The End of The Beginning

Suddenly, with the fanfare of the end of term exams and the obligatory sugar-fuelled party classes on the final Friday, I was no longer a teacher; my semester had reached its conclusion. Memories still bounce around inside my skull of the final day, recorded with forensic precision in my personal journal; my smallest and roundest student from my 4pm class, Nimsy, participating only partially in the "construct a mummy" race as he stood in his giant heeled wheely shoes gazing with affection at the miniature donut in his hand as a team mate knelt at his feet, industriously wrapping them in toilet paper; the unexpected and terrifying wall of early teenage female hormones that doused me in tearful goodbye hugs as my 5pm class said their farewells; the highly dubious homemade money for my 6pm class game of poker, ranging in value from $73 per note to an ambitious $100,000.

Goodbyes were said all round; students, teachers, mexican family and friends amassed over the last 6 months, and with little delay I very nearly ran to the colectivo stop on Saturday morning in my final bid to escape the heat, dogs, noise and watered down local celebrity status of white, foreign, confused teacher.

How does one summarise 6 months of being dug into a small town, and reflect with brevity on the experience? Maybe a better Blog Scribe than I could achieve it, but I struggle. The fundamental things that shuffle into focus are the times of incredible challenge and difficulty trying to build meaningful relationships and assert oneself in a town which had no scope for English communication, the kindness and curiosity of the population of Chiapa de Corzo, the blistering heat and propensity for incessent sweating, the rollercoaster of teaching children and teenagers, a blend of teeth grinding patience, magical humour and dark longings for the return of corporal punishment.

It has been a true test of my self assurance and personal security, being given license to interpret every situation in which I flounder without the benefit of understanding on a daily and frequent basis as a positive, strengthening learning experience; grasping constantly for some hook, some point of understanding as to how those around me are feeling and how it is reflected in their relating to me.

With this first step away from the securities and familiarities that sit thousands of miles away back on the shores of Jolly Old England, even in these early stages of change I can appreciate in retrospect that all the struggle and difficulty has been for the benefit of, paso a paso, becoming closer to where I am.

San Cristobal de Las Casas
6th July 2009

Technical Issues

Due to the unfortunate loss/theft of my camera at Puerto Arista, all posts until further notice (i.e. at the discretion of my insurance provider) will now be accompanied by images appropriated from the internet. Hurrah for the information revolution and social media.

The Management
Chiapa de Corzo
24th June 2009

Professional Plummeters

Last weekend the Great State of Chiapas put on a free high diving event in the mouth of the Canyon Sumidero.  After following numerous directional red herrings, I found myself crouching in the bushes alongside my companions and a sizeable representation of the rest of the town opposite a giant orange structure that allowed an international selection of high divers to drop 25 metres into the water and be duly fished out by a selection of jet skis.  After an extended wait in which we were peppered with propaganda about the Great State of Chiapas whilst the mosquitos had their fill or our exposed arms and legs, the competition commenced, an incredible display of skill, grace and balls-out stupidity.  

Out of the field of international competitors, I'm delighted to say that the gloriously pasty Brit gave everyone else a jolly good kicking and walked away with first place.  How did we ever get to be so good at throwing ourselves off high things?

Chiapa de Corzo

3rd Junio 2009 

Por Fin, el Canyon Sumidero

So, after some five months spent at the foot of the majestic Canyon Sumidero in my sweaty little pueblo, a visit from some of my aquaintances from Semana Santa finally prompted me to take an eco-tourist eco-boat ride down the eco-canyon.

Sumidero was an incredible spectacle, sheer rock faces rising up out of the muddy, sluggish river and bursting through the covering of trees that lined its edges.  However, it wasn't long before I started to feel somewhat jaded by the process of experience, shoehorned onto a fibreglass motorboat with a selection of Mexican and foreign tourists, all armed with cameras and camera phones who took every opportunity to point and shoot whenever our tour guide, acting with the token weariness of a seasoned driver, would point out the "features of interest", which regrettably paled into insignificance in relation to the Canyon itself.  We cheerfully drove up to members of the local crocodile population to sate the lust of the tourists for wildlife shots, bringing the boat within feet of them to prompt a grumpy shuffle back into the water or submergence out of sight to prove that they were more than inanimate models placed for the benefit of photo hungry tourists looking for a genuine experience (oh, the irony).

It got me thinking about the nature of tourism; why would I seek to experience things in such a manufactured and predestined way?  What personal significance and sense of development does it instill in me?  Aside from the memory of impressive vistas, the only tangible product that I take from the experience is photographs, and what is their purpose; to be shown to other people?  

So with this in mind, I hope you enjoy the photos for this entry.  They are probably much more impressive than wherever you are.

Chiapa de Corzo

3rd Junio 2009

Welcome To June, We Hope You Enjoy Your Sunset

Chiapa de Corzo

2nd Junio 2009

...And Then The Rains Came

Sitting in my cuarto in a grump following a frustrating lunchtime interaction with the language barrier and the two tweenage girls of the household, I suddenly hear the patter of raindrops against the window pane. Within a minute the patter has turned to an uproar, and the rainy season begins. I've heard this seasonal change mentioned by various people and decide in a flash that I'd sooner go outside and risk a soaking than be inside with myself for company.

Grabbing a waterproof and the camera, I duck out of the house and tiptoe my way around the block under the awnings of the houses as the rain lashes down, heading for the central plaza. The stories I've heard are fully substantiated; the cobbled streets have become rivers, torrents pouring through the town, paying attention only to the inexplicable variation of gradients. Eventually I stand at one of the block intersections, facing an ankle deep, fast flowing stream as cars thrash up and down the street and the detritus of the town drifts lazily by, heading for the river. Finally tired of waiting, I step into the tide and feel my shoes instantly saturate, slopping big, wet footsteps across the intersection as I am watched by the curious townspeople from the shelter of their windows. Once again, I misrepresent foreigners as a bunch of curious eccentrics that would sooner be soaking themselves in the filthy first rain of the season than sheltering in warm and dry interiors, waiting for the storm to pass.

And pass it does, the forking lightning and loud, violent rumbles of thunder diminishing to nothing along with the pounding of the rain. Sopping wet and dripping in the shelter of the vast town fountain in front of a curious crowd of Mexican tourists, I watch the skies clear. The rapid turn in events of the weather permits the rest of the teaching staff to forge their way to afternoon classes without having to wring their socks out and leave them to dry on the desk at the front of the class.


Chiapa de Corzo
15th Mayo 2009

Awfully Large Fruit

It is Mango Season in Chiapa de Corzo right now, and the trees are dripping with big, plump, tasty fruit. For those lucky enough to have a tree on their property, it's a great opportunity to earn an extra couple of pesos selling them outside the fruit market, allowing us consumers to grab as much as we can. One obvious benefit (if you don't have a tree in your back yard; oh, I wish) is that the hoardes of old ladies sitting patiently behind their vast stacks of mango have paid absolutely nothing to be in a position of selling their wares, and thus pass this on to the fruit craving masses. I paid not a cent more than 10 pesos (about 50p) for a bulging carrier bag of top quality produce, fresh as a daisy. The only problem is that now I don't think I have the capacity to eat it all.

Chiapa de Corzo

15th Mayo 2009

Mexican Sunday League

Following an invitation by my Mexican friend Manuel and a couple of friendly 11-a-side games in the blistering afternoon heat at the Centro Deportivo on the outskirts of town, I was asked by Octavio, the team manager in his machine gun chatter if I would like to play in the local league. I graciously accepted the tenure of novelty international signing and began jumping through the flaming hoops of procuring tiny photographs for my league ID card and copies of all my particulars (in the eventuality than the authorities would conduct an on-pitch inspection, I suppose) and purchasing the "uniforme" of a green cotton t-shirt with a number on the back and a fetching pair of white short shorts and matching socks of the finest polyester. Unfortunately, despite my slavish attention to process I turned up for the first match on the Sunday for a 12pm kickoff, already sweating in the shade, without the necessary regulation moulded stud boots; essential for running on rock hard, dry earth.

Thus I found myself watching, and not participating in, the epic battle of my team against a considerably more professional looking and organised opposition (their replica shirts had sponsors and everything). Despite the fact that I was thousands of miles away from the green and very uneven pitches on the Bristol Downs, I was surprised at the similarities; both teams labored around the pitch, veering between periods of enthusiastic capability and utter ineptitude; a gaggle of devoted spectators, substitutes and "managers" screamed completely contrary advice from the touchline and sporadically lapsed into laughing and joking from bulging eyed abuse hurling and, synonymous with my Bristol days, I was none the wiser as to why some players were deemed to be having had a fantastic game and others worthy of a death sentence when for all intents and purposes everyone seemed to be doing as well as each other.

The only difference seemed to be in the diverse and frequent circumstance of injury that plagued the game; the included photo depicts one of countless additions to extra time that the players no doubt cursed as they waded through the heat of the day. I can only put this down to the fact that the players were tottering around on regulation studs on a surface akin to a basketball court, but with dust.

Sadly (no doubt due to my absence on the pitch), my team received a resounding 3-0 beating which led to the familiar British post-match rounds of backslapping and joking about how awfully we played/what a bunch of bastards the other lot were, punctuated by occasional involuntary silences and shaking of heads. If I can last 90 minutes without expiring in the heat, I think I'll have a great time with this for a couple of months.

Somewhere outside Chiapa De Corzo

10th Mayo 09

My poor ears

Life in Mexico is a noisy, relentless business. In my quaint little pueblo alone, the peace of the day can feasibly be interrupted by the exploding of fireworks to celebrate the movement of one of the innumerable saints from one house to another in the town, the howling sexual frustrations of the resident cats and dogs that prowl the streets, cries of salesmen proclaiming the existance of everything from cheese to knife sharpening services (the rear wheel of a bicycle turned upside down affixed to a rotary grinding stone; a fantastic contraption of Heath Robinson proportions) and the roving ice cream vendors, their mobile freezers supplimented with dynamo driven sound systems that play rag time piano classics at a variety of pitches depending on the gradient of the hill that they are trying to ascend, are but a few disturbances of the peace available.

In tribune to this rather wearying nuance of mexican life, I offer my top three least favourite noises since arrival, in no particular order:

1) The gas trucks

The lifeblood of CDC, gas is a commodity worth attaining a monopoly over. This mindset is executed with gusto by the numerous service providers about town. Competing for business, trucks bearing gas canisters roll through the streets and alert the townfolk to their presence by dragging a metal chain behind them, exacting the kind of effect expected by ice cream vans, only on a much more industrial level.


magic captured courtesy of Ann Hadley; thanks awfully old bean.

2) Dolly the Dog

Appearing cute and worthy of lavish affection, this dimiuative incarnation of the dark lord himself wakes me up at any given hour of the night with ear splitting and relentless barking. This trick is also repeated with avid devotion any time that anything (man, beast or inanimate object blown by the wind) passes within fifteen feet of the house. Unfortunate, therefore, that passing traffic is prolific. Other quirks of the behaviour of this entity of aural destruction include stealing the dirty socks from my laundry to line her bedding, chewing on the toes of my bare feet under the table during mealtimes and attempting to escape the house every time I try to leave through the wafer thin crack of the open door.

3) Those bloody rug salesmen

It would not be appropriate to discourse on the nature of Chiapan noise without a hearty mention of the Fiesta de Enero, after which all other noise seems akin to whispers. For a whole month, pillows were pressed to ears as the relentless racket of festivity continued morning, noon and night. At the very pinnacle of this heap of sound lie the rug salesmen, thankfully long gone from town who, at first, impressed us with their relentless amplified sales patter and then eventually cased us to wish for their rapid and painful demise. Established on vast booths containing mountains of rugs and carpets, teams of fast talking carnival folk would work around the clock with microphones strapped under their noses to allow their hands to remain free in order to point at rugs and demonstrate them (surely a rug foregoes the need for demonstration?). The placement of the mic removed all bass from the sound of their endless and apparently mindless rug-related nonsense and this, combined with the offensively loud volume perpetrated by unecessary amplification, created one of the most "character building" experiences of Fiesta de Enero.

Chiapa de Corzo
29th March 2009

Messin´about on the river

This weekend, in the vague pursuit of physical activity and a taste of the outdoors (I´ve been cowering inside avoiding the heat of the day for weeks now), I decided to take up the offer of a friend/brother/cousin of my family (as far as I can tell everyone in this town has a connection of some kind with everyone else) to use his canoe to explore the wide river that flows past the southern edge of the town and into the Sumidero Canyon.

I managed to procure a kayak of a most modern design with relative ease, and within a short space of time hopped over the malodourous bank to the river and launched into the water.  It was a great experience, paddling solo alongside the banks; as it was a Sunday, all the families and mobs of kids were out in force, splashing around and generally deriving a great deal of amusement from an inquisitive foreigner paddling past them.  As I got futher down the river and the only signs of life were the occasional tourist motorboat hurtling past and causing near capsize inducing wake, I got one of my first feelings of proper solitude since I arrived; a welcome break from the relentless noise and attention that awaits me every day in town.

It transpired at roughly the furthest point from my intital location on the whole trip, that I was sharing the boat with a squad of very sociable ants.  When these friendly beasts decided to put in a appearance, I can only imagine the sense of value for money that a boatload of passing tourists must have felt, watching me suddenly and inexplicably paddle furiously for the bank and leap from my craft, slapping myself repeatedly all over my body whilst hopping around frantically.  The ants and I eventually reached a truce mostly instigated, I assume, by the act of ant genocide that I committed, dragging the boat out into the river and giving it a bloody thorough washing, inside and out.

Chiapa de Corzo

9th March 2009

Evil has a name, and that name is....Nimsy?

With the successful completion of my first month of teaching combining unexpectedly with a clean sheet of mental and physical injury, I though it an opportune moment to share with you the rogues galleries that are my classes before the possibility of a Lord of the Flies-esque scenario rears its ugly head.

So, Introducing my 4pm class, from the left; Emannuel, Alexan, Paola, Nimsy and Romina (Maria Fernanda, Ana Jose and Vareli sadly absent). This photo somehow manages to perfectly encapsulate the personalities of all the students. Pay special attention to Nimsy; he´s going to be an evil genius or a Broadway musical star when he´s older. I haven´t yet ascertained which is most likely.


Next are my 5pm lot, sufficiently old enough to be more inhibited in a photography situation. From the left; Carlos, Fernando, Marcos, Sergio, Jose Manuel, Citlali, Rocio, Nohemi, Mara, Jessica and Eduardo (Manuel sadly absent). This lot veer between childish excitement at the prospect of playing pictionary and being too achingly cool to practise speaking exercises.


Sadly lacking in presence from my synopsis are my 6pm unit. Due to the behemoth task that is behaviour management with a bunch of hormonally confused teenagers, I spend my lessons either exerting my limited authority with an iron fist or ecstatically riding the brief wave of cooperation and good will. In either case capturing them on film during lesson times seems like as distant a possibility as apprehending Bigfoot and engaging in a tea party with it and the Loch Ness monster. I live in hope that one day I´ll be able to distract them with candy and Britney Spears songs long enough to bag a snap without them destroying the rest of the lesson.

Last, but not least is my Saturday Bunch. Unable to engage in weekday frivolities because of working commitments and/or abject fear of my other students, they foster a more mature approach to learning until, that is, I unleash Guess Who. From the left; Laura, Amada, Carolina, Jessica, Cristina, Xavier, Manuel and Alexander.

As an epilogue, an action shot of the Girls Team from lessons this morning; as you can probably tell, they crushed the Boys without mercy.

Chiapa de Corzo
7th March 2009

Challenge Clarke pt 2: Shoes of Doom

Refreshing once again, if I may, the iron clad gauntlet laid down to me by my good friend back in the UK, Ms. Polly Williams;

1) Ride something not of the equine world (i.e. no horses allowed)
2) Find out about Mexicans before the Mexicans, as it were
3) Purchase, and enjoy parading in, some handmade footwear

One of these now lies defeated, as those who have seen my childlike screaming captured on video will no doubt testify. Owing to reasons of impending need to pertain more appropriate footwear or risk social exclusion and utter bone idleness to research the anthropoligical history of Mexico, I´ve prioritised the third part of the quest.

Owing to the helpful comments of fellow teacher Martin that, in cirumstances of purchase of any one of the multitude of beautiful pairs of leather sandals adorning the tourist shops around the central plaza, my shoes would, in a short space of time "Smell like ass", I decided to consider other options. My feet have always exhibited a propensity for excessive perspiration, and I needed a more rigourous solution.

Combing the back streets away from the tourist strip, I happened upon a hole in the wall enterprise, similar to the countless alternatives dotted around the town and propiented by two small boys. This one, however, contained a pair of sandals that I deemed fit for purpose and after a laborious and drawn out exchange with the two "assistants" I managed to walk away with my toes singing songs of freedom to the open air. All was well until I noticed that that one of the straps was torn almost to point of breaking; the two miniature entrepreneurs had just sold me a dud.

Flip flopping back to the same hole feeling somewhat aggreived, I confronted the salesmen with my sandals and asked in my abysmal spanish for a replacement pair. This request was gleefully denied and it was at this point that my language aptitude left me high and dry; I could request a replacement, but had no hope for understanding the reasons for a rebuttal. An old lady sauntered onto the scene as the intensity of the discourse between the boys and I increased, but unfortunately she proved to be no better at communicating a solution; my admission of lack of comprehension was only met with a different slice of rapid fire language, and with the cackling and shouting at me by the pint sized fiends I had the feeling that my incomprehension was greatly at my expense. Despite trying everything from trying different routes of explanation to issuing threats to rubbish their reputation about town, the best that I could do was explain that I would return with a translator within 5 minutes to develop a more productive discourse. Returning shortly afterwards with Padre Javier I was almost unsurprised to find the shutter pulled down over the lot and not a sign of life to be found.

Anecdotes about fighting children for shoes aside, this serves to illustrate one of the greatest challenges that I struggle with every day, that I never comprehended before I arrived and still struggle to articulate now. I´m surrounded by people and circumstances that operate on a completely different language and this, to a huge extent, strips me of the familiarities, securities and comfort that I took for granted in a place where I was in command of communication, and able to articule and play with the spoken medium. For the first time abroad, Im not cocooned with the comfort of an english speaking populus in tourist routes and locations, or the knowledge that I´ll be moving on from somewhere within days as part of a trip. I´m here to learn the language, so I have to force myself to confront my inability to communicate every day, and at a teeth grindingly slow pace start, little by little, to circumnavigate those barriers.

Not understanding a language that I live amongst is, without doubt, one of the hardest things I have experienced. Some days, every laugh or joke seems to be at my expense, every comment made seems impatient or condescending. On those days my Spanish lessons seem to achieve nothing when I try and instigate a simple conversation with anyone, or understand a kindly comment put my way. Other days, I can feel the fragments of understand align for just long enough to give me a glimmer of hope that somehow, in the coming months, all this chaos and incomprehension will being to make sense to me. There have been times where I´ve managed to raise a smile or a laugh from somebody with a joke that I´ve tried to make; the connection between us, however brief, forges a link that buries itself deep into my conciousness. For that moment, I can understand that despite all the stuggle, confusion, embarrassment and frustration, it´s going to be worth it.



For the benefit of Ms. Williams, I can confirm that I did manage to claw back a replacement from that shop, but even with Javier´s explanation I was still no clearer as to any justification beyond bloody minded stubborness as to the original refusal. For the benefit of all those due to meet up with me at some point during the future tenure of my sandals, I can also comfirm that they do not (as of yet) smell like ass.

Chiapa de Corzo
28th February 2009

Another Top Notch Weekend

Just outside town, Im fortuate enough to have a very nice selection of waterfalls and natural climbing walls. These have provided me with an excellent couple of weekends, and adequate training for my adventure based future existence post teaching, no doubt hacking through jungle, scaling mountains, looting ancient temples etc.

Somewhere outside Chiapa de Corzo
21st February 2009

Teacher Jon, Figure of Authority Amongst Seven Year Olds

Many thanks for your patience, chaps. I seem to have broken the back (at least for the moment) of my new workload. I am now at liberty to discourse, once again.

Contrary to what many of my imaginary loyal subscribers may believe, I have not spent the vast proportion of my time thus far in Mexico sodden by booze and languishing in the depths of an eternal party; I´ve actually been training to teach English as a Foreign Language. For those of you who do not know what this entails (I certainly didn´t when I reluctantly parted with the cash for the course), the purpose of the training is to allow a qualified individual to impart aptitude in spoken English onto a local population that doesn´t understand a word of the language. It´s all a bit colonial, like back in the ruddy good old days when we refused to acknowledge that the natives were probably an awful lot smarter than us, and things could be done much better if we paid some attention to the way that they lived in their natural surroundings. Nevertheless my experiences have been well worth the investment, and I´ve been instilled with a great deal of respect for the teaching method.

Trawling back through my journal reveals an interesting progression over the course of the month´s training. It´s probably worth noting that the school at which I trained (The Dunham Institute; a wonderful and highly commendable enterprise) has a specific way of doing things, both in the execution of their teaching and their TEFL staff training, and my experiences were most likely somewhat different to other ways and means of obtaining qualifications. The essence of the course, from the outline in the front page of our nice blue folders, was to put trainees through as much classroom contact time as possible, with a wide a variety of teachers and their students as was feasible, maximising practise, observation and teaching contact time. This was, naturally, a methodology that we all heartily agreed with.

Starting out fresh faced at the beginning of January, my course mates and I were cheerfully informed that we would be teaching an hour long class within 3 days, and leading classroom exercises by the following day. This naturally caused some minor concerns within the trainee encampment, and unfortunately for us this proved to be agenda by which the graduates of the Dunham Institute were persecuted with, generation after generation; either get thrown into circumstances over one´s head and survive or, alternatively, leave. The comparative quantity of teaching time in my current undertakings put my early shaky steps into rather stark perspective, but initially, leading an 15 minute exercise with ten little confused faces staring up at me as I tried to convince them to sort paper slips of nouns into two highly obvious columns on the floor was a teeth-grindingly hard challenge that I hadn´t faced before.

The key thing in the classroom that became apparent very quickly was the lack of comprehension of the things in language that we take for granted as native speakers that are simply not present in a learner. The language and mannerisms of the teachers I observed and eventually took over from were conducive to simplicity, and represented everything absent in the trainees; clear logical progression and linking between ideas, rigorously re enforced learning motifs, processes and patterns (repetition was a huge part of dealing with the earliest beginners) and slow, steady speech complimented by just about every medium of communication available to a human being; mime, dance, sounds, pictures, movement, body language and countless other routes by which the students could be brainwashed into understanding the significance of English vocabulary and grammar without the benefit of their mother tongue. It was these things that we all, without exception, managed to get thoroughly knotted in the early days, leaving the poor students with furrowed brows and slack jaws.

I became aware over the course of my training of the pains of lesson planning. As an exercise, planning a lesson is much like anything else; define your objectives and specific goals, and then break down preparation, actions and review process with these in mind. What caused the first few lesson plans, artfully conceived over long stressful hours to levels of intricacy equalled only by the choreography of a West End musical, was the black cloud of panic that descended upon us as we attempted to predict how a room of children, accursed agents of chaos, would react to our schemes. It was this, regrettably, that also caused our beautifully constructed 50 minute opuses to fall, for the most part, to dust. In trying to sculpt every aspect of the lesson, we became restricted by our rigidity.

Aah, English grammar. I was all too aware of my ignorance before I started the course, and I´m not in the least bit ashamed to say that my awareness was set on foundations of granite. Learning alongside trainees who had studied language in college, I found myself screaming up a near vertical learning curve, wrapping the loose strings of my brain around infinitives, tenses, prepositions, conjugations, participial adjectives, reported speech and all the other wonderfully cryptic terms used by linguists that I still, on most occasions, am completely confounded by. The scope of my grammar orientation was prescribed to the nature and progression of the TEFL process and I was led through the concepts as they would be introduced to students from a state of complete beginner to advanced. It was, by and large, incredibly interesting to see how my native language was constructed, and certainly a great help in catalysing my appreciation of Spanish language construction for the lessons that were due to start on completion of the course.

A couple of the more interesting things to crop up in my befuddled circumnavigation of English were;

1) Nouns (object words) are countable and uncountable i.e. they can or cannot be assigned a numeric quantity. For example, you cannot specify a quantity for the following; milk, traffic, sunshine, honey or chocolate. You can, however, assign quantity to loosely affiliated objects or measurements for these items; 2 bottles (of milk), 5 miles (of traffic), 3000 Joules per kg/greys (of sunlight) and so on, thus creating a world of confusion.

2) Statements can be classified as "passive" or "active" depending on the orientation of the "subject" and "object" of the statement. For example, "Steven (subject) read the book (object) to the class" is an active sentence, where the focus is on the subject. In the passive sentence, "The book was read to the class by Steven", the focus is the book, and not the reader. It´s mildly amusing to note that a particular use for passive constructions is in the formulation of excuses, when someone wishes to distance themselves from an event e.g. "The vase broke when I was in the room". It makes one wonder what other tendencies for language construction are wired into our skulls, ready for the knowledgeable amongst us to interpret...

1) There are 3 different types of conditional statement ("If..."), ranging in application from universal statements of certainty e.g. "If you heat water to 100 degrees centigrade, it boils", to those that wistfully proffer desired alternatives to events that have already happened e.g. "If you had done your job properly, we wouldn´t be in this mess right now".

As the course progressed and the colourful cross section of grave errors unfolded in my teaching practice, I stoically towed the line that anything that happened, however awful, during the classes would serve as a stronger learning experience, not repeated once my head was tucked inside the foxhole of eduction, my teaching campaign having actually begun. It was, for the most part, this simple maxim that dragged me through the training process and the seemingly impossible increasing intensity of the course requirements until, suddenly I found myself two days from the end of the course with all my task boxes ticked and my feedback sessions returning pleasingly positive responses. The heartless and despotic doctrine of the Institute had given me as much time as humanly possible practising the job that I would be doing, and poked and prodded me forceably in the right direction with rigourous peer and qualified teacher feedback for all my student contact time.

I would continue to make untold errors over the coming weeks with my class of completely fresh faced beginners, but my confidence and aptitude leading classes was a world apart from the first shoddy student activity that I´d fumbled through. Incredibly, I´d passed the course with distinction and was the unashamedly proud owner of a shiny TEFL certificate. My sense of pride was only overshadowed by the subconsicous terror of managing a workload four times of that experienced during the training within a few days of graduation, but I managed to hold this off with magnificent execution of flat denial, escaping to the seaside.


It´s been a highly liberating experience to cast myself into a completely new vocation and accepting the humility that comes with being a beginner, enjoying the white knuckle ride of a fast learning curve and appreciating the personal development that happens in such a short space of time. However, I´m glad it´s February; I´m bloody knackered.

Chiapa de Corzo
21st February 2009

When language goes wrong

This particular gem, recently discovered on a review of the various different photo albums, was snapped by Laura during the day of the Parachicos. It's probably worth mentioning that the license plate belongs to a bus owned by the church.

Chiapa de Corzo
29th January 2009

Ordered Chaos; A Mexican Carnival

Last week saw the festival signed off with a grand carnival, bringing together all the elements of the chaos and debauchary over the last month. The teaching staff and vaious different families with which we were affiliated took up station on the second storey of my familys´ shop, cameras poised to snap anything that moved. The procession was led by the "Annuncio" crowd, an exciteable gaggle of children dressed as ranch hands mercilessly harassing a man with the effurgy of a bull on his back, who took great delight is stampeding said children into the front rows of spectators to roars of approval from the crowd. For those who are unsure, an Annuncio is an event designed by some of the greatest minds in known event management history; a party whose entire existence serves to bring attention to an upcoming larger party. I am not entirely sure if this concept has been further extended to encompass Annuncios for Annuncios (infinite regression is entirely possible here), but judging by the attitude of the townsfolk this month, it is entirely possible.

Next came the Chuntas, led by the same racially questionable gentleman present at my night of cross dressing. The Chuntas were a force to be reckoned with, spraying the surrounding crowd with confetti and, bizzarely, root vegetables.

A series of carnival floats followed, each intricate in its own design and showcasing a range of "carnival queens", who waved regally to the crowds (an adorable sight in the case of the chubby 7 year old versions) and dispensed a range of candies, money and corporate merchandise. Every community group seemed to have their own float, from the cheeky "forest pixie" primary school childrens float to the beautifully presented and noticably aloof chinese society.

The Chinese Societies` float was supplimented with a Chinese dragon procession and entusiastic percussion, which came to blows somewhat with the following masses of Parachicos, eager to blow off steam before their dormancy for the rest of the year. Squabbles and bickering spread among the two different factions due to the commonly held perception that the Chinese lot were moving too slowly, and finally with a display of restrained democracy the dragon moved to one side as the Parachicos thundered past them, spreading everyone thin in their overcooked desire for progress and concluding with a rather sweet and confused regrouping a short distance down the street. Meanwhile the the dragon and the rest of the Chinese Wannabe Mexicans re-established their cohort with a lot of unecessary reversing of vehicles, shouting and pointing and, to the cheers of the crowd, proceeded to enthusiastically charge up and down the street once more, scattering pedestrians and spectators in all directions.

The carnival queen followed this debacle, smiling and waving to the onlookers laden with chocolate, money and vegetables and, finally, it was over. In retrospect, I wonder what I would have made of the bizzare cow baiting, cross dressing and masked antics if I did not have the benefit of a couple of weeks orientation with the various different components of the wonderful events of the last month. I can only think that, as opposed to being consumed by the randomness of it all, I was able to appreciate the synergy of the various different elements of the traditions and truly appreciate the pride and passion of the participants, as well as the perceptable sorrow that they would, for the next 11 months, sink into a state of expectant longing for next January.

Chiapa de Corzo

26th January 2009January 2009

Jon Clarke, National Mexican TV Star Transvestite

As you may have gathered from one of my previous posts, I was (mis)fortunate enough to be featured on Mexican national television in my first week dressed as a lady. Well, thanks to the wonders of modern technology and the openness of the TV networks here, you can now view my TV appearance.

I´m so embarrassed. Many thanks to Padre Javier, who took great delight in being present for my first viewing of the footage.

Chiapa de Corzo
24th January 2009