Semana 9 Lunes

Daisy is beginning to enjoy spending time in her sling facing outwards instead of inwards, so she can see the world. We pop to the market with her facing out, much to the delight of the stallholders.


Daisy has become a market celebrity. Everyone knows her name (particularly the fact she is called Nichim) and they throw in extra oranges and other fruits ‘for the baby’. It’s odd to think that next time we are here she will be able to try some of them.

Judging by the flavours of the baby jars here, Mexican like to wean their children on chayote, which is a kind of bland cactus, as well as mango and avocado. Bit different from at home, but we’ll just have to see what she likes.


We also begin to suspect that our drooling little girl is cutting a tooth, since we can see a little toothbud at the front. She’s having a good chew on everything she can find and is a bit clingy. Can’t quite believe she is getting so grown up.

Semana 9 Domingo

Baby Pablo turns six months old, which is apparently a matter for much celebration here. Pablo himself is in a totally celebratory mood and wants to show off his new trick, copied from Daisy, which is making loads of pterodactyl style noises.


We have a cake of some magnificence which Pablo doesn’t get to enjoy and neither does Daisy since we have put her to sleep in the bathroom so as not to wake her when Pablo arrives. She goes down surprisingly well and doesn’t wake until her boyfriend has gone home. We also finally manage to remove the crayon marks from the fireplace using some kind of lurid green stuff the cleaner has left by accident. It is probably highly toxic.

Semana 9 Sabado

Baby massage course number three is an exploration of how to massage the chest and arms, marred by a little too much talk.

Mariet and KiKi bring Itamar as well as Pablo, and she behaves herself surprisingly well, lying in Mariet’s arms to be massaged. Daisy is slightly less keen today and spends the entire time shouting, peeing and wanting to be fed. Never mind, we can always try again later.


After massage we buy a ready roasted chicken with tortillas and salsa (mmm), and share it with Kiki and Mariet. No sooner have they left than Sophia and Raul turn up in a state of high excitement. They’ve found a house their project can share with Chozita. It has several rooms and a garden with trees and lots and lots of space… and it’s really very affordable… they’re talking so fast I can scarcely follow them.. Paul promises to go and see it on Monday.

Semana 9 Viernes

Our house-hunting begins in earnest, when Lore and her husband Julio take us to see the terreno they are selling on the edge of the city.

It’s a site called a ‘fraccionamiento” which means that it is being divided up between people. On the edge of a protected reserve, Lore and family are going to build several houses, including their own.


It’s tempting, but we don’t think it’s right. It’s a beautiful place, and the houses the family will build there will be gorgeous (they own a local hotel, and we’ve seen it, so we know they have a real sense of style and taste). Also, they would build us a house to our own specifications (chimney, bath, etc).

However, it’s a little bit more than we’d want to spend (though still absurdly cheap by British standards), and would be harder to rent out when we aren’t here because it isn’t walkable to the centre. We’ll keep looking, but it was quite exciting to look at the possibilities, and nice that they would like us to have a house so close to theirs.

Semana 9 Jueves

We go to a Thanksgiving party, organised by Paul’s Spanish teacher, which turns out to be great fun. Laura’s boyfriend Ray is in the American Peace Corps, and a bunch of them are down here sorting out computing networks in the local university.

We celebrate with possibly the largest mutant turkey in the world, which tastes utterly delicious, and mashed potatoes, huge amounts of stuffing, and apple pie. The Americans are very happy and even let Laura (who is a born teacher) teach them about the origins of the Thanksgiving holiday. Daisy even gets to do some salsa dancing – at least one of us has some Latin rhythm!


Afterwards we have a cake (baked by Mariet, it’s nice to put some business her way) to celebrate Ray’s birthday. In true Mexican fashion he has to have his face pushed into it. When we leave, everyone is dancing, but Daisy has to go to bed.

Semana 8 Miercoles

Sophia and Raul, who run a project for young adults (slightly older than the kids at La Chozita) come for lunch together with Ivan, who used to work for Unicef, and is now helping out with the kids’ project.

It can be tough getting lunch together after a two hour Spanish class, especially when Daisy is not playing ball, and you have the slowest oven in the world. Daisy has just learnt to hold up her arms when she wants to be lifted up, and is NOT happy to be put in her seat when she could be having a cuddle, I’m torn between trying to make lasagne, chopping up bananas for pudding, making bread and carrying her around.


By the time Paul comes back three quarters of an hour late from his Spanish class, I’m frazzled, tearful and have béchamel sauce in my hair. Never mind, at least our guests turn out to be very nice, and kind about my beginners’ Spanish.

Sophia and Raul live out on a ranch in Teopisca, which sounds fantastic. They have chickens, pigs and other animals, and seem to have a very nice life here. I sigh, thinking about London, but I know we have to go back.

Still, it’s fun to discuss their charity and Chozita possibly sharing a building, which would be a great solution to the current problem with Chozita (i.e. what to do when Paul goes back to the UK and can’t run things). He has created a great bunch of people who want to help out with the kids in a really short space of time, which is really cheering. San Cristobal is that sort of place though, word gets around and lots of people want to help out… they also all seem to know each other, which is impressive. This really is a very small city.

Semana 8 Martes

Mexican Independence Day dawns fine and warm, and everyone is out in force to celebrate the overthrow of Mexican dictator Porfidio Diaz in 1911. I’d be more in the mood if it wasn’t for the cocktails the night before, but you can’t have everything.

Despite the general celebrations, my very serious Spanish teacher insists on classes, so I make my way through the crowded Zocalo to school, avoiding the candyfloss, icecream and balloon sellers along the way.


On my way, I pass San Cristobal’s latest attraction, a street cleaning machine. This is the first such machine the city has ever had, and it has caused much excitement, including an article in the local paper. It is so exciting that it even knocked a story about a chicken stealer (or robagallina – great word) onto the back page. The machine has not yet been allowed to do any actual cleaning. Instead, it sits in the main square with the plastic cover still on the seat, guarded heavily by police (presumably to discourage joyriders). People even have their pictures taken next to it.


Aside from the street cleaning machine, Independence Day’s main attraction is a desfile, or procession. Every school and sports team in the city takes to the street, and everyone who is left turns out to watch. Children dress as revolutionaries in sombreros and moustaches, which are called bigotes here, which is also the word for croissant.


Many schools organise processions of some complexity, involving strange shuffling dances, twirling batons, and the ever-popular human pyramids.

Well, some schools do. Other schools turn out in their jeans and the children slouch along looking bored – but no-one seems to mind, because apparently it is enough just to turn up.
After my serious teacher realises I can’t hear him teaching the imperative (dreadful, lots of irregulars) over the sound of a marching band, I’m finally allowed to watch five minutes of desfile. It’s great stuff, but mostly seems to involve girls in very mini miniskirts. I’m sure it can’t be good for the older inhabitants’ bloodpressure.

We then go for lunch with Eneas and Mari – which is thankfully offal and chicken’s feet free. Mari puts Daisy on her back for a bit while she does some cooking, and Daisy later throws up on Mari’s shoes, and also on the pink “Grandma’s House” dress we have had to put her in because Mari and Eneas bought it for her as a present. Maybe it will shrink in the wash?

Semana 8 Lunes

Daisy takes her first trip to the beach, to Chiapas’ busiest seaside resort, a place called Puerto Arista.


It’s a five hour drive in the university truck, borrowed by Enrique, so we all get up at six in order to make the trip there and back possible in a day.

Road trips in Mexico are an entirely different experience from at home. For a start, any villager who fancies it can set up huge speed bumps called ‘topes’ in the main roads, forcing everyone to slow down sharply or crash.

Road signs implore passing cars not to tear down the signage (but what happens if they tear down the signs telling them not to tear down the signs?) and not to put rocks in the road.

We stop in a town called Cintalapa for a somewhat bizarre breakfast. The woman in the restaurant (perhaps that’s giving it too strong a name), would have done well in Monty Python’s cheese shop. She has run out of orange juice and eggs, and most importantly, gas.

The gas man has not come round yet, so we end up eating tacos cooked on a barbecue grill with apricot flavoured Fanta. Not a breakfast I would recommend.

Things perk up when we finally reach the sea. For a busy resort on a public holiday, Puerto Arista is… tranquil, as well as 30 degrees. We set up camp under a palapa shelter and Daisy gets to try out her first hammock, which she rather enjoys.


Then, slathered in Factor 50 and without even a nappy, we take her for a first dip in the sea, which she seems to really like. Baby Pablo is less keen and cries like a big wuss.

Puerto Arista is a seaside resort for Mexicans, which is refreshing compared to the tourist beaches around Cancun. All the food on offer in the restaurant is seafood with tortillas, while local people come round with trays selling whatever it is they have cooked that morning – fish tacos, empanadas, cheesecake and various other unidentifiable items.


Due to a slight misunderstanding, we end up with far too many coconut cocktails, which are a potent mixture of gin, coconut milk and mint (a cross between a gin and tonic and a very good Mojito). We thought we ordered two, but end up with six, which we drink anway.

Paul and I fail to learn our lesson from the baby massage, and allow Daisy some nappy off time in the hammock, which gives her the chance to bless my legs, herself, and the hammock abundantly. Just as well the sea was there to wash us off.

She also discovers her feet, which she can now grasp and play with, which seems to occupy her for most of the day.


The trip back takes on a nightmarish quality, thanks in the main to coconut-cocktail and sun induced headaches. I try not to scratch my sandfly bites, and everyone gets more and more tired. For the final leg of the journey everyone’s squeezed in the front except for Pabs who sleeps wrapped in blankets out at the back of the truck. We finally arrive home at 11pm, ready to sleep. It takes a while to convince Daisy that the party is over, but she finally falls asleep, probably dreaming of the biggest bath in the world.

Semana 8 Domingo

...

Semana 8 Sabado

Daisy turns four month old today and her parents learn an important lesson. Do not massage a baby’s stomach in public when she hasn’t poohed for a day and a half.


Baby massage class is its usual hushed and calm self. We have to compare our babies to things in nature. Other parents choose things like flowers and rivers. The only thing I can think of comparing Daisy to is a cyclone or a tornado (Pabs goes for ‘grasshopper’). Mind you, most people can see our point I think.

Daisy wiggles enthusiastically through the explanation, and the very kind teachers suggest we take our babies’ nappies off and lay them on some paper towels. Unfortunately, the second that Paul puts his hands on Daisy’s stomach, she er, becomes a little too relaxed. We use up most of the paper towels.

We also weigh Daisy at a local pharmacy. Pharmacies here do “medical consultations” for about two pounds. Their “surgeries’ are staffed by men in white coats who know less about medicine than the actors on ER.


However, they do have baby scales. Daisy has put on a kilo in a month, which is a huge relief. She’s now on the ninth percentile of those weird growth charts, which should be enough to keep the health visitors from grumbling at us. Hurrah.

Semana 8 Viernes

Thanks to a recommendation from my Spanish teacher, we go out for dinner with our neighbours, Paul and Barbara, at a place called Tacoleto.

They do all kinds of tacos here, from the ones that tourists don’t like (with tripe, mainly) to ones somewhat derisively called ‘gringas” because white people like them. These have tortillas made from flour, rather than maize, and it’s true that most of us really do prefer them.

Paul and Barbara have given up their jobs to come here and run a Mexican travel website (http://www.glocaltravel.net/). They have no particular plans of where to be, or when to go back to London. Am quite jealous really, but we wouldn’t miss having Daisy for the world.

She’s now quite happy to sleep in the sling while we have an evening out, and copes with Tacoleto followed by a drink at a local bar no problem at all. Probably better than me, actually, I was knackered the next day.

Semana 8 Jueves

The taxi-driver taking me home tells me a bit about his life. He's from Tenejapa - an indigenous community about an hours drive from San Cristobal. When he was 15 he took a brave decision and came to San Cristobal to try and further his education. He studied hard to get a Degree in Accountancy - not bad for a lad from the villages he says. Whilst studying he had to work get some money - he worked as a taxi-driver and as a clown!

He's now struggling to get a salaried job, so has just started training to be a carpenter. He says the laws in Tenejapa about not felling trees are less well enforced so he can get cheap wood there, make furniture and bring it to San Cristobal to sell (probably from roadside as some others already do). He's sorry he's not got his clown business card with him as I get out - but I wish him well anyway. It's impressive to see such entrepreneurial spirit - not sure how I would have faired with the same set of circumstances.

Semana 7 Miercoles

We walk the streets of San Cristobal, searching for For Sale signs on the houses. More and more, we’re tickled by the idea of buying a small place here, renting it to foreigners when we’re not here and using it for holidays.

Property here is not as cheap as in lots of bits of Mexico, but it is about a tenth of the price of our cheapish area of South London. What’s more, the peso is pegged to the dollar, so things are pretty cheap for us out here right now.


Most Mexicans don’t use estate agents, especially not in a city as small as this, they just write that the house is for sale either on the wall of the house, or stick a sign in the window. We take down the numbers and give them to Enrique, who has offered to do some negotiating for us. We’ll just have to see whether there is anything affordable and nice that is worth taking on.

Semana 7 Martes

Daisy decides to spend nearly the entire of the day with her tongue sticking out for some reason. I think she is taking after her Granddad, who sticks his tongue out when he concentrates. She is making more and more talky noises and finding life generally very funny.

We invite Mariet and the kids over while Enrique is away, and think that at last, this time, we are prepared for two-year old Itamar. We buy crayons and big sheets of paper to entertain her.

Mariet arrives and informs us that Enrique is coming for dinner later. He has to eat toast, since we haven’t cooked enough for him (maybe we convinced him it is an English delicacy). It is only after they leave that we realise the crayons weren’t such a good idea after all. Itamar has crayoned all over the fireplace. Our landlord is going to be so pleased.

Semana 7 Lunes

We tour the hotels of San Cristobal, in an attempt to find the best place for Mum, Bel (my sister) and her husband Dave, for when they come out in December. We really want them to love the city, so it feels important to find a nice place (not to mention fun to nose round all San Cristobal’s hotels).

We start, like all good tourists, with the Lonely Planet Guide. We tour everything from the Holiday Inn (most luxurious place to stay in the centre) to the hostel opposite our flat. The trouble with hotels here is that they tend to be cold, and the nights will not be warm when they are here.

We’re just about to give up and book something far away from our flat when we stumble across the perfect place. One minute’s walk from our flat is the Posada Belen, which has warm rooms, a charming courtyard, and comfy beds (tested them ourselves). No email, no website, and definitely not in the Lonely Planet Guide. Hope they like it as much as we did.

Semana 7 Domingo

We have a conversation about what we miss about home, which is surprisingly little, when you don’t count all the people we’d love to be hanging out with.

Roast dinners, baths, our cat and proper bread feature high up the list, and we decide that at least we can do something about the things we miss in England. To this end I start to make my own bread, using the yeast (levadura) I have finally managed to find here.

I’ve never used yeast at altitude before, and it really makes a difference, just like it does with baking powder (Mexican baking powder has instructions on the tin for how much to use at different altitudes). There’s not much we can do about the bath and the roast dinner, but we finish our evening with home-made scones and Evensong from Clare College, Cambridge (thanks to BBC’s internet radio player). Wonderful. And that’s how we mark Remembrance Sunday.

Semana 7 Sabado

We take Daisy to baby massage class, a new thing for San Cristobal. Paul is sure he will be the only man there, but this turns out not to be the case. How times change. Now, instead of the traditional Mexican machismo, there are three men eager to share their wives’ birth experiences with the rest of the class. One even bursts into tears when he talks about how wonderful it was to meet his five week old baby. Another has adopted a child after a long struggle. They have only had him four days, but already they look like naturals.

Daisy is in her element. The other babies there are all boys, and all have tons of hair. Compared to all the babies here, Daisy is very bald, but people keep telling us she is beautiful anyway (and we are totally biased). The other babies are very tranquil – although some of them cry a bit. Daisy chats loudly over all of the instructors, and proceeds to tear the baby massage leaflet to pieces. After the class the instructor says she responded really well to the massage, since she was smiling so much. I don’t have the heart to tell her she was just flirting with baby Pablo.


In the evening, however, we meet a more typical Mexican man, who has children in France and America, who he doesn’t see very often. We take Daisy to a birthday party at our neighbours’ flat, and she sleeps peacefully upstairs while we chat and deal with the very smoky fire. Paul carries her home in her travel cot at 11pm and she doesn’t even wake.

Semana 7 Viernes

Back to Chedraui, the local out-of-town supermarket, to buy all the things you can’t find anywhere else. Actually, we can’t find that many of them in Chedraui, either.

Now that Day of the Dead is over, it is apparently Christmas, which Mexicans seem to celebrate by buying Ferrero Roche. They seem to be a really big thing here, and you can buy cartons of them in various festive shapes along with Christmassy Kinder Eggs. Other popular items seem to be Christmas underwear (of course) and lights that flash and play O Come O Ye Faithful, or, somewhat ironically, Silent Night.

Sadly, we haven’t come looking for Christmas lights, so we’re bound to be disappointed. We always come back from Chedraui clinking with alcohol, since wine is pretty hard to obtain anywhere else. Last time we were out here it was virtually impossible to get wine at all, so we should think ourselves lucky we can get it in Chedraui.

We keep trying to buy Mexican wine, since people tell us it has improved massively, but Chedraui seems to keep hiding it behind everything else. Any Mexican wine that does exist is called things like “The blessed tears of Christ our Lord and the Virgin Mary”, which rather puts me off buying it. Mind you, that’s fairly typical here, even the rice we buy has a picture of the Blessed Virgin on it.


By the time we clink our way back home, we’ve bought wine (Californian, sorry, but at least the food miles are fewer than they would be at home), amaretto and baby tights – which only come in purple and red for some reason. We also spot several women from Zinacantan browsing for irons and toasters in the electrical section.

Zinacantan is the richest of the local villages, and the families there are great flowergrowers. They wear beautiful traditional costume embroidered with flowers all over (must be awful to wash), and they have tremendous pride in their costume, so most (including children) continue to wear it. Seeing them browsing in Chedraui makes me wonder how long this will keep going.


At home, we give Daisy a bath, using the bath toys (not suitable for children under three) we bought in the local market. She is really loving her baths now, but I don’t think she realises just how jealous we are of her ability to immerse herself in water – only showers here. Still, she is keen to share the experience and splashes us all over.

Semana 7 Jueves

A crazy day, when we become godparents to Mariet and Enrique’s son, Pablo. It’s rather an official affair – we have to visit the local town hall with our passports and visas, before signing our life away six times to prove that we really do want to be his moral guardians.

The town hall, or Municipio, is somewhat different to the one in Brixton where we registered Daisy. For a start, it has cats, witches and dancing skeletons hanging from the walls (rather ghoulish when people go there to register their deaths), and also they are still using old-fashioned typewriters.


While we wait, we see a wedding party come in to sign their official papers, with the bride in her dress, and we spend a lot of time trying to amuse two-year old Itamar. So as not to make her jealous on Pablo’s big day, we’ve bought her a doll, which she proceeds to undress down to its pantimedias (one of my all-time favourite words) pretty quickly.


After the signing is over (baby Pablo has to put his fingerprints on the paper), we buy food for the children at the children’s project we’re helping out at. They make tortas, which is a kind of sandwich, and discuss the things they would like to do with us in the next two months.


La Chozita is a children’s project designed to take the children who spend their afternoons selling things on the streets and give them somewhere to do their homework as well as hopes and dreams to go to university. The children involved have turned into a confident bunch. The girl I am sitting next to hopes to go to Uni in Mexico City, which is pretty good for a child who was probably destined to a life of selling bracelets and shawls in the streets for a living.

Week 6 Miercoles

I find myself trying to explain ever-more-complicated concepts to my Spanish teacher, despite his rigidity about which tenses I am allowed to learn, and in what order. I have a sneaking suspicion that he isn’t teaching me the imperative because he doesn’t want me to be able to order people about.


I am finally allowed to learn the conditional tense, which is also used for indirect speech, and find myself having the following bizarre conversation.
Reginaldo: “What did the Americans say when the French said that they didn’t want to go to war in Iraq?”
Me: (clawing desperately at my limited Spanish) “They said they were monkeys who didn’t want to be in the struggle, and who eat cheese”
Reginaldo: “No. That doesn’t make sense, what do you want to say?”
Me: (in English) “ That they were cheese-eating surrender-monkeys”
Reginaldo (after a puzzled pause) “Ah, he said they were monkeys who didn’t want to be in the struggle and who eat cheese”.
Me (looking smug): “exactly”.

Week 6 Martes

Christian and Alma, who run a local project for primary school children, come round for lunch with their one-year old daughter, which gives us a taste for what the future will be like. She is just learning to walk, and is happy wandering round hanging onto the furniture, chatting away to herself in Austrian German and Spanish (her Dad is from Austria and Mum from Mexico).

We also get a taste of Daisy’s empathy, when Eliana falls over (not badly) and Daisy, who up to then had been quite content, takes one look at her and bursts into tears. She’s only had one tiny tumble (off a very low chair), which was clearly enough to teach her that falling over hurts and is in general a bad thing.


Daisy is growing up so fast I can hardly believe it. She chats away to herself, pulling her dummy out and putting it back in, and has taken to grinning at passers-by from her sling as we walk past, so that they want to come over and kiss her. Such a flirt!

She’s also desperate to eat, watching my every mouthful if she’s sitting on my lap over dinner, and sticking everything possible in her mouth.


It has been so wonderful watching her learn to laugh and interact with other people. Playing peep-bo is a big favourite at the moment, and she still loves to hear music and singing. In the absence of any mobiles or other musical toys, she loves to watch the Apple iTunes Visualiser when we play music, which makes shapes in time to the rhythms. I try and kid myself this is educational, and not just getting her addicted to telly.

Week 6 Lunes

A trip to the local pharmacy yields a leaflet for a local charity appeal, for a new building with a difference. The Catholics of Chiapas are trying to build a giant Christ that will be bigger than the one in Rio de Janeiro.

Apparently this is going to show the world just what a holy place Chiapas is – but I think it might just prove how odd everyone is here. They do love statues of Jesus and of saints. Every church you go into has saints in glass boxes, dressed in lavish clothing. One child saint, who for some reason is always dressed as a doctor, also has toys in his glass box.


The whole thing reaches its peak in local villages like Chamula, where villagers are given responsibility to look after a certain saint for a year, in a kind of holy competition that can drive them to bankruptcy. The saints need quite a lot of looking after, including expensive clothes – although if they stop granting the villagers what they wish for, they lose their privileges very quickly.


Today we also discover a chocolate shop in San Cristobal – cue the sound of the Hallelujah Chorus. The man who is running it has been learning to make chocolate for the past few years, and he’s got rather good at it. Sadly he isn’t quite as good at marketing, and despite his stunning product, there is absolutely no one there. He has a couple of loyal customers now, though.

Week 6 Domingo

I go on strike, and refuse to go to church on Sunday morning, after spending all night worrying about Daisy. She is manifestly fine, and whatever was troubling her has passed completely, but I spend a happy morning reading Bernal Diaz’s account of the conquest of Mexico while she sleeps in my arms.

The book is amazing. It’s an account of how Cortes and his gang arrived in Mexico, and what they did, written by a man who was actually there. The style is fantastic reportage, without the Renaissance flourishes you would expect, and full of bloodthirstiness.

The Mexica (as the Aztecs called themselves) were a bizarre bunch of people who particularly enjoyed human sacrifice, and the book is full of stories of sacrificial victims with their hearts ripped out and their heads being thrown down steps.

After Paul returns from church, we finally take our trip to the graveyard, which is more like an outing to the local theme park. The whole place is filled with Mexicans buying ice creams, tending graves, and playing music. Apparently it is like this every Sunday.


I have never seen an ice-cream man in a graveyard before, but nor have I seen graves of quite such complexity and colour. Most are built like little houses, so that the family can go in and contemplate photos of the dead along with flowers and children’s toys.


Because it was Day of the Dead earlier in the week, many of the graves are still covered in half eaten snacks and empty beer bottles. It appears to have been quite a party. I can’t work out whether it is healthy respect of the dead or an unhealthy obsession. Maybe it’s all part of their Aztec heritage.