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

Taking Corporate Mascots to the Next Level

Those of you aware of the loathsome cut price pharmacy chain Farmacias Similares will no doubt be aware of their cheerful quack mascot, Doctor Simi. In times ruled by the mobile phone camera and the tatty/glorious output of YouTube, the marketing geniuses of this company have decided to employ dispensing employees who have a natural affinity for dance and are willing to showcase their talents in the heat of the day inside a vast costume outside the numerous widespread stores that litter Mexico.

My first acquaintance with him was on the town square of Chiapa de Corzo to the sound of pounding techno music and I have long tried to capture the results on video, but a quick search of YouTube yields far more entertaining results, including the "anti-corporate" bunch of Mexican teenagers who have taken great delight in public mobbings of the cheerful (but now slightly wary) face of cheap dubious medical consultations.



Chiapa de Corzo
19th April 2009

Mescal, The Police and My Shoes

Following an enthusiastic evening in the party charged Puerto Escondido during the national Semana Santa holiday, I found myself carving a decidedly wonky path through the sand of Playa Zicatela, the main beach. My point of departure was a beach bar constructed mostly from pieces of haphazardly connected driftwood, loud classic rock tracks and clientele enthusiasm where free Mescal was served with every beer purchased. For the uninitiated, Mescal is the physical representation of a bad idea, and goes a long way to explaining my inability to hold a steady tradjectory. My destination was my hostel, some ten minutes down the beach as the crow flies, an efficiency sadly lacking in my progress. Taking a break from walking with a fellow hostel companion who had also undertaken the transition, we gracelessly collapsed on the sand and began a long and rambling discourse about something of critical importance, which I obviously can't remember.

Our break was interrupted, unfortunately, by a local law enforcement officer. Appearing from nowhere (most probably from some distance within my direct field of vision) he cast a disparaging up and down me and my companion who, thankfully, was less influenced by Mescal than I, and with all the subtelty of a Broadway musical, requested money.

My cunning, drunken plan (after taking in the sight of his badge and gun with my bloodshot eyes) to plead utter ignorance to understanding his Spanish seemed to work; after a minute or two of persisting, he grew bored and frustrated, changing tack and shifted his demands to jewellery. When it became apparent that neither of us were adorned with any, he seemed to give up. Unfortunately as we rose to leave he noticed our sandals sitting on the sand, and with a calculated stare he descended on mine, sweeping them up with a triumphant shout "Estan nuevos!".

He was, sadly, correct; they were brand new. After a week of walking barefoot on red hot sand (my previous "handmade" footwear having expired a week before) I had decided to invest in a nice pair of flip flops, enticed, as always, by the expensive surf brands touted inside the beach front surf shops running up and down Zicatela. After parting with more money than advisable, I was able to showcase my new investment and give the soles of my feet a break. Until, that was, later that evening when this shoe savvy local law-scout saw opportunity knocking.

Before I knew it, he had disappeared into the night, forever, with my brand new flip flops in his grubby hands. I had just been shaken down...for a pair of shoes.

Puerto Escondido
18th April 2009

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

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