockroach) which still stands today.

Although the town has inevitably lost some of its bohemian edge, San Miguel remains a vibrant centre for aspiring artists. Within five minutes of arrival I found myself sipping wine at an art exhibition. San Miguel even has its own PEN centre and often hosts writers’ events. The first time I came here was for a writers’ conference in 2002.

Then, on one surreal evening, a few of us stole away for a dip in La Gruta, about five miles outside the town on the road to Dolores Hidalgo.  A popular spot for bathers, the three pools are fed by thermal springwater. Lit by starlight alone we groped our way through bushes, over a fence and into the first hot pool. We then waded through a pitch black tunnel until we came out in a cave with warm water cascading from its domed roof and down the walls. There are a number of these balnearios close to San Miguel and the experience is truly sublime.

As well as its narrow cobbled streets and slow pace of life, so different from Mexico City, I love the friendliness of the locals and the diversity of things to do and see. After the art exhibition, I was invited into the courtyard of a hotel to hear Casa Verde (GreenHouse) who were going to play original Latin tunes with a hint of reggae. When I arrived, this rather motley, seven-strong crew, were sitting around having a drink together. I had no idea they were to be the evening’s entertainment. But when they wandered onto the tiny stage and took up their instruments the end result was phenomenal. They metamorphosed into a disciplined group of musicians who played with real passion and energy.  There was an Argentinean on trumpet,  the female vocalist was French, a young Mexican girl was playing the congas and the guy who accosted me on the street played the requinto ( a miniature, more highly pitched, acoustic guitar commonly used in serenades) and employed a credit card as a plectrum.  They were hugely generous to one another – taking it in turns to introduce the songs and to sing lead vocals. It is always when you least expect it that something magical happens and I spent the rest of the night listening to this extraordinarily talented group.

The shops in San Miguel are full of interesting wares, that you are actually tempted to buy, from silver and pottery to sarapes and pretty handwoven blouses. This used to be a stopover for traders, en route from the silver mines of Zacatecas and Guanajuato, and is still predominantly an agrarian region, so it is no surprise to see men and children on horseback trotting down the streets. I had wanted to visit one of the nearby ranches to try and beg a bareback ride in the hills, but we did not have time.

The numerous church bells and firecrackers that wake you at dawn may bother some visitors but they evidently remain part of the town’s charm for the American retirees and wealthy expats who spend their winters here.

San Miguel also a bloody past for it was here that Mexico’s bid for independence from Spain first took root. Ignacio Allende, an army officer based in San Miguel, and a priest, Miguel Hidalgo, were among the conspirators to be captured and executed. The heads of Allende and Hidalgo and two other rebel leaders were brought back to Guanajuato and hung in cages outside a granary for ten years until 1821 when Mexico finally gained independence.  San Miguel el Grande was renamed San Miguel de Allende  in 1826 and his statue overlooks that of San Miguel’s founder the Franciscan Friar Juan de San Miguel. There can’t be many places were revolutionaries and friars are honoured side by side, but they often fought in the field together and it is the country’s most rebellious priests that have helped to make Mexico what it is today.

The magic mountain

Tepozteco

I have finally climbed the magic mountain of Tepozteco and the experience was phenomenal. This is part of the mountain range (sierra) that encircles Tepoztlán, a sleepy market town one hour south of Mexico city. Tepoztlán is a Nahuatl name and means “place of abundant copper” or “place of broken rocks”. There is not much copper to be seen today – either in the landscape or being sold in the market – but rocks there are a plenty.

What makes the mountain so special is that an ancient pyramid, named after Tepoztécatl the God of pulque, drunkenness and fertility, was erected on its summit around 1200AD and the ruins remain to this day. Pulque is made from the fermented juice of the maguey (a kind of cactus) and by modern standards is generally considered rather unappetising (given its resemblance to human saliva) but it was a popular Aztec drink and pre-Columbian was used in religious ceremonies. (Tepoztécatl is evidently an Aztec version of Dionysus). Pulque is still sold today, although in far less quantities than the ever popular tequila. In a nod to the cult of inebriation, market sellers continue to tout alcoholic beverages at the foot of the mountain.

Between 1150 and 1350AD, the city of Tlapechacalco flourished in a small valley surrounded by hills. The Aztec inhabitants carved out terraces from the rock  and built their palaces, and temples. Today, you can see the archaeological ruins of the city at the foot of the mountain and at the top of cerro Tepozteco is the temple ruin.

Today there is no road to the top and the only way to see the remains of the pyramid is by hiking up the mountainside for 1.3 miles (2km).

I have been meaning to climb this mountain for four years. Sunday at midday probably wasn’t the most propitious moment to choose. Hordes of people decided to ascend at that hour and at least three different generations, if not four, were climbing at the same time as us. Dense vegetation overhangs most of the path, creating natural shade but adding to the humidity, and in places, we were scrambling up an almost vertical precipice. I was amazed to see babies and dogs, quite literally, being hauled up the mountainside. All shapes and sizes and all manner of clothes and shoes were on display. Amazingly, often those people wearing flip-flops and Crocs proved the most sure-footed.

Many websites describe the climb in terms of ordered steps and this is very definitely not the case. At times our staircase to the temple was just a mound of rocks and, in places, water trickles over the rock making the climb slippery and more arduous. We applied a note of magic realism to the journey by imagining it to be the sweat of all those who had climbed before us.

All too often we, rounded a bend only to be confronted with another precipice to be scaled. At times, those descending caused dangerous bottlenecks where neither person could pass without causing risk to others. False hopes were raised when the sun broke through the foliage, fooling us into believing that we were near the top. One man scaled the mountain three times – during the three hours it took us to ascend and descend.

Inevitably, the highlight was arrival – drenched in sweat – and the awe-inspiring view. Tepoztlán laid out before us in all its glory.  The pyramid itself is stunning – even more so when you see the Mexicans camped out on its terraces – munching on their picnics, chatting and laughing. Unbelievably they were selling refreshments on the summit – someone evidently had to lug numerous bottles of lemonade and water up the mountain earlier in the day.

I was amused to see the following sign, asking for payment, at the top. All those climbing on sundays are exempt from the 37 peso fee (about £1.60) . But it was the exemption for “disabled visitors” that struck me.  I cannot contemplate how anyone suffering from any sort of injury or disability would make it up the mountain!  Having myself been partially disabled just 3 weeks ago, I was amazed at the ability of my knee and ankle to hold out and that I survived the journey intact.

As someone who suffers from vertigo, the descent was murderous. I was touched by the amount of helping hands offered to me. My rigid concentration on the stones in front of me, rather than the tremendous vista surrounding me, must have told a tale. I am amazed that there are not more accidents on Tepozteco. Just the sheer number of people at the weekend attempting to climb and descend is a hazard.

We may now be in considerable pain but remain exhilarated by the experience. The memory of the ascent, with its stunning natural architecture, foliage and small ferns flourishing in the rock is unforgettable. The summit is indeed a fitting stage to celebrate deities and kings. The temple ruins and view from the top of the mountain are ample reward for the rest of us lesser mortals.

On football

Mexico: 5, USA: 0

enough said.

A city of extremes…

The past two days have underlined my point that Mexico DF is a city of extremes.

On Saturday night we visited Jaime’s relatives in Tlalpuente to the south of Mexico City. Aptly named ‘the bridge to nature’, this is a unique settlement perched on the slopes of the Ajusco forest. Once in this ecological park, protected and conserved by its inhabitants, it is hard to believe that you are on the outskirts of one of the busiest and most populated cities in the world. The air is clean and fresh; there is no noise – apart from the occasional barking dog; and all around you is green, abundant nature.

Originally the land was worked by the inhabitants of San Andrés – a small village lying at the foot of the mountain, alongside the old road to Cuernavaca – who mainly produced oak charcoal from the Ajusco forest. Gradually, as Mexico’s urban sprawl spread and interest in this area grew, they began to sell off parcels of land to the urban rich who wanted to create an ecological settlement in the forest. Initially only small weekend cabins were built, but as the building work increased during the 1980’s, Tlalpuente’s residents organised themselves into a civil association and adopted a series of rules aimed at preserving the natural habitat as much a possible. It was agreed that the buildings should not exceed 5% of the whole surface area of a plot of land – hence the plots purchased were generally very large. In this small community of about one hundred and thirty families, the population density is only eight inhabitants per hectare – surely a record for Mexico City!

Today, the area is almost completely fenced off, and there are guards and automatic barriers at the main entrance. San Andrés is situated outside the park and contains local shops for the Tlalpuente elite and a veterinarian surgery – which must be in high demand given the amount of dogs kept by the park’s inhabitants to confront the threat of burglary and kidnappings. Unlike most gated accommodation, the community here appears to be united by its shared love for the natural world and the inhabitants really do seem to be living in harmony with nature. Jaime’s uncle and his American wife moved here in the 1980s. This is undoubtedly exclusive living but, as they have proved, only for those who are passionately committed to protecting its unique environment.

Although I am uncomfortable with the ethos of gated accommodation, I cannot deny the sheer, captivating beauty of this haven from the city and admire the commitment of its residents to preserve its natural habitat.

Our visit to Tlalpuente couldn’t have been more at odds with our trip to the markets in the far north of the city. We had aimed to go to La Lagunilla which is one of the its biggest markets; on Sunday there is an additional flea market with antiques, second-hand books, stamps, coins etc, and this is where we were headed in order to try and sell Jaime’s old LPs and some books he no longer wanted. The market I really wanted to avoid was Tepito, which runs on from La Lagunilla and is full of cheap tat and counterfeit goods.

Weighed down with a suitcase and rucksack we had hoped to accomplish our mission early on so that we could browse through some of the second-hand stalls. We were to be sorely disappointed and our patience tried to its limits. Nobody wanted Jaime’s books and noone seemed to be selling LPs. We started asking stallholders where the ‘mercado por discos’ might be… in hindsight, we regretted not being more specific (most people born after 1980 have probably  never have heard of or seen a long playing record); when we said discos they just presumed we meant musica! It wasn’t long before we were stuck in an endless labyrinth of stalls selling pirated cds and dvds. Hemmed in by crowds of people, there was no way out; we were forced to keep walking forward – dragging our suitcase behind us. To make matters worse a plastic awning covered everything, trapping in the heat and dust and, I later discovered, turning the market into a breeding ground for mosquitoes. The cacophony of sound was overwhelming. This tented hell seemed to go on for miles and without end.

Eventually, almost two hours later, we struggled out into an offshoot of stalls that finally led us back to the main road and the spot where we had began. By this point we were desperate to offload the LPs and books and so began offering them to all likely vendors for free. It was only after a number of attempts that we finally succeeded. We then rushed to the metro; suitably chastened by our experience and vowing never to return.

No gain without pain

…So they say although I worry that the pain often outweighs the gain. Yes, I am back in Mexico. And Jaime is on strict diet and trying to visit the gym every day. And so I immediately felt the pressure to get my heartbeat racing again. I lurched back into my exercise routine after many weeks of doing little in the way of physical activity. I sometimes wonder if there might be a more dignified way of shedding those additional pounds than running red-faced around a tennis court, playing with someone half your age and triple your agility… This was followed by an eye-watering masaje reductivo by my old friend Erica. When I complained of the pain, I was told it would get easier the more often my fat bits were pummelled. I have to admit, I have not yet found this to be the case.

The lifestyle I lead here, so different from that in the UK, seems right for me at this time: I need to get fit again and knuckle down to some serious writing. The sheer range of what I can do – tennis, yoga and Pilates are my personal choice – for just a fraction of what it would cost me in the UK helps with the motivational side of things (in fact I sometimes feel like a small child let loose in a sweet shop).  Best of all, I have found that exercise and creativity complement each other rather well.

This country does wonders for my written productivity. In May 2009 the Economist ran a short piece about how living abroad gives you a creative edge.  Apparently two psychologists ran a series of tests that proved that there is a statistical relationship between living abroad and creativity. So it is now official. I guess it has a lot to do with having to think imaginatively when you are in unfamiliar surroundings. But more importantly, here you have to be on your toes at all times. The levels of danger range from falling down one of the many pot holes in Mexico city’s uneven streets to being the victim of an armed kidnap.

I was distressed today to find a dead dog on the sidewalk. It looked as though it was merely resting in the heat and the dust. But as I stepped closer I saw a small pool of blood around its mouth. It had evidently been knocked down by a car. I found this pitiful bundle of fur so profoundly sad and shocking; it has strengthened my resolve to volunteer with one of the animal charities that are, sadly, so thin on the ground in Mexico. It also reinforces what a land of extremes this is. So much to praise and delight in; but equally too much to despair of and weep for.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/jubilo/

My wonderful discovery since being back is mamey ointment – from the mamey sapote. The tropical fruit not only tastes delicious (somewhere between an avocado and a date) but its oil appears to be a miracle face moisturiser – reducing all signs of blotchiness and jet lag within minutes of application. Apparently it is also good for curling the hair. I was rather alarmed, however, to read that the mamey seed is toxic, and that “extracts are used in a variety of applications, including as an insecticide”.

I will keep you posted.