Well, this evening I am literally reporting to you from a cloud of incense smoke, having just sat through an epic ‘service of the rosary’ held in Socorro’s back yard. For a couple of days now she has been talking about the advent of an important series of celebrations relating to her faith (she is clearly from a very Catholic family). Tonight, if I have understood correctly, was the first of 9 nights of up and coming ritual and festivity.
When I came back from school this afternoon the whole back yard in the casa had been decorated with flowers and a small shrine had been erected with various effigies of saints inside. Come 7 o’clock the air was heavy with incense and a whole host of neighbours were entering the courtyard. Amongst them was Peggy, an American nurse who is studying with me at the school (Socorro told me I could invite anyone I wanted). This was a relief as I was able to sit next to her and speak a little bit in English about the spectacle that was unfolding before us (we were clearly the only non-Mexicans and, I think, the only non-Catholics in the crowd).
What followed was a long series of prayers, songs and incantations that felt a bit like a Spanish religious vocabulary test for me (I managed to recognise the words for ‘heart’, ‘struggle’, ‘blessing’ and ‘light’ amongst a few others), and that went on for ages (well, about an hour)! It was only towards the end that Peggy and I realised that the woman leading the service was saying a prayer and singing a short verse for every bead on the very long rosary she was holding in her hand (hence it being the ‘service of the rosary’). It was incredibly interesting even if, after the first 15 minutes of so of repetitive prayer, I found myself focusing more on the cute little toddler on the row in front of me and some of the gracious and dignified older people of the pueblo who were in amongst the congregation. Even though their lined faces and frail physiques revealed their years, they gave Peggy and I cause to remark on how few older people in Mexico seem to have grey hair. We’re pretty sure that the ladies in traditional ponchos with walking sticks wouldn’t be getting their roots touched up at the local salon. Therefore perhaps there is something genetic that keeps their hair so lustrous and dark well into old age? Lucky them… A heavy cloud hung over me a couple of weeks ago when I found what I think was my first grey hair. I plucked it out in fit of horror which thankfully came to pass. I guess you've got to be realistic and optimistic about getting older. Time waits for no-one and, as some of the women at the school have been telling me, your thirties are apparently a great time for being a woman. I hope they’re right...
Anyway, enough of my existential aging crisis! When the rosary service finally came to an end, Socorro’s daughter-in-law, Arianne, came round offering us all cups of the thickest and most delicious hot chocolate (brewed up with cinnamon) and 'tamales' (a kind of maize paste steamed in leaves with a variety of fillings – these were pork and green chilli). It was such a lovely and warming experience, which reminded me a bit of Christmas church services and the sharing of mulled wine and mince pies afterwards. Seeing as I won’t be with family or friends doing any of the traditional ‘British’ Christmas things this year, I’m really glad that I’ve had this kind of encounter. I’m not sure if I’ll be expected to go through with it every night for the rest of my stay (I’ve got four more nights here). I’ll just have to see what kind of vibes I get from the family tommorrow. Sitting through any more of these long ‘bells and smells’ services might be a bit trying but, if it’s the price I have to pay for having been shown such hospitality and kindness, I’ll be happy to do attend and join in.
At school today we all changed teachers and now I’m with Arturo – an enthusiastic and ever-smiling Mexican, who has lived in the States, and whose more European appearance means that he is always being mistaken for a gringo here (much to his annoyance - this means that the locals try to charge him more for stuff!). He was at Pascal’s on Friday night and, probably thanks to the potent margarita I was drinking, I found myself getting into quite a weighty (but light-heartedly delivered) conversation with him. We were talking about the issue of race here in Mexico, and this shed light on some of the feelings of surprise I expressed last week about peoples’ skin colour here in Tepoztlan. He explained that although only about 15% of Mexican people have paler skinned, blue/green eyed Caucasian appearances, it is always these people who appear on advertisements and in television shows and films (as opposed to the more indigenous, darker skinned Mexicans who make up the rest of the population). As Paco informed us in one of our classes last week, racism regrettably still seems to be quite rife here - both in stark and more insidious forms. ‘Morenos’ (literally ‘brown’ people) often get turned away from more exclusive clubs and bars. Then darker skinned, shorter, and broader hipped Mexican women struggle and give themselves grief trying to emulate the impossible images of beauty that North American and European magazines present to them. Without any hint of recrimination or personal blame (it was more like he was just philosophising), Arturo lamented to us that night, “it’s such a shame that you guys have stolen the concept of beauty”.
Anyway, I definitely think Arturo will be a good teacher, and it’s nice to have a bit of a change around. The first part of the class today was, unsurprisingly, talking about what we did at the weekend. Therefore I described my trip to Taxco and also to Cuernavaca, which is where I headed off to yesterday. The city is the capital of Morelos, the state that I’m currently in, and it has a pretty decent selection of museums. My favourite of which, by a mile, was the museum of Robert Brady – an American artist I had never heard of until now, who lived here and died here in the 1980s. He left his beautiful casa, crammed with an astonishing array of paintings, sculptures and intriguing cultural artefacts from pretty much all over the world, to be made into a museum. As anyone who knows me well might gather from the pictures, this is like my ideal home and I pretty much fell in love with it! Wow – if good fortune allows me to continue to travel, I would love to try to collect enough small pieces of art as to replicate something like this (although I somehow doubt any original Frida Kahlos will ever fall into my hands!). It really was an inspiration, and the museum grounds were also a very peaceful place to just sit and relax.
Apart from the bright and passionate Diego Rivera mural within, the ‘Palace De Cortes’ museum was a bit weighty (although it was informative – and I think, by some kind of osmosis and exposure, a basic knowledge of Mexican history is now seeping into my brain). The museum was also, though, unfortunately something of a sharking ground for a certain kind of older man - the kind of older man who fancies himself as a bit of an intellectual, and thinks he might have more luck with the ladies in a museum than in a nightclub! On account of this I ended up getting some cheesy chat-up lines, and some numbers thrust into my hands, from men who were all old enough to be my Dad, and who annoyingly took some convincing that I was quite content seeing the city on my own without their personal services (I’m afraid I don’t go for that whole ‘silver fox’ thing)!
On the whole, though, although I can see that this is a culture where machismo prevails, I haven’t found myself feeling particularly threatened or uncomfortable as a woman here. It’s just a bit tedious when having a normal conversation with a waiter, fellow museum visitor, or post office cashier (as happened this morning when I went to buy some stamps), so often leads to the bloke in question making a move and failing to accept it if you resist their advances. I think, to a certain extent, a gringa appearance and being alone signals a ‘green light’ to a lot of them.
Anyway, other highlights of Cuernevaca were the pleasant and peaceful ‘Jardin Borda’ – public gardens where a casual book market sets itself up at the weekend (I’ve already seen so many used-book stalls here that I can’t wait for my Spanish to be good enough to read more in the language) – and the cathedral which, compared to Taxco’s, was remarkably modern inside. Cuernevaca was generally a good place to wander round and explore, and I rounded things up by buying myself a bargain new pair of sandals before heading back to Tepoztlan on the bumpy and rather sick-making local bus...
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