A ripe old tale

WITHOUT Jacky by my side I’m lost here in Mexico. I may walk with a swagger exuding confidence, but I know that if I’m confronted and engaged in conversation all that confidence is lost.

I can openly admit that. It’s a fact, an undisputable fact.

As mentioned before I speak enough Spanish to get by (admittedly right up until the point when the other person replies…) and there are times when I am way out of my depth.

However, whatever country you’re in, there is this strange anomaly that is the ‘squeeze’ test when searching for ripe fruit.

And that’s what I really want to talk about here today.

Last week I went shopping with Jacky’s family for groceries while she worked.

I spotted a pretty nice-looking watermelon in the fresh fruit and veg section and intimated to her mother that Jacky would like it (imagine me simply saying “Jacky” and then giving a thumbs up).

Without warning Jacky’s mum began forcefully squeezing, slapping, knocking and tapping every watermelon in sight. And I mean seriously giving them a beating.

And no-one batted an eyelid.

I would have called it GBH on fruit.

Those who know the trick call it clever shopping I guess.

I have no point of reference over whether the noise generated by slapping a melon is good or not.

So there I am stood in the middle of the shop beating these things, and then asking random Mexican shoppers: “Esta bueno? Esta bueno?!”
How do you know if the slap makes the 'right' sound? Does this watermelon sound better than that one?!

I don’t even eat watermelon so how am I supposed to know how it's supposed to SOUND when you hit it?

When you buy a car you don’t jump up and down on it to test the suspension right?

Christ, maybe you do!

Witnesses sought for papaya assault

Anyhow, so who’s ever joined a group of people mid-conversation and laughed out-loud at the end to try and fit in, only for everyone to just turn stare, silently and blank-faced?

I think we’ve all been there at some point.

And it’s happened a few times to me here in the last few months.

While it wasn’t necessarily a conversation I was part of, this very thing happened to me last weekend at the cinema.

You see, every film screened here is shown in Spanish, or in English with Spanish subtitles.

Jacks and I went to see Skyfall and there were ample opportunity for me to make a fool of myself by laughing out-loud... solo.

I always forget that while I understand every gag immediately, (because it’s in English) it takes time for people to read the subtitle, digest the dialogue, and laugh.

While I didn’t turn around, I could feel 300+ eyes burning a hole in the back of my head.

Jacks just laughs at me instead of the film’s gag. And then proceeds to throw popcorn in my direction.

One thing I simply can’t get used to over here is the way people talk in the cinema. And I’m not talking about “wow, that was a great fight scene” or “that’s so funny”, I’m talking about full-on conversations about what they ate last night, what Rafael thinks of Marcella, or the new store that’s opened in the mall.

Jeez. Jacks and I were watching the latest Bourne film a couple of months ago and the girl sat next to me answered her phone and began having a whole conversation.

At least I learned some Spanish that day from Jacks.

Namely the word ‘callate’.

Oh, and what’s with people cheering on the main character and frikkin APPLAUDING at the end of a film?! Now that is weird. Are the characters going to bow as part of the credits?

Also, who’s been to a 4D cinema? My first experience was the aforementioned Bourne flick.

At times your seat shakes like you’re sat in the car taking part in the high-speed chase, fans blow when a scene is windy or exposed, and perfume and scent is pumped throughout the auditorium when the characters walk through a forest or wherever.

Pretty cool. Unfortunately Bourne was probably not the best flick to see in 4D. As you can imagine a lot of people get taken out by single sniper gunshots.

And as part of the experience of course you get a violent and unexpected jolt in your back from the seat.

Hey, so a big HELLO to all you new visitors.

To date the blog’s had nearly 4,000 page views since July, which is pretty great. Awesome in fact.

It’s been read in the UK, US, Mexico, Russia, Australia, Italy, Belgium, Libya, Canada, Qatar, Latvia and Sweden among many other countries.

For those who aren’t following me on Twitter or Facebook, I try to update the blog about once a week, once I’ve gone and made a fool of myself in some place or another.

Writing this puts everything in perspective and keeps me sane I guess.

Thanks for lending me your eyes.

Big love x

Whizz Bang Pop!!!

‘REMEMBER remember the fifth of November’ I muttered in earshot of Jacky’s dad this morning as I poured myself a coffee.

“Por que?” (Why?) he asked.

Oh, um… because it’s Guy Fawkes night in England.

“What is Guy Fawkes?” he asked pressing further.

Oh god, I thought. How on earth, after criticizing Mexico’s bizarre behavior in celebrating a national ‘Day of the Dead’, can I describe this?

I ended up giving it to him straight.

“There was this man, centuries ago, who tried to blow up the Houses of Parliament. He got caught, and was burned at the stake on a pyre.”

Cue bizarre look from my adopted father figure which hints of shock, surprise and confusion in equal measure.

“We celebrate it every year by building bonfires and throwing a ‘Guy’ effigy… onto the fire.”

Cue further raising of eyebrows.

“But we do let off fireworks too, which are nice…”

“Ah, si si…” he adds.

I think that little dit was lost in translation and he now thinks England is a country of sadistic Satan-worshipping weirdos.

Oh well. On reflection our acts on November  5^th are pretty strange when you actually sit down and think about it.

We celebrate the murder of someone by re-enacting it thousands of times in one day across the whole breadth of the country.

And it’s a real family event.

Here in Mexico Halloween and the days that follow are a big deal.

It’s actually a three-day festival centred around remembering and celebrating the lives of those that have been lost in time.

Of course there is Halloween on October 31st, but there’s also the ‘Day of the Dead Children’ on November 1^st, and the ‘Day of the Dead’ on November 2^nd which is a national bank holiday.

Jacky told me it’s one of the most traditional festivals in Mexico.

Everywhere, and I mean EVERYWHERE you go there are displays marking the occasion.

Cheery eh?

You go to a supermarket and there, next to the traditional Halloween costumes, sweets and devil forks, are shrines complete with brightly-coloured flowers, lit candles, and food offerings to the gods.

‘Pan de Muerta’ (cake of death) is also sold all over the place.

I’m not sure what ‘death’ tastes like, but these things are good.

Dun dun da... cake of death!!!

This week I've also been practicing my ‘idiot abroad’ skills.

For example, we’re in town and I’m looking for a cashpoint.

I see a sign stating ‘banco’ and amble off to get some money.

It’s only when we’re approaching the building that Jacky starts laughing at me.

“You won’t get money here,” she tells me grinning.

“They’ll take something from you, but they won’t give you money.”

Of course it’s a ‘banco de sangre’ or, in English, a ‘blood bank’.

Hmmmm… that could have been weird…

Clock change confusion

SO the clocks have changed, the nights are drawing in, the heating’s on… wait, no, that’s you guys in the UK.

Here it’s still balmy. Halloween in a T-shirt and board shorts – that was a first.

The kids were trick or treating and knocking at the door, and I had a good mind to give them ice cream.

In truth the nights are drawing in here too. The clocks haven't changed here yet, and when I say ‘balmy’ it’s like 25 degrees as opposed to 40 degrees.

Still pleasant and mild, but you can now feel the winter coming.

But my god, November?! Where did you come from?

The changing of the clocks always gets me.

Spring forward, winter back. That’s right isn’t it? But then, I get my brain all twisted up considering what time everything changes, and what time it is everywhere else.

And this confession of a confused mind is no more relevant than now.

You see, here in TJ we’re eight hours behind (mum and dad) in the UK, and four hours behind (the brother Jon) in New York.

At least we were up until last weekend when the clocks changed in the UK.

Now I’ve had to shave an hour off mum and dad. Brother’s time difference remains the same – at least until “tomorrow”, or so my brother thinks.

He seems to think that the clocks change for NYC and surrounding area tomorrow (Saturday). So they’ll be moving back as well right? An hour?

Last weekend the clocks also changed in Mexico City to the south of us, and next weekend, apparently, the clocks go back in TJ.

But just to confuse things further Jacky claims that apparently the clocks change in neighbouring San Diego a short time later – or before. But not at the same time.

Why? Christ knows.

How weird would that be literally taking one step forward or backwards and being in the future, or the past.

Woah. Confused? Yes, me too.

Can someone not just wake me up when it’s summer again?

Anyway, Hurricane Sandy.

Who comes up with these names? Who gets to ‘name’ a hurricane?! Is there a hurricane-naming committee? Do they draw straws to choose them?

These questions need answers!

‘Sandy’, well… it just doesn’t conjure up images of a devastating force of nature does it? In essence these hurricanes are natural attempted murderers.

Sandy sounds more like a wimpy dog with a sad expression.

Anyhow with much of NYC being without power following the hurricane’s touch down on land, it reminded me of something that happened here a few weeks ago.

You see, we lost power in the house for an hour or so. Apparently there was some fault in San Diego, which crippled the network in a far-reaching area.

At the time Jacks mentioned that the last time they had a ‘major’ power failure in TJ it was out for two whole days.

“People went crazy,” she said.

“They were in a panic and buying all the petrol, the water... the tuna fish…”

Eh… ? Cue confused look.

I couldn’t help but laugh. What she meant was that people were buying as much tinned food as they could, not necessarily ‘tuna fish’.

Still, she got a big kiss for that as it was sweet as hell, and of course it was always going to provide fodder for this blog.

So, the blog’s got a new home on my new website.

Hope you like it. I bought the domain name last year and have been meaning to do something for a while.

Now, it seems, became a good time.

In this modern age I guess a personal website is the same as having a CV, cuttings file or portfolio 15 years ago.

Anyhow, thanks for taking the time to have a read. And apologies about the lack of pictures this time round. There are lots on the website if you're feeling deprived!

Paper trails

IN the land of the blind the one-eyed man is king. Or so they say.

And if you’re one of the few – if not the only – places in Tijuana selling rolling papers, you seem to have a license to print money.

Yes in this blog first there was the search for the holy kettle, then came the hunt for the red sauce, and this last week has seen me go on a quest for Rizla.

Needle in a haystack? More like trying to find a Mexican named ‘Frank’.

Listen I’m not proud of it but hey, I smoke.

Not a lot, but enough to miss it if I don’t have it. A bit like missing out on the first cup of coffee in the morning, or finding out that the cinema has run out of popcorn shortly before the start of a much-anticipated film.

So a few weeks ago I discovered I was not only running out of Golden Virginia tobacco, but also Rizlas, or rolling papers.

I guess there are tobacconists here selling baccie – mainly for pipes – so that’s never been a huge issue. GV is replaceable until I can get back to the UK to buy some.

But without rolling papers you can’t roll a cigarette.

You can’t simply grab the nearest copy of El Mexicano and use the Chinese art of folding.

And I’m sure as hell not buying a pipe.

Sure, I could have ordered some papers online for delivery but I didn’t realise I was running out until I ran out. And besides, if I order now I probably won’t see a delivery before Christmas knowing the postal service.

And so began the hunt for papers.

“No biggie” I thought.

Wrong.

A couple of days after running out I popped into two general liquor stores to ask for ‘rolling papers’.

Well, I say ‘ask’ for rolling papers. I simply said ‘tienes?’ (you have?) and then did the universal finger and thumb rolling action.

The first shop owner shouted ‘no’ and pointed to the door. The second just said ‘out’ before looking over and nodding at a makeshift security guard to assist.

I just as well had been wearing a T-shirt saying ‘Mexi-can lick my b*lls’ for the reaction it got.

I tried a few North American-style corner shops but still nothing.

Even the tobacconists drew a blank, and a frown.

And then it dawned on me why I got the initial reaction.

People over here, and in the US, simply do not smoke roll ups.

So when people see me rolling a cigarette they immediately think I’m rolling a joint.

“Marijuana?!” has been shouted in my direction more than once.

Followed quickly by a look of disgust.

One of Jacky’s friends believes it’s only a matter of time before I actually get arrested.

I was beginning to give up on the search until someone half suggested some downtown tattoo parlour come jewellery shop.

We trekked across town and eventually found the place. I honestly didn’t know whether I was going to get lucky or emerge with a dodgy facial piercing and inappropriate spider web tattoo.

I asked the question again ‘tienes… um…’ cue finger and thumb roll.

‘No’ was the reply.

But then a kind of wink-wink nudge nudge action occurred and I was led through the back of the shop. The owner or manager took out a large set of keys and slowly and carefully unlocked a steel-barred door.

‘What the f*ck have I just asked for’ I thought as I was led into the dimly-lit back room.

And there in the back, displayed almost picture-perfectly on a glass shelf were a few packs of rolling papers.

“Amazing,” I said excitedly.

“30 pesos,” came the response.

Er… nearly £2 per pack?!

Oh what the hell. Money can buy me love.

Mission accomplished.

On the way back home on the outskirts of TJ, it dawned on me the number of pharmacies dotted around the place similar in frequency to the number of Spar shops in the UK.

They are literally everywhere.

Mas barata: 24-hour pharmacies for drugstore cowboys

Of course the reason is that neither Mexico, or indeed the US, has a National Health Service.

Instead they have countless pharmacies, and doctor and dental practices battling it out for business.

Seriously, in the UK the average Boots shop is pretty large but over here they have like ‘mega’ pharmacies with daily deals on pills and potions.

It’s almost surreal to see some boasting ‘24-hour’ service. I mean, 24-hour kebab shops, 24-hour Tesco… 24-hour Superdrug?! Weird.

But I guess when you’re ill, you’re ill.

Jacks tells me that Mexico, specifically TJ, has something called ‘medical tourism’ which is a large part of the city’s economy.

Every day thousands of Americans cross the border into Mexico simply to buy medicine because it’s cheaper than the US.

Anyhow, I’m off for a smoke.