In the beginning

Nothing anyone can tell you can prepare you for the fear you feel once you’ve had a baby. Walking through familiar streets with her in your arms suddenly becomes an ordeal by fire. That car could just plunge off the pavement into your little angel, or you could suddenly fall over that loose stone and tip her onto the road.

So, even if you have decided months ago that you are taking your (still unborn) child to Mexico when she or he is under three months old, the reality is rather different. Once she is born it is difficult to even get to a supermarket, so crossing half the world and settling somewhere new until Christmas seems like a terrifying prospect, and you start wondering whether three months in South London might not be such a bad idea, after all.

But it is all decided already. You have told people you are going, someone is there to look after the cat and the flat, and (terrifying moment, this), you even book the flights. At the last moment, you panic that the Health Visitor will not allow you to go, because of your daughter’s slow growth, but she seems to think it is an excellent idea… So you pack your bags, set off for Heathrow airport, and suddenly there is no looking back.

That’s the story of how we arrived in Mexico, seeking three months in San Cristobal de Las Casas as an alternative to the coffee mornings and walks in the park which normally accompany maternity leave. Actually, I was beginning to rather enjoy them, by the time Daisy was ten weeks old. But here we are, at the beginning of an Awfully Big Adventure for an awfully small girl, and so far it is going pretty well.

Travelling with a baby is a question of small steps, and it is only by breaking it down that each becomes manageable. An hour-long taxi ride to Heathrow Airport? We could cope with that, and being rushed through check-in by the lovely Virgin Atlantic staff helped too.

Daisy doesn’t have a pushchair, since there is no point in taking one to a place where the pavements are too narrow for the tiniest pram. Instead, we rely on a sling called a Hug A Bub, which is essentially a long piece of fabric that ties her to one of our fronts. It also shields her from prying eyes when she is tired, and the security man at Heathrow appears to think that our baby sling may be more than it seems.

“I have to see what’s in there,” he remarks dourly. “After all, you might be smuggling an animal.’ The thought of strapping our cat to one of our chests makes us giggle, but he is adamant that the sling might be a way of getting through quarantine regulations, so we have to let him have a peep. She slumbers peacefully through Customs, feeds well through breakfast, and charms all the waitresses and air hostesses with her own particular brand of “show off” charm (She behaves perfectly when there is anyone there to see her, so no-one can ever believe she utters so much as a whimper at home).

It is three flights to San Cristobal, a highland town near the Guatemalan border, the first with Virgin, to Washington, the second with United Airlines to Mexico City. The third, the next day, is an internal hop, just one and a half hours to Tuxtla Gutierrez, at the bottom of the mountains, from which San Cristobal is an hour’s drive.
Changing planes in the US turns out to be a very bad idea, since bags have to be taken out, rechecked and we have to then check in again. During this time we somehow end up with the wrong bits of some immigration form or other, have to take off our shoes (again) and make it to the gate with barely twenty minutes to spare.

But the weather in Washington is very bad, and it soon becomes clear we aren’t getting anywhere fast. Two hours elapse before we are allowed to take off, as a gathering storm grows ever closer and finally breaks. We survive on United Airlines ‘snack packs’, a selection of questionable foodstuffs with odd names. Why would you call a selection of shortbread biscuits Lorna Doone? And what is “cheese type food”, and do you eat it with crackers?

At least the baffling snack packs help to pass the time. We are finally the first plane out of Washington Airport, and take off into turbulence that would frighten even the most seasoned rollercoaster fan. With Daisy on my lap, I learn why it is wonderful to have a baby on a plane. She slumbers peacefully as the lightning flashes around us and that plane rocks and tumbles. I watch her breathing and finally relax. What can go wrong when Daisy is as happy as this?

We fly out of Mexico Airport the next morning, landing at Tuxtla Gutierrez before noon. The taxi that is meant to meet us is not there. Without a baby, this would not faze us, but Daisy needs regular feeding (two hourly since she is still so tiny) and a taxi on the Tuxtla to San C highway is not the place to do it. We share with an Israeli couple on their honeymoon, and I am sure that Daisy’s screams do not provide the romantic ambience they are hoping for.

Tuxtla is hot, hot, hot, but San Cristobal is a climb up into the clouds from there, and the weather soon turns cooler. The city has barely changed since we were last there in 2003. It is beautiful, colourful, loud and gridlocked. Men in indigenous clothing try to sell peanuts through the window. We can’t remember where the apartment is that we have booked, and have our first row of the trip. Daisy screams.

“Tiene hambre’, says the taxi driver helpfully, but she won’t feed in the cab. We arrive exhausted at the apartment.



Fortunately it’s beautiful, and it begins to look like things might be ok after all.