I've found my home

all souls day

As any good Catholic boy knows, November 1st is All Saints Day. It is the day that the Catholic church has assigned for all those saints who don't have their own (actual) day. Which means that if you have a Christian name then today is the day you celebrate your saint. Me, I'm named after Saint William (I was baptised in a church called St. William), which means I get to celebrate my saint's day on June 8th.The day after All Saints Day is All Souls Day. A day that is devoted to all the dead people. It was the day my mother would take us to church to light a candle for her parents, who were dead.

When my mother discovered that I had run away to Mexico, the first words out of her mouth were: "Oh, good. A Catholic country." Mexico, like the majority of Latin America, is a Catholic country. Basically that means that 85%+ of the country sees themselves as Catholic. There are slight differences in the national psyche when compared to England, and not all of those differences are based around trans-substantiation, or the viginosity of the baby jaysus's mum. Although the baby jaysus's mum does mean that the country is much more a Matriarchal than England (which I feel is more Patriarchal). The obvious difference is Christmas. Although Mexico is moving towards celebrating the fat man (Father Christmas to you), there is still a mentality that celebrates Christmas Eve and Twelfth Night with a lot more enthusiasm. In fact Twelfth Night, and the arrival of the three kings, is very much Mexico's Christmas, the day they give presents. Mother's Day is a huge day is Mexico. And then there is All Souls Day. The Day of The Dead.

Two days ago I was given a sugar skull, that's a skull that is made out of sugar. As part of the celebration of the Day of the Dead people get skulls with their names on them,  because it is a way that to face your own mortality. A way that shows your acceptance that, one day, you are going to die. I'm not totally sure how I am supposed to go about feeling, when an eleven year old girl gives me a sugar skull with my name on it, but hey ho.

There is no school tomorrow, because it is The Day of The Dead. It is a day when people visit the graves of relatives, and so there is no school. Often people will a make altars to the dead. These altars will include sugar skulls, marigolds, bread (it's a very sweet bread, on the outside, and plain inside), and the favourite foods of the dead person.

Anyhoo, I've got tomorrow off work. I won't be visiting any graves. Nor will I spend hours looking at my sugar skull, reviewing my own mortality. Nope, tomorrow I intend to cross the border to go to The Shakespeare Pub and Grille. The mighty Sheffield United are playing a football match which will be on television, live, in the pub. Mind you, considering the way that the Blades have been playing the last couple of games, mayhap I will be reviewing my mortality, or at least the futility of my life.

if only you spoke with a weird, foreign accent

The school is holding its collective breath. Kids have been slowly disappearing from school. To be more precise, kids have just been failing to turn up to school. After the whole Type A Influenza confusion, where people started pulling kids out of school, we now have a proper suspected case of H1N1. I say "proper suspected" because [deep breath] a parent phoned another parent who had heard that another parent had taken their kid out of school because another parent had heard that at a different school there was another pupil whose parents had taken them out of school because a kid had swine flu [and breathe]. Anyhoo, the long and the short of it is - one of our pupils is in hospital and has been tested for H1N1. Unfortunately, there have been so many panic tests taken that the only place you can still get a test done is Mexico City. This is (approximately) 2300km (1400miles) away. So the results won't be known until sometime tomorrow afternoon. I'm not sure what will happen when the results come in. In theory, nothing. In all honesty I'm not sure what me colleagues are expecting to happen. I think, if the test is positive (the student has H1N1) then they will all run around in circles screaming: The sky is falling, the sky is falling. This will be followed by a mass down-tools (or placing caps on whiteboard markers) and a walk out. Or, that is what they like to think will happen. I think there will just be a lot of bleating and then we have to carry on as normal. As has happened in the rest of the world.

Of course, I should add that this is probably all conjecture. The kid might turn out to be off school because he was having his visa renewed.

However, all of this worry/gossip/conjecture/totalbullshit has given me colleagues a chance to play one of their favourite games: pick on the foreign bloke. [There now follows a ten line sob-story as I wallow in self-pity.] As mentioned in recent posts, I have a cold. My cold involves the sniffles and one of my sinuses causing an immense amount of pain - it feels like a fat knitting needle has been inserted through the top of my head, piercing my left eyeball, giving me a line of pain down the left-side of my face. Whereas most of me colleagues are wandering round in shirt-sleeves, I am wearing an under shirt, shirt, jacket, coat and scarf. I am zipped up, buttoned up, and insulated. I'm staying warm. I'm ill but I'm going to work, because I have a cold. A normal, run-of-the-mill cold. Except, I work with me colleagues. Obviously I haven't got just a cold, I've got H1N1. Yep, seriously. I have been cast out. They have tied an invisible (and silent) bell around my neck, and are treating me as if I had the plague. I can hear them whispering: unclean, unclean as I pass by them. And you think I'm joking? I'm not. Some of me colleagues have taken to covering their faces when I walk by. It's not fun.

That said, my pupils have been wonderful. They've sat quietly in class, listened attentively, worked well. There was one point, in a maths lesson, when I had to stop, because it had become so eerily quiet. I was teaching LCMs and GCFs (Least Common Multiples, Greatest Common Factors - although, to be honest, I know them better as Lowest Common Multiples and Highest Common Factors). I suddenly realised that I had been talking for about five minutes, with no interruptions. No questions, no distractions, just five minutes of pure teaching. This stunned me. I asked the class if I was talking sense, was I just rambling on, in some sort of fever induced ramble? They assured me I wasn't. They informed that they all understood. So, I gave them twenty questions and, amazingly, 90% of them got them all correct. I told this story to maria. She said that they were probably concentrating very carefully on what I was saying.

"If only you spoke with a weird foreign accent all the time, then they would concentrate so much more."

Gotta lurve maria.

eagles may soar but weasels don't get sucked into jet engines

I stood and watched my colleagues from across the playground. They stood in fluid groups of three/four, one person leaving a group to move to another, being replaced by someone moving from yet another group. They were becoming more and more indignant. Arms that had been crossed, slowly getting tighter in the crossing, slowly getting higher on the chest, suddenly were being waved around. Feet that had been firmly planted, started to dance, then started to stamp. Eyebrows that had started on the top of their foreheads in surprise, that had dropped to hooding eyes in worry, now were drawn into one straight line of anger. My colleagues had become look-a-likes for the Gallagher brothers.

I've made myself a promise this academic year, not to get involved in whatever it is that rattles my colleagues' cages. This is because it takes very little to rattle their cages. Two weeks ago they almost all down tooled and walked out because they weren't going to be paid. I know, I know, sounds like the thing to do - except they were basing their argument on a dream someone had had. Yep, one person had dreamed that they wouldn't get paid and the rest were willing to accept that as fact. Even after we had been paid (signed our payslips), some were still convinced that we might have been duped, that the money hadn't gone into the bank. So I avoid talking to my colleagues as much as possible. It leads to a lonely life but a much happier life.

Then someone left the groups and headed towards me. Worse, like a magnet dragging iron filings along a piece of paper, the rest of the staff followed. They walked with determination, heads thrust forward, jaws clenched. They were heading for me with one thought in their minds: Mr. Cake will sort it out. He'll get them to, to, to...ah, who knows what hare-brained scheme they had come up with this time.

them: You've got to get them to shut the school.

me: Any particular reason?

them: There's a kid in grade three with swine flu. It's been confirmed.

me: Seriously? A confirmed case?

them: Yes. And the admin staff knew. They knew and they kept the school open.

me: A confirmed case?

[At this point, I have to admit that I had (mentally) already left the school. I was on my home to maria, maria who has had a cold the last couple of days. In my mind (in my mind) I could see us both, curled up in each other's arms, dying of swine flu together.]

them: Yes, the mum told us yesterday, when she came to pick up the sister.

me: Wait, you mean the mum knows one kid has swine flu, and she still brings the other to school?

them: Yes and [insert the crack of thunder here] she's in your class.

me: [Pause] You mean Ana Maria's brother?

them: Yes! Her brother's got swine flu.

me: No. Her brother's got Type A Influenza.

them: Yes, swine flu.

me: No. No. Type A Influenza. Type A Influenza isn't swine flu.

them: It is. He's got swine flu.

me: No, he's got Type A Influenza which isn't swine flu.

them: Well, what is swine flu?

me: H1N1

them: Well he's got that. Swine flu.

me: But he's got Type A Influenza.

them: We know.

me: What do you mean "we know"?

them: We know he's got Type A Influenza, that's what his mum said.

me: She said he's got Type A Influenza. She didn't say he had swine flu.

them: No. She said he's got Type A Influenza, which is swine flu.

me: It's not.

them: Not what?

me: Not swine flu. It's Type A Influenza. It's a cold. He's got flu.

them: Yes, swine flu.

me: NO! He's got Type A Influenza.

them: Which is swine flu!

...repeat to fade...

The school wasn't shut. We carried on for the rest of the day. There is a chance that some teachers might not be in tomorrow. There's swine flu in the school donchu'no.

peter o'parker

In many ways, Tijuana is a city caught between two countries. It is, very firmly, in Mexico. It is Mexican, it is populated by Mexicans, it thrives because it is Mexican. However, some a lot of that"thriving" is due to its proximity to the USofA. In many ways it is town of people who are moving. Many want to move five miles north, into the USofA. Most have moved to Tijuana. Some want to move back to their home towns. The number of people who actually want to be, to stay, in Tijuana is a very low percentage. Of the 23 children in my class only the both parents of four children were born in Tijuana. Six children have one parent who was born in Tijuana. Which means (for those of you who can't do the maths), thirteen (just over 50%) sets of parents are from other parts of Mexico. And you know what I find surprising about those figures? In the four years I have taught the sixth grade, it is the highest percentage I've come across. Last year it was under 25%, the previous years it was in the 30s. Basically, what I'm trying to say (and prove) is that not a lot of people in Tijuana, come from Tijuana.

Tijuana has jobs. Tijuana has money. Tijuana has the USofA next door. Two thousand maquiladoras (factories) provide jobs for close to a million people. The North American Free Trade Agreement means that you can put a factory in Mexico, build your goods, ship them into the USofA, and it is free - no import tax. And there are reasons to put factories in Mexico. The workforce is cheap. The hours are long. The holidays are short. The unions are non-existent. 

The USofA is the promised land. Jobs for illegal immigrants are on offer because you can pay less than the minimum wage. But that salary is still much more than the average Mexican can earn in Mexico. It's possible to work in the USofA and earn enough to keep an extended family (in Mexico) living a good life. Plus, there is tourism. For Americans there is the chance to visit a different country - a country that (according to television/Hollywood) has a drug selling prostitute holding a bottle of tequila on every corner. Oh, and a drinking age of 18.

This back-and-forth across the border, the desire to not upset foreigners, means that the dollar is legal tender in Tijuana. Most bills, most receipts, have two figures on them - one in pesos, one in dollars. The shop on the corner doesn't have an electric till, he has a drawer and a calculator. The calculator is for working out the exchange rate, so that (if you want) you can pay in dollars. In passing, I should mention I don't, pay in dollars that is. I am paid in pesos and the exchange rate is crippling, without adding in a backwards exchange. Unfortunately, my foreignness betrays me, and more often than not Iget presented with the cost in dollars.

The good news (for me) is that this proximity to the USofA means that there is a desire to speak English, a great desire to speak English. The language of the executive boardroom is English. The language of the street seller on La Revolución is English. The guy who follows me round the supermarket, desperately trying to guess what I want from the shelf before I reach out for it, he wants to speak English, practice his English, improve his English. Schools advertise their English. They emphasise their English. They boast the fact that they have a 100% English Curriculum - all lessons are taught in English.

And then you have to get it out there, get it in front of people's faces, tell them that your school is English speaking. So, there's L0nd0n Bridge, there's Engl!sh Red Apple, and (obviously) there is the school I work at - The Briti$h Americ@n Institute.

Yesterday I went on a photo-shoot with maria. High, up in the hills, we came across a school:

Yep, Kinder Irlandes. For those of you who don't speak Spanish as well as I do, let me translate: Kinder Irish Irish Kindergarten. Yes, in the middle of nowhere, someone has decided to build a castle-like structure, paint a rainbow, with a pot of gold at the end of it, and a leprechaun (or is it the Lucky Charms bloke?) on the side of it, and call it an Irish Kindergarten.

But, the thing that I have to question, seriously have to question, isn't the leprechaun, the rainbow, the pot of gold, is Spider-Man. Ah, you didn't notice the Spider-Man. Look at the picture again. Look to the left. You can see the princess? (Or I assume it is a princess because the whole thing is a castle, so it should be a princess. And notice that it's a red haired princess because, well, she's Irish.) Well, just behind the lamp-post, that's Spider-Man. Yep, ol' web-head himself.  Which I really don't understand because, you see, I know my Spider-Man. I really know my Spider-Man. And I'm definite the only possible connection between Spider-Man and Ireland is...the first football game (American Football) that Peter Parker went to was with his Uncle Ben. Peter Parker is a New York jets fan (he is also a Mets fan rather than a Yankees supporter). And, the Jets play in Kelly green. How you get from that to whacking a painting of Spider-Man on the side of your school, I'm not sure. But, it is there.

Unless, during the whole Spidey clone saga (when I dropped the title) Ben Reilly turned out to be Irish???

isn't it ironic, don't you think?

I'm being bullied.

Oh, it's subtle. So subtle that I hadn't really noticed. At first I'd put it down to cultural differences. Then I'd put it down to the fact that it was my fault. Then I'd just thought it was this/that/the other. But stuff happened yesterday and it upset me. Upset me enough that I woke up at 2am and sat up all night getting angrier and angrier. Of course, the angrier I got, the less chance there was of falling back to sleep, so I thought some more about the problem. This made me angrier. At one point I snapped the screen off my laptop and then tried to stick it back on with lick and masking tape. It was at that point I realised that, at last I'd fallen asleep...ten minutes before the alarm went off. I know it was ten minutes before the alarm went off because I woke up, scared that maria would find out that I had snapped the screen off my MacBook.

Have I mentioned how wonderful maria is recently? I don't think I have and this is incredibly bad of me. In theory all of my posts should, at some point or other, mention how wonderful she is. Obviously her beauty, wit, charm, sense of humour don't really need to be mentioned because they are obvious to all (although, I suppose, that doesn't really excuse me for not mentioning them as often as I should). However it is her wonderfulness that I have failed to comment on at every possible moment. I can see some of you wondering what specifically is her wonderfulness. Well, you know how you go on about how amazing it is that I can move to another country, keep a job, make friends, ignore the violence, and get out of bed every morning ready to face the world a new with a smile on my face. It has little to do with me, it is maria's wonderfulness that keeps me going. Case in point: the alarm goes off this morning, maria wakes, rolls into my arms, asks how the night went. I start to mumble about the neighbours/dogs/people going through the rubbish (trash) and then drop straight into, full-bore, no-holds-barred I-hate-these-two-fucking-women-at-school-and-it-is-probably-my-fault-so-I'm-not-going-to-work-today mode. So, she asks me to explain. And I explain. And she listens. And she asks me what I intend to say. And I tell her. And she listens. And she agrees, tells me to go ahead...if I'm a fucking moron (she can be quite kind that way). So, I ask her to explain. And she explains. And I listen. And I ask her what I should say> And she tells me. And I agree. 'Cos she is wonderful.

She explains that it isn't me. She is amazed that I've been pootling along in my own world, not slapping these women. She explains to me that it has nothing to do with my blond hair blue eyes and everything to do with their brown hair and brown eyes. They hate themselves because I am what I am. And that hatred has extrapolated to them becoming petty/snide/nasty/horrible bitches, bullying bitches. What they are disguising as "harmless fun" is in fact nastiness that might lead to, ooooo, let's say, a 48 year old man sitting up all night and then being scared to go into school the next day. How close is this to being bullied? It's all but the damn definition of the word. I'm a victim!

And then I realise that these people, the people I work with, aren't really friends, they are hardly acquaintances, they are just people I've met. And for a second I feel very alone.

Except.

Except there is maria, and she is wonderful.

Oh, and did I mention social-networking? Now breathe (inhale, inhale, you're the victim...sorry that song is stuck in my head at the moment). Yes, I know what they say: social networking isn't real friends, it isn't real. I can see some of you getting all hot under the collar because you've read, somewhere, that this computer malarkey doesn't lead to real friendship. Nope, if I want real friendship then I should be hanging around the water cooler, chatting with me colleagues, getting face-time not facebook time.

And I would, of course, agree with you...except...well, except blogging got me to where I am today. Blogging was the way that I found maria. And, lo-and-behold, social networking is actually getting me out the house. I realise that social-networking is supposed to tie you to the house, force you to sit in front of a computer screen, messaging, writing on walls, throwing sheep, buying (imaginary) drinks but someone forgot to tell the members of #TwittBC the rules.

The last two Fridays, unlike the previous 28 Fridays in 2009, I could be found with friends. Oh, and then there was that other Friday night in July. Today, as I have been struggling with the evil-bitches-from-hell, I have been invited to go camping (I declined. I didn't get where I am today by camping beyond the age of 19). I have also been invited out to someone's birthday party. Suddenly, thanks to sitting in front of a computer screen, I have a busy social life outside the flat.

Which is a bit ironic, don't you think?

footprint

It's not what you know, it's who you know - according to the old saying. I was once offered a job, at the age of 18, in a bank. Small(ish) bank, at the time. The job meant that I would have to travel out to Hong Kong, maybe work five years there, see what turned up next. This was in 1979, just as everything was about to take off. I didn't take the job. The reason I mention it though, is not through some sort of regret, it is because I was offered the job by a director of the bank. At the time I was caddying for my dad, this man was my dad's golfing partner. He offered me the job because he could. It had nothing to do with my qualifications, it had everything to do with who (my dad) knew. It wasn't what I knew, it was who I knew.

A year ago I was in a classroom with a bunch of parents, it was the day that all the parents have to bring in their child's supplies/utensils/stuff/crapola. The parents get a long list of books, notebooks, workbooks, pens, pencils, stationery, packs of photocopier paper, sterile wipes, a bicolour, rulers, stuff - all the stuff that the school thinks they will need for the next year. Anyhoo, the parents bring it in, I tick off a long list, they put the books in their kid's cubby, they stand around chatting, I check off another set of stuff. A dad gets up to leave and on the way out says to me:

Is there anything I can do for you? Seriously, is there anything I can do for you? Anything I can get for you? Anything you want done? 

I look up from the pile of books, laugh, and comment that a drink would be good at this point. He laughs, he leaves. The next day I receive a bottle of tequila.

I have to explain to maria where the bottle comes from and halfway through the story she stops and stares at me. Haltingly, I complete the story, not sure what I've said to upset her.

What? What have I done wrong? What have I done? Shouldn't I have taken the bottle? I should have said nothing? Oh, god. What have I done? I've given up my professionalism? What did I do wrong?

It appears I did everything wrong. Basically I wasted my free wish. This is the man who can do anything. This is the man who can get me anything. This is the man who can get anything done. And I got a bottle of tequila. maria then points out that the-worst-night-of-our-lives might never have happened if only we had this man's card. Why didn't I get his card? What sort of fool was I? 

Obviously a large one. The rest of the year was spent, trying to get the man's card. But, it was impossible - I'm too English and polite, there was no way I could force myself on him. I just didn't get the way that Mexico works. [maria knew the-man-to-know back in Torreon and she knows how things work.] The man and I were on good terms, I would receive regular presents, we would chat, but the offer of anything never came up again and I was too English to push it. And at the end of the year, his daughter left school. The chance to know the-man-to-know had gone.

Except, except at the end of every year I do exactly the same thing, I give all my students my email address, and I give them a promise: If they write me an email, I promise that I will write one back. Some students throw the address away immediately, some write once, some write twice, some I keep in contact with. Hey, it is something I do. And the kid wrote to me. Couple of times, through the holidays the kid wrote, and then, last weekend, asked if I would come to a concert at which she was performing. Now, I'm the sort of teacher who thinks that if a kid has summoned up the gumption to invite their teacher, then that teacher should go. I will stick my head-in and say hello at kid's parties. I will attend church for ten minutes to shout: Mazel Tov! [yes, I know!] And I will turn up at a concert to watch a kid perform. It's something I do. So we went.

We went and had a great time. We sat at our own table but were quickly joined by the-man-to-know. We sat and talked. Talked and told stories. The-man-to-know was shocked when he heard about the-worst-night-of-our-lives, and told how he would have made sure that none of that had happened. The-man-to-know was over-joyed when he heard we were getting married. He immediately offered to find us a judge. Yes, he could get us a judge, anytime/anywhere. In fact, if we wanted, he could also get us a fake judge. Oh, how we laughed. And then maria gave him her card because, well she had pictures of his child from school events, and she could email them to him. And then I gave him my card because he wanted to get me a bottle of scotch, and he needed to write the name Bushmills on something.

And he didn't give us his card.

He has no business card. He has no email account. He does not use the internet. The-man-to-know leaves no footprint. Oh, he has people who write and save and upload and download, and his child has an email account - but he doesn't go near a computer. He's not allowed. (I'll say that again) He's not allowed. The-man-to-know is not allowed to leave a footprint.

But we got his phone number. It's on speed dial. Sorted.

the passenger

We're driving home from school. I'm recounting my day, slowly, because we intend to head over the border to buy my uniform, so we'll be in the car for another hour or so. We go round the round-a-bout and maria has to avoid a driver, who thought we were turning off at the first turn, or maybe he didn't care and just went for it. The road we are on is a single lane each way for the first 50m, then it has a central divider, with palm trees, and there are two lanes on each side. 15m away from the dual carriageway a red BMW pulls up along side us, trying to pass, pushing us slightly towards the pavement. It's a woman driver. She's on the phone. In a rush. We're not in too much of a rush and, oddly for maria, she concedes, letting the BMW cut us up as it dives inwards before being stranded on the wrong side of the divider.

And then the BMW slows down, indicates it is pulling in to the side, but the woman is waving out the car window. We pull up beside the car, I roll down my window, and the woman speaks.

woman: My sister has just been kidnapped. In her car. She was in her car. They took her in her car. I'm driving there. It's four blocks away. Would you give me a lift? I don't want to be in my car. They might be looking for me too.

maria: Yes. Get in. What? That's terrible. Get in.

woman: I'll park.

She drives off,round the corner. We follow. She parks the car, gets out and climbs inside our car, dialling  on her phone.

woman: I told her this morning. I told her that there were strange men outside the school. That's where we are going, to the school, I own the school. Down here, on the right. I went to the school, I saw them, they drove off. I phoned her, told her it was suspicious. She didn't listen. She came to school, they took her.

maria: When? When did this happen? This morning?

woman: Now. Just now. She just phoned me. At gunpoint. They made her phone at gunpoint. Keep going straight. At the bottom, turn right. The school is on the corner.

maria: Have you told the police? You've phoned the police?

woman: Not yet. I need to see what they want. How it goes. Just here. Thank you. You're very kind.

maria: Good luck. Here, here's my card. I hope it goes well.

The woman takes maria's card and steps out the car. She moves into the entrance of a school we pass most days. Waiting for her is a group of people, one of them I recognise, he used to be the caretaker at the school I work at. We pull off, into traffic, and 30 seconds we are round the corner and gone. The whole thing lasting less than four minutes.

it's a forest

All this time. All this time I've been wandering along, living my life, enjoying myself, ignoring the fact that is in front of my face. And then, in an eight hour session I have my eyes opened, and everything makes sense. Not that it didn't make sense before, it was just that I was not seeing it clearly. Suddenly that expression: Can't see the forest for the trees, makes a lot of sense.

My moment on the road to Damascus started when I read this. Go on, go read it, I'll wait. Before I hit publish, on this blog, I normally ask maria to read it first. Mainly because her English is better than mine but also because I have no idea if what I have written is interesting. Obviously this is a pointless exercise, not in the checking my English part, but in the is it interesting part. maria loves me and (foolishly) thinks that whatever I do is wonderful. So, I write, she checks/changes the English/punctuation, tells me it is brilliant, I hit publish, you make your own mind up. But it doesn't work the opposite way round. One, there would be no point me checking maria's punctuation. All I can do is point out when she mixes up in/on - it's a Spanish to English problem. So, normally maria hits publish and I get to read it at the same time as you (sometimes a bit after). Except today, she asked me to read it because she was worried, worried that she was getting a bit down on everyone, upsetting some people. Yep. Honestly. You want to go read it again now don't you? Go. I'll wait. 

I play this online game. It's a war game (and it is neil h.'s fault that I play it). At the moment my alliance is at war with another alliance (don't worry, there won't be questions at the end) and I am on Skype discussing tactics with another player (yep, I am that much of a geek). Anyhoo, my IGN (that's In Game Name) is mexicowill and we end up talking about Mexico. How he loved coming to Mexico, to Tijuana. How he'd drive down to Ensenada, Rosarito, or Puerto Nuevo (for lobster) but now he doesn't come any more. The reason? The Cartel Drug Wars. We get to talking a bit more (and others join in - this is a Skype chatroom that exists for the alliance of which I'm a member) and I'm back to explaining the same old same old.

I don't go to La Revolucion. And La Revolucion has nothing to do with the Cartel War. It is petty crime. Hey, rich tourists, drinking tequila, having their heads shaken as the whistles blow. It's petty crime. The big bad crime happens where there is drugs, where there is drug dealing. And I'm not there. I don't do drugs.My friends don't do drugs. It is a world that I know exists and I make a conscious decision not to got here. So no problems. Pardon? Kidnapping? Yes, there is a lot of kidnapping but why the hell would anyone want to kidnap me? Nah, all this stuff that happens has nothing to do with me. My life is cool. No worries.

Except, except I know about kidnapping. Oh, not me, hell, I'm a teacher in Mexico, maids in the USofA earn more than me. But maria, maria had an insurance policy, a kidnap insurance policy, a two million dollar insurance policy, against kidnapping. But no one is going to kidnap her now because, well because she is with me. I'd be hard pushed to raise a ransom of 10,000 pesos. She's worth five million dollars plus but I can't get together more than 10k pesos. And that's maria. Who'd want to kidnap me? Hell, although maria thinks I'm beautiful, I'm pretty sure I'd get through three nights at prison (I am an optimist). So, I'm not going to get kidnapped.

I'm safe. All this drug, war, cartel, kidnap, stuff has nothing to do with me. Nothing to do with me.

And then it hits me.

In the last two years we haven't been out of the house after 11pm.

We no longer keep the front door open "for the breeze".

I didn't get a pay rise this year.

I didn't get a pay rise this year.

And yes, the Drug/Cartel War is affecting my life. It bloody well is. And I never realised. Spent most of my time telling everyone how my life is normal, not affected. And yet, I don't go to night clubs any more. And I didn't get a pay rise this year. And maria wakes me up at nights.

She wakes me up at nights. She disturbs. I disturb. We wake up at odd hours. Sirens, gun shots, shouting, dogs barking. I wake her up at night.

I've lied. Not that I've noticed, but I've lied. The drug war has affected my life. And I never realised. Until today.

unprotected typing

We've had the kids all day, and we have them all weekend. There are moments we are good parents, there are moments we are bad parents. These weekend we have decided to go for the bad parenting moments. We are going to spend every single second with them (quantity time) but we are going to spend it laying on the couch watching television or, to be more specific, watching DVDs (not really quality time).

We picked them up, went to Blockbusters, rented five films, went to the supermarket, bought popcorn/crisps/drinks, back home, plonked a DVD in the player, plonked our bodies on the sofa.

The first film we worked our way through was X-Men Origins:Wolverine. Don't panic, this isn't going to turn into a review of the films we watched, and if I remember rightly I've already reviewed Wolverine here. Anyhoo, it is [oddly] better the second time.) Watching films with the kids is an experience. Dani never seems to understand what is going on. She will repeatedly ask the most obvious questions. On the other hand, Nikos has absolutely no idea what is happening either, but he never asks questions. If the film is sparkly enough with minimum plot and conversation, then he is sorted. Wolverine was perfect for Nikos. Loud explosions, lots of shouting, some fighting, two turn away from the screen moments. It was far too confusing for Dani. Too many explosions, too much shouting, not enough explosions. However, all that led to some mother/daughter bonding, and bonding that made maria really, really proud. And what was she really, really proud about? That she could explain the plot to a Wolverine film, she knew what adamantium is, she managed to crowbar in several geek facts. Yep, four years of living with me and maria can now (casually) drop in geek facts about comic book characters. It then turned out that the kids haven't seen any of the X-Men films! How did that happen? How could they have possibly got away without seeing any of the X-Men films? I know what you are thinking, probably time to call child-support services but don't. All of this will be rectified before the weekend is out - I promise. By the time we return them to their father they will have seen X-Men and X2. Not sure about X3:The Last Stand, we'll see how the day goes.

Anyhoo, after Space Chimps, La isla de los dinosaurios, La mala educación, and half way through Coraline, maria threw half a bottle of coke over the sofa and my laptop.That's my laptop computer. My sexy Apple MacBook Pro. Half a bottle of coke. Over. My. Laptop.

You cannot believe how dusty Tijuana is. It isn't just dust, it is sand, it is grit, it is dirt. There is a permanent film of dust on every surface. You clean a surface, you turn round, it is dusty. It is hot in Tijuana, very hot. We tend to keep the windows open all day, every day. The windows have bars on them, so we don't have to worry about people breaking into the house, and the windows have screens on them so we don't have to worry about insects. But the dust still gets in, through the tiny, minute holes in the screens. Because it is hot, and there is no rain, there is nothing to keep the dust down. The slightest breeze picks the dust up, moves it from place to place. We know this for a fact, we know this to be true. When we bought my sexy new Apple MacBook Pro we worried about the dust. Worried enough that the second purchase was a keyboard cover. This cover is a plastic mat that lies over the keyboard, fitting over each individual key. It seals in the keyboard, nothing can get through. The dust cannot get through to my keyboard - it's genius. Oh, and if you were really going to test the cover you might want to try tipping half a bottle of coke on top of the keyboard - but that would be plain stupid. Unless it was an accident. And then you'd find out if it really does protect your keyboard, because tipping half a bottle of coke over the keyboard would be madness, and an instant disaster.

You might have noticed that I am writing a post. What you don't know is that I am writing this post on my laptop, my sexy laptop. Yep, the keyboard cover really does work. No coke on my laptop, disaster averted. I am typing, at the moment, for the first time without the keyboard cover - it has been washed and is drying. Can I just say, this unprotected typing is so sexy. The keys are so much more responsive, I can really feel the keys. My enjoyment is so much more improved, and my typing - oh, my typing is so quick, so smooth. If it wasn't for the dust and the chance of coke-showers, this unprotected typing would be the way to go. However, give it another two hours, to make sure that it really does dry, and I'll be slipping my protective sheath back on.

I think that's enough double entendres for one post don't you?

narcocorridos

You think Mexican music, you think mariachi, but there is a lot more to Mexican music. There's also banda, cumbia, ranchera, folclorica, corridos, tambora, jarabe, huapango, sandunga, bambas, sones, chirimia, jarana, marimba, bolero, conjunto, tejano

And that is without throwing in ragaton which maria really doesn't want Mexico to lay claim to (which I find odd, I mean who wouldn't want to lay claim to this?).

But I really want to talk about corridos or, more specifically a subset of corridos called narcocorridos. A corrido is a song that tells a story, probably closest to a country song or folk song in genre. However, they sound nothing like a country song. In sound I'd say they were closer to a German oompa-pa sound. Take a quick (ten seconds should do you) listen to Corrido A Valentin Elizalde - a song about a singer (Valentin Elizalde) who was killed. (Try not to listen to the whole thing all the way through, unless you have a need to down a bottle of tequila.) So, now you should know what a corrido is.

I first came across the term narcocorrido in the (excellent) book The Queen of The South by Arturo Perez-Reverte. A narcocorrido is a song that tells a story about a drug dealer. But it tends to tell it as a celebration of their lives, rather than a warning. This is because, if you get a corrido written about you, it is because you are a hero. Many drug dealers come from small villages and big families. The ones who become successful send money back to their families. The ones who become really successful end up rebuilding their villages. Often some places only have schools because of the largess of the head of a cartel. I realise that to many Americans Mexican drug dealers are terrorists but to many Mexicans they are seen as Robin Hood characters. They charge the rich (a huge amount of money for stuff that grows on trees) and give (some of) the money to the poor. So, a narcocorrido is a folk song about a latter-day Robin Hood. All of this I discovered when I read The Queen of The South and discovered that (although she is a fictional character) there is a narcocorrido written about her.

Sidestep: Can I recommend some excellent televison please? And can I do it now? It is two seasons in and it has (HAS) to keep going because this is fantastic tele: Breaking Bad. A high school chemistry teacher discovers he has cancer. In order to foot his medical bills and set up a nest egg for his pregnant wife and son who has cerebral palsy, he cooks methamphetamine. It stars Brian Cranston - you know him as Malcolm's dad in Malcolm in the Middle - who is just fantastic. The writing is quality, often maria and I turn and look at each other, stunned at the brilliance. But what carries the writing is the fantastic acting. There are clues hidden in episodes that only come out through you reading the acting. Yep, this is one of those television programmes that thinks its audience has a brain. Breaking Bad, watch it now.

Part of me trying to learn Spanish is my listening to music. The very first thing that maria sent me was Si by Julieta Venegas. The couple of times I have actually been good enough to get on the Mixclub train, I sent Matador by Los Fabulosos Cadillacs. Brillant!

Anyhoo, we are working our way through Breaking Bad and we arrive at Season Two Episode Seven. It opens with a narcocorrido. Thought I'd share it with you. Enjoy.

thanks to @ralanbowman and @agemenog (twitter identities) for their input on Mexican genres.