Idiots who pilot boats

Rena + Astrolabe Reef = A disaster that never should have happened.

Seriously how in the name of all that is a higher power did the captain manage to hit a reef that appears in maritime maps? Did he think he was the captain of the Titanic, that the reef just appeared out of nowhere, that he has no blame? It was the captain`s birthday, can we as reasonable people having no evidence to support our assumptions, assume that the captain and indeed almost all of the crew were celebrating this grandiose event with something a little stronger than soft drink or fruit juice?

The photos of the dead birds, the horrendous state of the local beaches, the oil-covered dead fish, suggest that someone was not at their post and paying attention. Did the bastards wake up when they got thrown out of bed when they hit the reef (a romantic notion that I truely hope happened), did they try and get off the reef, did they try and do anything other than call the owners and say "Boss, we are in the shit"?

Living in Mexico far away from the disaster (there is no other term for it) I am still angered by what has happened. It happened in my backyard, it happened almost directly in front of the house where I grew up, the beach of my childhood is a complete mess. There is not a word that I can think of that accurately describes with enough sentiment the disdain I feel towards the captain and the crew of that ship, is there a punishment severe enough for them? Short of getting them out there to clean up the oil spill themselves, that they pick up the dead animals they have robbed of life due to their ineptitude, I can not think of anything that would fit the crime.

In preschool we make children accept responsibility for their actions by "making things right" with the aggrieved party, how are these adults going to make things right with the communities they have affected?

Pissed off and pensive in Mexico.

Single Parenting

There are many pros and cons to being a single mum (and I imagine to being a single dad as well). Sometimes as a single parent you wonder if you are doing enough or doing too much, if your child is doing ok, if they are not doing ok, the guilt that comes with single parent territory I would venture is almost double that of a two parent family.
Reprimands for inappropriate behaviour begin to eat at your conscience. Cereal for dinner begins to eat at your conscience. Doing the dishes instead of playing begins to eat at your conscience. Putting junior in front of a movie so you can have a brief moment to yourself begins to eat at your conscience. As a single parent (perhaps even in a two parent family) each decision that you make you are always asking yourself, "Is it the right thing to do?". I would contest that if it happens too often then no, it is not the right thing to do. But, if it happens only on occasion, I personally see no wrong in getting a few minutes respite or doing the dishes instead of playing when it is what needs to be done.

The daily routine, school, school lunches, work, study (mum's), playtime, meals, bathtime, bedtime, birthday parties (for the offspring), cleaning the house, socializing or adult time (is there any really?), time for self (again is there any really?), there are a lot of activities to juggle for us single parenters. But we do it and often with looks of admiration from two parent families, looks of wonderment from two parent families, and ultimately I think utter disbelief that we do as much as we do and we have kids that are well-behaved and polite.

Is it any easy job? Parenting in general is not easy, but it is a joy. Single parenting offers you so much in terms of bonding with your child, playing with your child, creating with your child and learning with your child. And selfishly knowing that at the end of the day, after school, you are the one that that huge smile is for, you are the one that the excitement is for, you are the one that they wait all day in anticipation to see and blurt out all that has happened that day. Selfishly knowing that all the stories that are invented more often than not have you in them, that you are the hero in the moment (although yes sometimes you are also the villain of the hour), that all those kisses and those enormous bear hugs are yours, that you have the absolute confidence of your little one, you are their world, you are their universe and they are yours.

Without exception. Unequivocally. You are them and they are you.

Parenting is a gift and a treasure. Single parenting is the jewel that sparkles the most in the crown.

Kidnapped!

"¡Me pegaron! ¡Me pegaron!", a voice cried down the phone (They beat me up!). "Help me! I can't see! My eyes are swollen shut! Tell them to stop!" (all in Spanish).
Out of the blue my phone rang. This was what I heard. Imagine. First thoughts; a loved one. Then the horror, the shaking hands, the jumbled thought process.
"Where are you? Why? What happened?", I (not that calmly) answered. (all in Spanish).
Enter a gruff, agressive voice; "We have kidnapped him. I'm the leader of the blah, blah, blah cartel and we'll kill him if you don't pay us!" (all in Spanish).

Well fortunately (or unfortunately) my Spanish is not that good when being yelled at, so the above information was gathered on the second attempt at threatening me. Poor bastards. It really only got worse for them from then on in.

After repeating often that I didn't understand Spanish and if they did indeed have someone who knew me with them, then I wanted to speak with them. This offer was met with a long string of profanities, which if I was Mexican would've been highly insulting, as I'm not, I found them highly amusing. And I told them so. Again this was not received well. Another long string of even worse profanities followed. I repeated that I didn't understand Spanish very well and if they did indeed have someone with them, they should ask that person what language I spoke and speak to me in my language please.

This offer was met with stunned silence, then a hesitant voice said, "Arabic?". No.
The voice tried again in what I can only imagine was English because the only word I understood was "dick". Again, no.
Another language was attempted. Well I imagine it was a language as something garbled was spewed forth at me.
Again, no.
More profanities.

By this time I was unashamedly enjoying myself. So I began to play along. If they can use profanities why can't I? In English I'm a master of the insult, in Spanish? I'm but a mere novice, however I do know how to insult the male ego and add in a few choice phrases for good measure. Which I did.
As cellphone credit can also be part of the process, I informed them that they were wasting their time if they wanted to steal my credit as I had none. They were wasting their credit (I assumed they were calling long distance) because I was having fun "telling them off" and I wasn't going to hang up. By now the urgency was gone from the voice. The silence was punctuated by the occasional profanity and then they hung up.

Come on, in the first place why would the BOSS of a drug cartel be ringing me to tell me they've kidnapped someone? The BOSS? I highly doubt it.
In the second place where am I gonna pull money from on such short notice? My derriere?
And lastly, scare tactics are not usually high on a kidnapper's list (I could be very wrong and very naive in that aspect), it's usually more serious stuff involved.

As I am in Mexico and kidnapping is something that happens a lot over here, one must always listen with caution to the warnings about these things.
Ok, I didn't exactly act with caution but those poor buggers chose to "pick on" the only foreigner in the area with no money, who had just finished a day with a bunch of 2 year olds, and who has a mental block to being yelled at.
Chumps.

Life in Mexico. Never a dull moment.

The arrival...

I was feeling the urge for something sweet so I headed to the local OXXO (the Mexican convenience store chain) to get me that chocolate fix, and lo and behold I spied a Cadbury's Crunchie bar. By gum and by golly I've not seen one of those little gems outside the Southern hemisphere!
Have yet to try it and maybe the Moro, Pinky Bar, Picnic or the Flake will turn up soon. Here's hoping!
Yay for Cadbury making a foray into Tequila Land!!

A slap and a kick...

"I slept like a baby". How many times have you used that or heard someone else make that claim? A statement that implies a deep, still sleep. Has anyone making this claim actually slept with a baby?

Still they are not. The little blighters wriggle and move and kick and punch and slap and scratch. Quiet they are not. Grunting, snorting or making some loud exclamations at whim. Babies sleeping do not imply a restful night for me. Not any more.
You would think that a balled fist the size of a cherry tomato could not do any harm to a full grown and resilient adult. You would think that a weeny foot half the size of a cell phone could not cause an "oof" or some other type of grunt to escape from the same full grown adult. You'd be wrong.
Sleeping beside the offspring (in as deep a sleep as is possible for a new parent) thinking that junior is in fact sleeping deeply and immobile, one is suddenly woken by a kick in the solar plexus, a punch in the face, a kick in the boob, a scratch on the cheek or some other form of physical-ness that indicates the youngster has gotten a fright or that you really need to be awake now to attend to their needs.
Of course there is the odd occasion when the little 'un will wake quietly and allow you a few minutes grace. There has been more than one instance when the Big Maori has woken face to face with the Little Maori. Opening my eyes to find a smaller yet very open and wide gaze staring intently at the bigger version, or big ugly nose to small cute button one, tip to tip.

So the cute factor will always apply with the term "sleeping like a baby", but for me now, if I want to imply I slept soundly without actually saying that, I'd be more inclined to use "I slept like a log" or "I slept like the dead". These two things really don't move.

Instuctions please

The internet is a marvellous thing. It seems newborn babies don't come with an instruction manual bugger it all. Everything else in the world does, but parenthood and babies are left out of the loop. How the hell did that happen?
This is why the internet is a wonderous invention. It is the modern day guide or "how to" for whatever your dilemma may be. And believe me when you are miles away from any family with any hands on experience with wet bums, crying (screaming), leaky boobs, strange rashes (baby's), an instruction manual is more of a necessity than a desire. Throw into the mix being in a different country with their own weird and wonderful "advice" and you too would be glued to the screen trying to make sense of it all.
And people always want to give you advice, or just want to tell you how much they LOVE babies, how cute/precious/beautiful your little bundle is, what they did/are doing when their baby was born and blah, blah, blah. Of course you end up smiling and nodding and tuning out or as is quite handy being a foreigner simply saying "I don't speak Spanish" in English and they bugger off. Superb!

Here in Mexico they bind women after they've had a cesarean, not sure if it's the same with a natural birth or if this occurs anywhere else in the world. I for one am very happy with this little tradition, my puku has not been this flat for many a decade, I feel quite decadent displaying my midriff. Oh-er!
Some other traditions I have discovered and am a little puzzled by are:

* to encourage a dimple, a bean is placed in the cheek of the baby
* to encourage a plentiful supply of breast milk, drink a bottle of beer a day
* to stop illness wrap the baby up in layers of blankets even if it's 28C and sunny
* to stop your breast milk, bind your boobs

Think I'll give three out of these four a miss, and maybe not be quite such a consumer on the remaining.

Pregnancy and babies. They don't come with an instruction booklet. They come with their own set of "traditions" and advice, solicited or not. They come with a whole lot of love and bias. Even if you swore that you would say your baby was ugly if it was, you just can't. It's love at first sight, no matter how cynical, how realistic you are. It's love baby. There ain't no stopping it.

Stalled at the finish line

Yes it has been a while between drinks here on the Maori in Mexico site. But all has not been dull in the life of this Maori.

To fill in the gaps...

Most people arrive in Mexico to take advantage of the cheap and ever plentiful golden, bubble filled beverage beer, sample the local delicacies (cran -bull penis- tacos being a speciality here in Toluca), dare each other to eat the hottest chilly, and inevitably catch some little bug that keeps them glued to the porcelain god for some of their holiday.

Never to quite do things per the "norm", this Maori did some of the above (forgoing the exotic taco) and instead of catching a bug, I caught a baby. Yep. Got "up the duff", "bun in the oven", "hapu", "with child" and any other slightly more colourful analogies you can come up. Imagine. Preggers. In a country very foreign from my own. With their own weird and wonderful way of doing things. So after the initial freaking out period, I embarked on an interesting learning experience.
Here in Mexico you can do your whole sprog thing private or public health system (like anywhere). Private here being expensive (cheap when compared to other countries), and public being well, scary.
The public hospitals, people assured me, are fine and provide good quality care and attention. I am sure that's true, but after visiting one (recommended by a doctor) where during the pelvic examination (without a curtain), legs splayed in the most unladylike fashion, doctor's hand up my wo-hoo, ordelies, doctors, nurses, relatives of other women (it was a veritable "stages of pregnancy" live action show line up) passing by, the "receptionist" watching tele and a general lack of visible hygiene, I decided to give the public sector a miss.
Call me anal but first impressions do count. So we went private. A very small, very clean, very friendly clinic opposite the aforementioned public edifice. And they treated us goood.

Baby's arrival date was predicted between June 3-16 by my private sector doctor and June 19 by the public sector doctor. Junior showed up on June 10. Money well spent furnishing luxury offices I reckon, private dude knows his stuff.

The whole labour thing was a bit of an anti-climax really (probably because I was well drugged up). From whoa to go, or in this case from go to whoa, it was about 5 or 6 hours. Junior started the descent just before midnight on June 9, and was in one hell of a hurry to get out. Making my hips and back feel like they belonged to someone much older, frailer and quite frankly in need of some serious reconstructive surgery. I tried to endure the back pain, the hips were fine, but the dancing on my lower back was quite energetic and well, crippling. After a couple of hours we were off to the hospital, being driven by the expectant granddad who had never driven on the "wrong" side of the road and being given directions by the non-English speaking father via the pregnant woman in pain and on all fours in the back seat. Two red lights run, some speeding, no wrong turns and fifteen minutes later I was in a hospital bed, with a HUGE disposable nappy under me, awaiting the arrival of the doctor and expelling the odd expletive. That was around 2am. Around 5am I got the instruction to push (see what I mean by in a hurry), but lo and behold junior suddenly got all shy and refused to come out. Little bugger. There I was feeling almost nothing due to the epidural they gave me, but pushing my little heart out and junior just would not co-operate. At all. Even going so far as to bloody well roll over and be face up, thus preventing even the doctor's best efforts to bring the wee one into the world. So they decided to slice me open and drag the little Maori out.

They made a few calls, got the "team" in (another gyno, a pediatrician and someone else I think), drugged me up some more, played some music, left me alone for a bit, came back, shaved me, and as I was not wanting a cesarean I was quite ready to get up and leave at this point. Legs were having none of it and neither were the doctors, unfortunately. So arms splayed in the crucifix position, full of drugs and hormones, I took the only option available to me- I cried. Yes pregnancy hormones can turn even the strong willed stubborn types into blubbering lunatics.
Ignoring the crying mess on their table, the surgeons got on with it. In my drug addled state I did have time to register and disapprove of the person who in the middle of all this had decided to cook toast. Yes toast. I was not impressed. Then it dawned on me that it was my flesh being cooked (cauterized) and there was no toast. I would have laughed out loud if I hadn't been nauseous from the drugs.
An hour and some later, the next travelling Maori made an entrance. With very little fanfare, not a whole lot of wailing, and a kiss from an emotional, teary eyed female lunatic that the poor sod will have for a mum. Sigh.

Now the adventure truely begins.

Tecolutla

I ventured to this little playa (beach) on the advice of others, who assured me that it was really good, "semi-virgen" (Mexican for not busy), and a nice place to be. Well they were mistook. The water was a horrible mud brown colour, there was rubbish aplenty, and vendors galore. But I was hanging out to have a swim so I braved the mud-coloured waves however I could not stay in for long. It was just gross, but I'm not sick so whatever was making the water brown was obviously not lethal.
The vendors were selling bikinis, inflatable toys, beer, food, clothes... well basically everything EXCEPT sarongs! I couldn't believe it! The only beach in the world that I have been to of late that has nary a sarong in sight! By jove, this perhaps was the most impressive part of my journey to this sandy shore.

The arrival of dusk and the sunset saw me head for more populated spaces. I found in the centre of town a little bar to chill out in and watch some folk dancers do their stuff. In Veracruz I'm told it's quite the thing to do, not at all considered fuddy-duddy or antiquated. And these chaps were surely getting a work out! After each dance they were all huffing and puffing, with sweat pouring off them (it wasn't exactly cool), but the ladies' makeup stayed intact. Now that is quite something. Much as I hate to admit it, the dancing bested the beach by a verrry long way. What has the world come to?

El Tajin

It's a small cluster of pyramids near the coast of Veracruz, Mexico. Small by number and small by size but pretty cool nevertheless.
I arrived in the morning to find the entrance packed with artesanos (lads and lassies that sell handmade stuff) and many a visitor. Turns out the day I arrived was the Equinox so that's why there were so many people. Here for the equinox people dress up in white and head to the pyramids to raise their arms skyward, maybe do a chant or two (I don't know) and receive positive energy. Apparantly it works, but there weren't too many arms raised skyward when I visited that day. So I went back on the 21st (the official day of the Equinox, although it fell two days earlier) and still there were not a whole bunch of people with skyward pointing, energy receiving, triangular shaped stances. So I missed my opportunity to become more positively energised. Sigh.
It's a very chilled out place. Lots of trees to rest under (and believe me you do need to escape from the heat every now and then), the pyramids are different because they have terraces as opposed to being flat sided, and it is pretty much vendor free.
There are a few wandering around selling oranges and vanilla pods, but most are barricaded outside the facility and resort to yelling at passers-by to attract attention and sell their goodies. An orange in itself does not sound overly appealing I'm guessing, but when you are suffering from the heat, those oranges are like little balls of goodness. And you are willing to pay what they ask, more than once usually.
Outside the complex I encountered some Voladores de Papantla perfoming for the crowds. This guys are pretty cool to watch, and plenty graceful. Ol' Maori here would fall off and plummet to the ground, as opposed to the graceful descent that is usually associated with this event.

Semana Santa

The passing of this festive period marked the one year anniversary of my being in the land of Golden Cerveza and Abundant Cacti.
I celebrated the event by getting out of cold Toluca and heading off to Tajin in Veracruz (a state that actually has sunshine and surf- yay!) for a few days. There was a festival at the pyramids and it was friggin hot, but I managed to see and do quite a bit in a few days. So to avoid an extended novel-esque literary equivalent to watching paint dry, I'll divide the week into parts, with illustrations and videos to maintain your interest.
Mexico for one year! Who woulda thunk it?

Makeup Etiquette

I've lived in a few big cities (and a few smaller ones) round the globe, and been witness to how the women of the world (and in some cases men) do themselves up on public transport or in public areas.

Not being much of a face paint fan myself, I am always amazed at the way in which it is applied on bumpy roads and in lurching underground transportation.
The eyes, always the most important, require the most time and care. However, when I see a woman (or women) valiently attempting to get that perfect line around the eye with liquid eyeliner, on a bus that is stopping every 50 metres or so whilst going over cobblestones, or in an underground train with people falling all over them in a vain attempt at balance, I fail to see the importance of the exercise. Can't it just wait 'til work?
Here in the land of Golden Cerveza the most striking thing thus far, in terms of face paintage and maintenance, has been the use of a spoon. The common household spoon has been bought in to replace the eyelash curler. I didn't quite believe it at first, thought it was just the one young lass who was a bit cuckoo or a bit strapped for cash. Turns out however, I was a bit too quick in my way of thinking. Rather than being the oddity I thought she was, she is in fact part of the majority of the public-transportation-face-paint-applying multitude. Well now fancy that!

Chivalry

I know, for some chaps it's some far flung exotic location, rarely spoken of and almost never visited. For some ladies, a romantic ideal that is secretly sought yet vehemently denied exisistence.

Here in the land of Golden Tequila and Abundant Cacti, Chivalry is not some far flung exotic getaway nor a romantic ideal. It is part of daily life.
Yes ladies Chivalry exists! I know as a Strong Independent Working Woman we are not supposed to want to have our chairs pulled out for us. We are not supposed to want to have our bags carried for us. We are not supposed to enjoy having the man pay. We are not supposed to enjoy feeling feminine as we are helped out of a car or down from the bus. We are not supposed to giggle like teenagers when we recieve messages about how special we are, how beautiful we are, how much we are missed, how much we are loved. We are Strong Independent Working Women goddamit and it's just not kosher.

But as I carry my work bag to and fro (and am completely lopsided due to the weight on my shoulder), how I wish there was someone there to take it from me. Someone to carry the load and not feel at all emasculated. And believe me some of the boyfriends here carry bright pink, sparkly monstrosities that any sane man would run screaming from. But as it belongs to his "beloved" it is his duty to carry it.
And with said work bag feeling much like a lead brick bodily attachment, how I wish there was someone to help me alight from the bus. And when I'm feeling blue and in need of a bit of flirtation, how I wish there was a message telling how beautiful I am.

But I am a Strong Independent Working Woman and... well bollocks to that.
Chivalry exists goddamit and as women of the Working World we are allowed to accept a man's desire to spoil us.
Give in ladies. Let your man spoil you. Spoil him back. And let the flirting commence!

Kiwiana Kristmas

Jandals. Barefeet. Shorts n singlets. Barbeques. Cold beers. Fish 'n chips. That twang in the accent. Sketti on toast. Pies. Barefeet. L&P (World Famous in New Zealand). Tattoos proudly on display "bro". Most adjectives punctuated with "az". Pohutukawa. The salt air. The burning sun. The laid back attitude. Christmas crackers...

The list could go on and on. It was great to be back home for the holidays. Have a barbie, swim in the Pacific, get annoyed by seagulls while eating fish 'n chips at the beach, enjoy a mince 'n cheese pie or two...

Simple pleasures are always appreciated that much more after a long abscence.
Kiwiana, you just gotta love it!

Driving Lessons

Whenever you are in a foreign country it always seems to be that at some point in time you have to brave the local buses. The experiences are always different, always warrant a smile and generally always leave you grateful that you don't have to do it on a regular basis.
Take the Mexican bus driver for example. Usually too busy talking to his mate perched on the side of his seat or that front part of the bus, to really give a damn if you have actually boarded the bus or not before he takes off. If he's not in the middle of a chin-wag or chatting up his missus he's racing against his fellow drivers for bonuses. Don't ask me how this works but apparently if they do their run quickly it's a good thing, safety... hmmm... what's that again?
The opposite of the manaical demon-driven driver is the driver that wants lots of dough. This particular breed will park in the middle of the road waiting for passengers, and they will wait and wait and wait...
Both breeds of driver appear to have gone to the same driving school or learnt the same method of driving- there is no clutch. This is the truth that runs through the bus driving community.
A clutch does not exist, the gear box is an alleged apparatus in the general vicinity of the front of the vehicle, passengers had better get a move on or get left behind, money ruleth the run and all this is sanctioned by Jesus.
Yes Jesus. The young lad in all his pitiful suffering poses is in all buses, sometimes accompanied by the "driver's prayer". Yep. The driver's prayer. There's a prayer for everything and everyone in this country. Quite phenomenal.
Feel sorry for ol' JC though. The poor bugger now also has crazy Mexican bus drivers to account for. Must be tough being the messiah.

Independence Day

Yes they celebrate that here too. Independence from the Spanish. It alledgedly involves yelling your head off in town (rolling drunk I imagine) and celebrating the heroes who won independence for Mexico.
We opted out of that type of celebration and instead headed for sunnier parts- Metepec not having had any sun for quite some time at that stage, September- near Cuernavaca. Tehuixla is a teeny, tiny place but we managed to find a wonderful spot to spend a weekend in the sun.
The house belonged to an ex-US military man and his wife. They live upstairs and rent out the ground floor. Bloomin' wonderful! A lovely pool to spend the days lazing in (or beside depending on your preference), a huge kitchen to test your culinary skills in, and an equally large shower to soothe the sunburn pain away. Yes we all got toasted quite well that weekend. Even ol' Maori here coming from NZ and knowing better than to stay in the sun without sunblock, time away from the constant warnings about "burn time" and "slip, slop, slap" and you get just a wee bit arrogant. Shocking.
I can't say that I complained too much bout the lobster colour tho'- it was nice to be back to a healthier looking skin tone, instead of the pasty, porcelain, dead-for-a-week colour that I had been.
A relaxing weekend away, oh how I wish it had been longer!

How to celebrate Mexican style.....

Over the past couple of weekends I've managed to wangle my way to some Mexican fiestas.

One was for a wee girl who was turning three and apparently here it's a big deal because it's their presentation to the church. Or I just reckon a damn good excuse to get a whole bunch of people together to down the bevvies as quickly as possible and have a laugh.

The second was a farewell do for a mate. Mexican dude headed off to France to study English and practice his French. The party was at his boyfriend's place and strangely enough we were the only foreigners there! Hmmm...

Both fiestas involved food, booze and music. The wee one's had a cake that I swear was bigger than her! It were ginormous! With hot pink icing and a Cinderalla picture on it. The picture was closer to the size of the young thing than the cake was. There were also two piñatas that the kids got to try and bash all hell out of, before the paper-machier burst and spilled all it's goodies. The kids enjoyed it and the adults were having a good ol' laugh.

I tell you though, these Mexican fiestas are just like the Maori ones back home. Too much food, lots of laughs, loads of alcohol and enough of the right kind of music to get you singing or dancing (or both).
And if you drink the locally brewed drop (as my fellow foreigners did- silly, very silly) the hangover the next day actually has you believing you mean it when you say "I'll never drink again, this time I mean it, I'm never drinking again"...

After seeing all the fun the kids had with the piñata, I've decided that's what I'm having for my birthday next year. I mean why is it that the kids get to have all the fun huh?! (My Mexican friends think that this is very strange by the way- a grown woman with a piñata??? What is the world coming to?)

Witchcraft and Wizardry

Brujería. That's the Mexican name for it and it was an exhibition that I went to visit last Friday.

There were gruesome pictures of devils and demons, witches and goblins, the odd mummified fairy and a fair few potions thrown in for good measure.
The confessions of witches (women undergoing torture) were an interesting read- well what I could understand at least, nothing like being dipped head first into water for days on end or being strapped to a nail studded chair to induce even the most innocent of people to confessing to whatever is thrust in front of them.

The whole exhibition was interesting, but what held most people's interest was the phallic display. Yep, a whole bunch of dildos and other sexual pleasure apparatus. The array of dildos was intriguing, mostly made of wood, some with church leaders carved on them, others bearing a striking resemblance to bike pumps or tree branches. Then there were the statues with scrotums where the chin was supposed to be and well... you can figure out the rest.

It wasn't all about sex however, there were the love potions, the potions to help heal, the potions to bring on death, lots about the relationship between nature and women. Oh, and a personal favourite- something to do with "black magic"- it was a "trap" with a lizard/gecko crawling out of it. The trap was a very hairy representation of female genitalia, displayed alongside an example of a vagina with teeth. Ok, so maybe there was a lot of sex stuff going on...

Nevertheless it was interesting and if it's ever in your area, check it out. It's an example of how the view of women has changed little over the years.

Little Green Men

Every country has "crossing the road" etiquette. Whether it be as a pedestrian or as a motorist.

Vietnam and Japan provide a countdown to let motorists and pedestrians alike know how much time is left before they can cross the road or intersection. In Japan the pedestrians dutifully wait for the counter to reach zero before crossing the road. In Vietnam motorists cross when they deem it safe enough, countdown be damned.
In Nepal and India there were lights for the pedestrian but they were largely ignored. Foot traffic crossing whenever they pleased, very reminiscent of the hugely popular eighties game "Frogger". Dodging traffic becoming a necessary skill in order to cross the road.

However, the best crossing the road indicator is to be found here in Mexico. You have your bog standard looking "Little Green Man" who is lit up when it is safe to cross the road. He is not just some chump tho', this Mexican version.
He starts out with a very nonchalant stroll, almost a strutt, much like John Travolta's from Saturday Night Fever. As the time for you to be across the road draws near, he slowly picks up speed. Almost as if he's looking over his shoulder to check where the traffic is for you. Then just before the traffic lights turn green, he breaks into an all out sprint to the finish line, as if the hounds of hell are chasing him. And you can just picture him, hands on knees gasping for breath and dreading the next inevitable round. Makes you feel sorry for the poor wee fulla!

It's worth crossing the road just for the entertainment. Yay Mexico and it's little green men!

An exercise in Blondeness...

We've all done it. Had those moments when we thought those Blonde jokes were retelling a momentously absent-minded day in our lives. And quickly checked to see if our blonde roots were coming through.

Well yesterday was by far the blondest day of my life so far. We had just moved house. I spent the night alone in a house the size of a small cave (echoes included if one so desired), with no hot water and a very dodgy front door lock. The door has two locks; a "security" lock that must be locked with the key from the outside, yet cannot be locked from the inside. Inserting the key into said lock is an exercise in futility, driving yourself (and the key) round and round and round... in never ending circles. Sigh. The other lock is your bog standard, no frills push button type thingy. Now I say "type thingy" because usually these things disengage when you open the door from the inside. This one didn't. Fancy that. I'm outside, the door is locked and I can't get in. I had a key for the security lock which was useless 'cos that was not the lock that was engaged. A key for the bog standard lock did not exist.

Picture it...

I'm late for work, haven't had a shower because I've developed an aversion to cold water bathing since leaving Nepal, and I'm locked out of the house, oh and it's bloody cold. Well let's just say that had the door and I been friends that relationship would have disintegrated rather rapidly after the language I was throwing at it.
Then came the fun part- I had to tell Wineera-the-Younger that we were locked out (I was the one in possession of the sole set of keys). Not much of a problem really unless you have to actually get into the house to start making it habitable, and get ready for classes. No problem! So we waited for the locksmith in the sun outside, designing (theoretically) the layout of the house and the garden. Laughing at my stupidity and (me) pointing out that if I hadn't done it first it would have been her.
The locksmith arrived, fought with the lock, and finally opened the door. He then took the offending piece of metal away to his magic little shop and bought us back two keys. Hurrah! No more being locked out!

Seems I spoke too soon.

Yes. I locked us out again. This time after I had sworn at the kitchen utensils (which at the moment are impossible to store because there is no storage space in the kitchen), tidied up the bathroom and had generally been impatient with the progress of moving in. I was late for work (what a surprise) and just grabbed the nearest set of keys. Forgetting that the new keys were not attached to the others. So when I arrived home, happy in the knowledge that I would be sleeping on an actual mattress and blissfully unaware of my mistook, can you imagine the language that was spouting from my mouth in a most un-ladylike fashion (not that I've ever proclaimed to be a lady mind you)?
Again I had to inform the Younger-one about our predicament. Impressed is not a word I would use to describe her mood. It was dark, no locksmiths were open, and where the hell were we gonna find a ladder at that time of night? (I had left the bathroom window open- foresight perhaps?)
Then who should come wandering down the road but our knight in shining amour. The poor young fulla. He'd probably just had a date with some hot young chica and then gets accosted in horrendous Spanish by his new neighbour. He told us (me) he didn't think he had a ladder and even attempted to wake up another neighbour in his efforts to help us (me). When the neighbour failed to materialise he went inside to ask his parents (I think) for help. He's got a nice dog too- I'm not a dog person, but this dog was pretty cool. Some time later he emerged from his house with a ladder in tow. My hero!!
Then it was up to my sister to perform some death-defying antics on the wobbly wooden contraption (which was too short to reach the 1st (2nd) floor window) and let us into the house. This is what you get if you are the taller one. After a couple of tries she made it in ok and the nice young man bid us a fond buenas noches and retired to his home.
I let the youngster reprimand me, had a laugh, went for a feed, had a beer and finally relaxed into my bed. Sigh.

Today has been designated cleaning day. And there are now copies of the keys.
Maybe I should just dye my hair blonde and get it over and done with huh?!

Felicidades

Yes the younger Wineera celebrated the passing of another year on the weekend. This wonderous event- its always a joy when it happens to someone else isn't it- saw us head into the bustling metropolis again to partake of some Indian fare.
Our hopes were that it would be at least somewhere near authentic. After having worked in one of the best Indian restaurants in the world- Talk of India- and then galavanting about the actual country for awhile, I knew it wouldn't be 'up there' but I had hopes. The poor younger sibling who hadn't had any form of Indian cuisine in almost 4 years, was looking forward to a meal with a difference. Thus we embarked on our little adventure to Restaurant Tandoor

Different it was. Memorable it was. For all the wrong reasons.

Now I admit I am no connaisseur, but good Indian food I know. And this quite frankly just didn't cut the mustard. First of all, nigh on all the of the dishes had curry powder in them. Now since when has Indian food been made with the equivalent of Edmond's Curry Powder I ask you? It didn't stop there. The Paneer Palak had Panella (a Mexican cheese) in it instead of Paneer (an Indian cheese) AND it had Mango Chutney already added! Falmin' Nora!
The Butter Chicken was ok but nothing fantastic. The Dhal Makhani was the strangest looking Dhal I've seen, and tasted nothing like any Dhal Makhani I've ever had either. The chai... Sigh. The chai was utter shite. It was simply black tea with milk and minus the spices that make chai the wonderful taste sensation that it is.
There was a plus side tho'. The chef's recommendation; the Bhuna Murgh was good. It tasted authentic and was a hit with one and all. And the boss's mum who never really eats anything but Mexican food loved her introduction to Indian cuisine.

Dinner over and bellies nearly full, we headed to GianDolce to indulge in some gelato heaven. Oh. My. God. The icecream here is just friggin mind blowing! Ok, so that may be somewhat of an exaggeration, but believe me when I say its bloody good stuff! The array of flavours are set out before you in a very regimental manner, side by side in their little silver containers, inviting you, demanding even, that you give in to temptation and discover how delightful they truly are. So give in we did. But as the medium cup only has enough room for two flavours (white chocolate with brownie pieces and chocolate were my picks) and there are obvioulsy waaaaaay more than two flavours available, that means I'll have to pay another visit. What a cryin' shame.