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

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

Latin American Brands I Love: Sol

The staple diet for Fiesta de Enero (aside from tacos and churros) is the mighty Michelada. The principal purveyor of these skull splitting Mexican versions of the bloody mary is Sol; I knew about Sol before I departed the UK, but it is here in their native setting that the company truly comes into their own.

Unconstrained by the scruples of the diverse range of regulatory bodies in England, Sol gleefully uses the simple but incredibly effective method of association with scantily clad women with large breasts to flog its wares. Another of their specialities is paying lip service to drinking responsibility with superb irony. A couple of nights ago I noticed the warning message below; for reference I´ve also included a picture of one of these mighty cups in use. For the uninitiated, "Evita El Exceso" translates to "Avoid Excess".



Chiapas De Corzo
20th January 2009

Men in Masks

Saturday morning dawned and I begrudgingly dragged myself from my bed, beset by an unpleasant mixture of head cold and hangover from the night before; a riotous affair involving prolific table dancing and the death of my camera, returned to me in the middle of a nightclub with the lens bent at un unseemly angle. Today was the day that I and my fellow teachers were to engage in the procession of the Parachicos, another piece in the convoluted jigsaw that constituted the Fiesta de Enero. My unsuitable awakening was driven by the advice of my Madre that we would not be able to get a costume unless we rose unsociably early. I was preempted at the door by a surprisingly chipper Martin, given that it was his 8th party day on the trot, and we shambolled down the road to my familys´store.

The rest of the gang arrived in dribs and drabs and within minutes we were standing in an Aladdins Cave of costumers; the same place room which I´d previously been rejected in my application for a Chunta costume. After trying on a range of elements of the Parachico outfit that we were required to wear to participate in the procession and reflecting with hilarity on the excessive diameter of my head, unsuitable for all but the largest hats, we dispersed with the intention of reconvening to dress at around 11.30; I went straight back to sleep.

Donning our costumes somewhat later than expected due to the tardiness of our group that was to become characteristic of the day, it became immediately apparent that the outfit, thick and heavy, would be uncomfortable worn as intended in the heat of the mid-day sun; a thick blanket, trousers and long sleeves, a gigantic hat that resembled a blonde afro and a heavy wood carved mask were all conducive to immediate and extensive perspiration. The mask, in particular, induced instantaneous pain as it was tightened into place, mashing my nose into an unnatural shape and pressed tight into my forehead by my giant hat. The other logistical issue was my field of vision, abysmal through the tiny apertures in the eyebrows.

Armed with "chin-chins", a metallic rattle, we blundered out into the street and attempted to locate the procession. Incubating my illness behind my mask and within my heavy, hot clothes I began to feel grumpy.

We eventually located the procession, a huge convoy of similarly dressed people dancing to the familiar sound of drums and whistle flutes. Still flailing around with a non-existent field of vision we plunged into the procession and lost each other almost instantaneously in a field of ornate masks, everyone indistinguishable from everyone else. I doggedly laboured forwards within the press of bodies, shaking my chin-chin, attempting to dance and pick out the words within the muffled cries that emanated from callers within the crowd as the relentless sun beat down upon our insulated shoulders, cursing my hangover, illness and willingness for participation. It was a strange, unsettling affair, the movement and dancing constricted by the costumes and the sounds repressed by the masks. I began to experience a strange feeling as I moved with the costumed and faceless multitudes, one that I heard echoed by the others after talking later with them. They described it as a spiritual feeling, a moment of acute awareness of the self. Within my costume, anonymous to the outside world, I felt safe and introverted in the knowledge that no-one knew who I was (the antithesis of the night of the chuntas) but I was surrounded by a great crowd of similar people, all isolated in the same way as me with no hope of connection with their external similarities and suppressed field of vision. I was alone, but felt overwhelmingly to be an intrinsic part of something much greater.

I continued on for a while, caught up in the feeling until the intolerable heat of the costume forced me to the roadside to lift my mask for a short while and see if I could identify any of my friends. While I was standing watching the tide of Parachicos passing by I noticed one particular participant shuffling forward, head moving side to side and noted, with a degree of perverse satisfaction and delayed inevitability, as they walked smartly into the back of a parked truck.

Incredibly, I managed to pick Abi out of the crowd from her shirt and we shuffled and shook our way to an undercover contraction in the street where a marimba band was serenading the passing Parachicos. The noise, heat and crush of bodies were too much, and it was with a degree of relief that we eventually emerged to a crossroad where the procession seemed to dissipate. We removed our masks and hats and, red faced, sat in the shade to take lunch and watch the world pass.

It was a wonderful spectacle. Strings of flags flutter ed overhead in the breeze framed by clear blue skies. Groups of parachicos strode past, shaking chin-chins and uttering muffled cries, caught up in some purpose beyond my comprehension. Groups of women and children in beautiful traditional dresses and stunning with their hair held back with headpieces showing their clear, dark skin flocked about the scene. Music drifted from bars and stages and mariachi groups resplendent in their matching suits wandered amongst the chaos. Everybody was clearly taking such pride in their involvement, looming fathers and their diminutive sons comically standing beside each other in identical costumes. The energy, commitment and natural dancing movement of the children was a sight to behold; an inspiration to apathetic English youth.

We eventually came upon the others, engaged in heavy drinking having abandoned their masks some time before and we proceeded to fritter the rest of the afternoon away in a haze of tequila, dancing and people watching. As Laura and I walked to a taco stand in the growing dusk still in costume, the rest of the group having fragmented to get changed, we received warm smiles and requests for photos; with our masks removed we were once again in the spotlight, but there was an overwhelming sense of respect from the Mexicans for our commitment to participating in their traditions.

Chiapa de Corzo

19th January 2009

Night of The Man-ladies

On Thursday after school, which finished early, I headed over to my Mexican family`s shop to try and procure a costume for the Fiesta de Chuntas. This fabled event that I`d heard about prior to arrival and subsequently since last Saturday is one of the jewels in the crown of the fiesta month, in which I had unwittingly arrived. All I knew was that the men of the town dress as women (which was, in all fairness, an event in itself), but tonight I was to find out a great deal more. My family had asked me, grinning over the dinner table some days ago, if I would be interested in cross dressing with everyone else and, still pursing my dream of cultural immersion, I enthusiastically (and rather naively) accepted.

On my arrival at the shop, Madre Tone rushed me around the corner to a seamstresses house where we were duly rejected (no more clothes for a man of my size), thus leaving me standing, clad in traditional women's garb of a long flowing purple skirt with floral print and a low cut cream blouse with frilly sleeves and lace lining in the house of Tone`s sister some ten minutes later. The occupants of the house watched with glee as extensive makeup was applied to my face, my hair was gelled back and a floral headpiece duly clipped in place. Tone and her sister spared no expense; beauty spots, eyeliner, mascara, lipstick - my first experience of being made up was thorough to say the least.

My transformation complete and the trappings of my previous male persona dispatched to my house via Tone, there was no escape. Her sister Icha, my incredibly kindly self nominated guardian and guide for the evening bundled me into the back of the family car with her grinning husband and deposited me around at the house of one of her relatives, to meet with other participants of the impending party. Sat on their sofa, dressed in full regalia and sandwiched between two archetypal Mexican men, large and trying very hard to assert their machismo, I began to wonder if I had made a terrible mistake. Thankfully I wasn`t subjected to this for long and in all fairness the people who had introduced themselves to me all seemed to be impressed and very encouraging of my plight, despite the fact that I couldn`t understand a bloody word that they were saying. Now amongst a selection of women wearing the same outfit as me, we progressed from the house into the night. Apparently heading for the heart of the party, I saw groups of men swaggering around in dresses and the crowds of spectators begin to swell as we approached the centre of town. I was quite a spectacle, with cars honking their horns and winding down their windows to shout at me; I dutifully shook the maraca at them with which I had been issued.

We rounded the corner by the base of the steps below the waterfront Church and suddenly encountered the procession of the Chuntas. It was a vast, pulsing mass of colour, noise, movement and pure, powerful energy, preceded by a single figure covered from head to toe in black body paint and cut off jeans, sporting a broom with which he swept the streets in a shuffling, hopping dance before the mob. Licha and I were swallowed up by the procession, and I found myself surrounded on all sides by jubilant dancing cross dressed Mexican men. The procession was driven by the relentless pounding of marching drums and whistle flutes, groups of three or four musicians interspersed throughout the spectacle, and elevated to incredible proportions by the rhythm that came from every single member of the party, stamped out with their feet as they danced and from the thousands of maracas shaken simultaneously. It was a beautiful, jubilant racket, punctuated by wild cries from indiscriminate callers within the crowd, most indecipherable to my ear but some like "Viva Chiapa de Corzo!" conveying the passion of the night, and answered with a roar from the rest of the crowd within earshot.

From Jon Chiapa de Corzo January 09

The procession crawled its way up the hill to a church where the revellers spilled into it, filling the building to capacity within minutes. The noise and passion from the participants was truly something to behold, amplified by the the high, arched ceilings. As quickly as the had arrived, the Chuntas surged for the small exit doors on the side of the church, and the vast mass of people squeezed through the tiny apertures, firing out into the street like a champagne cork from a bottle.

My initial feelings, aside from complete overawe and detached amusement were of inhibition. I didn`t understand the words of the people around me, felt intimidated by the passion and intensity and was very self conscious about all the attention I was attracting from my fellow party goers and the army of spectators; I really was the only white guy in a dress.

A glass and a bottle of Jose Cuervo tequila were thrust in my face by a dancer and his group, grinning encouragement at me. I obliged, several times, and my inhibitions slowly melted away, allowing me to become infused with the spirit and energy of the night. Icha was dancing and shaking with gusto dutifully beside me as I picked up my skirts like everyone around me and began to issue calls and joyful drunken exclamation to the Mexican skies. Fireworks exploded above and ahead of us sporadically set off, as I was later to learn, by an elderly gentleman with a full arsenal inside a huge backpack who trudged ahead of the revelry to direct the masses.

The crowd squeezed through the constricted streets, at times so tightly packed that it was almost impossible to walk. The beat of the drummers would waver and die at these times, crushed and drowned by the press of bodies, but the crowd would rumble at the silence and shift and within seconds the pounding rhythm would begin again, accompanied by a roar from the surrounding people.

Icha suddenly took me by the arm and pulled me inside an empty house whose doorway faced the street. Before I knew what was happening, the single, empty room with a huge alter at one end that constituted the interior was packed to the rafters with Chuntas and wild dancing, as in the church before, ensued. At some point the beat slowed and Icha bade me lower the maraca that I`d been shaking relentlessly for the last hour and a half. Only the dancing persisted until, without warning, the beat quickened and the assembled revellers cheered and the maracas were sounded again in earnest. As quickly as it had filled, the small room emptied leaving only a tiny wrinkled elderly woman with nut brown skin sat on a chair before the alter, head bowed.

We had, as far as I could ascertain in my awful Spanish, just paid homage to a saint by dancing in their house. The purpose of the procession was to visit each saint house and church in the town over the course of the next seven or eight hours, ending at about four in the morning. I still have no idea as to the purpose of the cross dressing.

I ended up dancing in that wonderful procession for four hours, finally conceding at midnight. I can`t possible write about every moment, much as I would like to, but some defining moments deserve a mention:

Showers of balloons; sweets and confetti falling from the balconies and roofs above the streets; sharing ice cold beers with Icha, bought from the coolbox on the tailgate of a truck parked opportunistically in a street swamped by the procession; ascending the long steps to a cathedral at the end of town and turning amidst all the colour and noise to look back down the steps and along the street overhung with flags of many colours to see the procession stretching for blocks; thousands and thousands of jubilant, dancing people, shining with sweat and dusted with confetti in a long, rippling crowd that ran through pools of streetlight and darkness, utterly immersed in something that would ebb and flow for many hours, but always be possessed by the same raw energy and lust for life that made me thank my lucky stars for deciding, all those months ago, to cast myself into the unknown.

Chiapa de Corzo
10th January 2009

Footnote: It was retrospectively brought to my attention that the short interview that was forced upon me mid-procession by a cameraman and interviewer who were undeterred by my inability to understand them or speak Spanish has made national television. I am now a celebrity among the children that I teach. Viva Jon.

A surprise party

Strolling through the streets of CDC in the early evening with my fellow TEFL prototypes, Martin and Laura, last night I found one of the amiable smiles and nods that I was endeavouring to exchange with any willing Mexican returned with gusto by one particular elderly gentleman. He was positioned in the open driveway of a particularly well appointed house, grinning at me with the few select teeth remaining in his head. He was gesturing wildly down the street and, beset by curiosity, I herded my hesitant course mates towards him with the intention of using their superior language skills to find out what all the fuss was about. It transpired after a brief discourse that a procession of some kind was being instigated further down the street with the intention of arriving for some sort of celebration at the house outside which we were currently residing.

Before we knew it, we were swept up in the procession, a spirited and thoroughly confusing affair involving lit candles, projectile fireworks set off from the hands of the participants and a liberal, sporadic application of firecrackers during the proceedings. The procession moved slowly down the street with the three of us brandishing live fireworks, sparklers and cameras trying to preserve the moment until we reached the gateway to the house. At this point a lit firework was thrust into my unsuspecting hand by none other than my host mother Toni, who was also apparently the procession. I grasped the cascading shower of sparks at arms length until it became clear from the forceful sounding monologue from my surrogate parent that I was in danger of burning my fingers off, upon which point I hurled the flaming tube onto the impressively sized pile of firework detritus that marked the output of the procession.

Still utterly bemused by the turn of events, we were led inside the house courtyard to a large seated area where the procession became a congregation, utilising the chairs and engaging themselves in a ten minute ritual of singing at a huge altar and surrounding display on a nativity theme. After this ceased, members of the congregation appeared with trays of liqueur and some sort of punch ("Poncha!"), handing us the cups with wide smiles and words that sounded welcoming, despite my inability to comprehend anything that they were saying. Our drinks were soon supplemented with bags of candy and as we sat and pensively chewed on the contents, all of the people around us chatted with us, introducing one another and allowing us to become acquainted with a number of students from the language school at which we would soon be teaching.

After half an hour or so of very patient and enjoyable chat with the attendees, people started to drift out of the front gate, back into the night. Laura and I found Martin at the entrance engaged in conversation with the same elderly perpetrator of the latest bizarre but highly enjoyable testament to the mind blowing hospitality of the people of Chiapas and with the spoils of the night clutched in our hands and smiles on our faces, we finally proceeded back down the street.

Chiapa de Corzo
Monday 5th January