I've found my home

I have always relied on the kindness of strangers

I hate car mechanics. I hate that male-bonding crap that goes on with engines. I hate whole conversations about brake-horse-power. I just don't get it. I understand how the internal combustion engine works, I know what the pieces of a car do, but I really have no desire to look under a bonnet (hood). Cars are a way of getting from A to B a bit faster than using my feet and in more comfort than on a bicycle. I am a sad enough geek to know how most things work, but when the microwave doesn't work, when my mobile phone doesn't work, when the digital tuner in my tele fails, I am not expected to stand around, beer in hand, grunting. It is common knowledge that if you want to make friends (male friends) in a new neighbourhood, grab a six-pack, step outside, open the bonnet, stare at the engine. Within seconds you will be surrounded by men who are willing to dispense their knowledge and wisdom:

Yeah, I thought I heard something funny when you arrived the other day. I'm pretty sure that it is your lunge-spracktel-over-binder. You're going to need a three-quarter spiflicator and a six-point harblesquiller to fix that mother. I remember when my DuPont '42 had the same problem. We had that baby up on the blocks longer than my wife gestated with the triplets. In the end we had to rip the whole thing out and replace it with the inter-flange-tribulator from a '29 Pushahbee.

You might gather that I have never stood around a car with the bonnet open. It just ain't my thing. Unfortunately it is Maria's thing. She loves the whole messin'-about-in-cars thing. I suppose (duh!) that it is her engineering background - I hope so, rather than it being the hanging around with blokes who tend to have more bum-cleavage than a plumber's convention.

So, the new truck (gotta lurve the new truck) has been having its problems. This is not unexpected, we knew this would happen. The reason we bought the truck was that the Jetta kept having its problems and it would cost us an arm and one of the kid's kidneys to repair it. As we are fairly fond of the kids, we decided to get something that we could happily drive around with the check engine light on, knowing that the car wouldn't throw a primadonna hissy fit (and smell of wee because the children had failing kidneys). And that is what we have been doing - driving the car around with the check engine light on, not selling our loved one's body parts.

Except it has been making one bastard of a noise. At first it was easy to ignore - this was the reason that in car stereos were invented. However, with the volume cranked to 20 (conversation impossible), the noise was drowning out Linkin Park at their most shouty. It was time to do something about it.

And so I had to face the fact that I would have to have that moment when I would be face-to-face with a mechanic. He'd look under the bonnet, wipe his hands on an oily rag, shake his head slowly from side-to-side and tut. I think they can sense my failure to be interested. When I go to see a doctor, I just want to be cured. I don't need a long story about how (if I hadn't gone to see the doctor) I would have ended up dead - I know that! That's why I went to see the doctor! Why do mechanics spend hours (and hours) telling me that if I hadn't gone to see them then (eventually) the outside of the car would explode whilst the inside would implode, killing several passer-bys and atomising the occupants. Just accept the fact that I know the car is buggered, give me a price, fix it, charge me the price you quoted, and let me go before you tell me an "interesting" story [in this case interesting means that if you listen, smile, nod enthusiastically, the price of fixing the car will be less interesting].

The good news is that Maria got to deal with the mechanic. The better news is that a price was agreed on at the beginning and (after it transpired that the replacement part actually cost the garage more than they had quoted us for the whole bill [including a couple of other things plus labour]) that was the price we paid at the end. The best news was the mechanic was wearing a t-shirt bearing the legend: No hablo Ingles.

The car was fixed, the bill was paid, and I got away without having to feign interest. All in all a good day for me. However, there is the one remaining fact that the bill came in at less than $50 dollars for the replacement part. This means that I do sort of feel obligated to mention that if you are ever in Tijuana, and your car breaks down, could you please use Tovar Auto Services on Ermita. They are very nice people, they do the job they promise to do, and they don't speak English. Thank you.

the unwritten list

Originally, when Maria organised this trip, it was going to be a quick in-and-out. She'd leave Friday afternoon, be back Sunday morning. She was nervous about the whole trip and, the last think she needed, to add to her worries, was me. So my activities were planned:

She'd drive me to work in the morning.
I'd get a lift back from school.
I'd enter the flat.
Lock the door.
Never leave.

Whilst in the flat I was not to shower, not to shave, not to drink to excess, not to watch "Field of Dreams" (or any other film that would make me morose - so, no "Fiddler on the Roof" either).
Ideally, I should get home, crawl into bed and not move.

These plans when slightly AWOL the minute the Governor got involved. He wanted to be present at the meeting Maria had to attend. He couldn't make Saturday, so the meeting was changed to Sunday. There are no flights out of Torreon on Monday or Tuesday, the first flight was W*dnesd*y. Suddenly it became a whole different ballgame.

I would have to drive. I had to get to work Monday, Tuesday, and W*dnesd*y.
I would have to shower. I had to go to work Monday, Tuesday, and W*dnesd*y.
I would have to shave. I had to go to work Monday, Tuesday, and W*dnesd*y.
I would have to leave the flat. I had to go to work Monday, Tuesday, and W*dnesd*y.

I promised that I would not get involved in accidents whilst driving. I wouldn't light cigarettes, answer my mobile, and drink coke whilst trying to negotiate a roundabout. I wouldn't drive like an Englishman (because I'd end up in a road-rage incident) and I wouldn't drive like a Mexican (because I can't). I wouldn't drive anywhere else other than school. There would be no popping-out to the shops. No cruising the mean streets. No drag racing. I would drive to school, I would drive home from school, I would not drive any other time!

I promised that I would not dance in the shower. Nor would I drop the soap, accidentally step on it, go arse-over-elbow, and break my neck. I would not drink the shampoo. I would not wash the soles of my feet. I would not take a football into the shower and practise my keepie-uppies.

I promised that I would only shave on Monday morning. I would use the blade that is in my razor, not put a new blade in nor use an old blunt blade. If, five minutes after shaving, I found that one area I had missed (which always happens), I would not rush back into the bathroom and attempt to shave the whole side of my face off. I would live with the irritating patch until W*dnesd*y.

I promised that I would only watch films that were positive, upbeat, included lots of violence (yeah, I see the irony), and had no connection to either my father or my children. Anything with Schwarzenegger was good, anything with father/son, father/daughter, family relationships in them was evil.

I promised that if, for any reason at all - and it had better be a fuck of a good one, I had to leave the flat to purchase anything, I would to go round the corner. No further.

Now, I realise that this set of rules sounds a bit lot like (1) I am a total idiot, incapable of being left alone and (b) Maria is a total control freak who doesn't trust me to be left alone. However, in her defence, she didn't make the rules. I did. I am a total idiot. She knows this, I know this - hell, you probably know it as well. I am also a magnet for trouble/problems. I have discovered, in my long (long) life that, if anything can go wrong, it invariably does. [However, don't get me wrong, I am an optimist. When things go wrong I normally end up saving the day with a winning smile, my good looks, and soft English hair. Also I get some great stories to tell!] I love Maria and would never cause her any pain, if possible. So, to help set her mind (partially) at ease, I made this list of rules and promised to adhere to them totally and utterly! I am a good boyfriend!

And it all went to plan! I drove to school, no problems. I drove back from school, no problems. I spent a couple of hours in the internet. I had two beers (on a Friday night). I cooked ribs and fat chips. I settled down in front of Invincible (don't watch it - it is turgid  crap). I was settled for the night.

And then the phone rang.

I left the flat just after 9pm and got back just after 2:30am.

No broken bones. No police incidents. Safe and sound. In fact, no interesting stories to tell. I had a good night, a fun night - gotta lurve people who take pity on the foreigner stuck at home all alone.

But I broke my promise. I broke my rules. I am not a good boyfriend.

Time to start all over again. I have May's lessons to plan. I have The Longest Yard and Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels to watch. I have an internet to surf. I have blogs to read. I have emails to write. I have a bed to sleep in.

Now I just have to wait to see what else can go wrong with my plans :^)

and relax

I'm not taking my test today.

I'm special.

Well, I'm foreign and, whereas Mexicans can just walk in and take the diving test, I can't. Which, sort of, refutes the last couple of weeks conversation about preferential treatment for foreigners.

And so, if you could save your best wishes for a later date - thank you. For now I am unlicenced to thrill!

think nicely of me please

We leave the phone place. Everything is sorted. Maria has a new phone, the git who stole her phone has a lump of plastic, everything is good.

We jump in the car and set off home. The sun is out, the sky is blue, life is good.

So, do you want to take your driving test today?

On Saturday morning we'd had one of those "shit, look at the time, shit we're going to be late, shit where did the time go, shit, shit, shit" moments (a bit more mature than Hugh Grant's moment at the beginning of "four Weddings and a Funeral". The journey over to pick up the kids was a bit frenetic. Maria spent a lot of time swearing at other drivers and (how can I say this without sounding too offensive) I spent a lot of time pressing the invisible brake that exists in the passenger well. When she leapt out of the car to get the kids, I slid over into the driving seat. It was one of those moments when I was pretty sure that we weren't going to be in an accident but, if we had been, I'd have been a fool not to have slid over.

You do know you're not insured.

It appears that (think about this) when her ex was paying for the insurance I was insured to drive the car. Now that we are paying it, I'm not. Go figure. Only drivers with a Mexican licence are insured to drive our car. I don't have a Mexican driving licence.

So, do you want to take your driving test today?

Actually I don't. In fact, I don't want to take my driving test any day. I really, really, really don't want to take my driving test ever. Of course, I don't want to tell Maria this (let's hope she doesn't read my blog....oh). I don't want to get into a discussion about how I never want to fail in her eyes. How I am scared of failing and she will think less of me. I don't want to tell her that I am 46 years old and suffering with a memory that can remember what I was doing during the war, remembers what the price of eggs was when I was a lad, can name the England team from the 1966 World Cup Final but has major difficulty remembering if I have taken the beer out of the freezer, thirty minutes after putting it in there. (WOW, that's one hell of a sentence - I sort of forgot where I was going in the middle of it...I suppose that's ironic? Which of course, leads into the old joke: There are three things that start to fail at my age. Your memory and I forget what the other two things are.) There is no way in hell that I can take this driving test. It's not the driving - I'm pretty sure that I can do the practical side of the test. Hell, I'm dead sure that I can drive better than 90% of the drivers on the road. Of course, that statement is totally racist - it'll probably turn out that according to the Mexican Highway Code you are supposed to drive through red lights, honking your horn. But, it is the written part of the test that freaks me.

What about the written part of the test?

I say this dead casually. So casually that you'd think I was totally nonplussed. I am cooler than LL Cool J. In fact, as I say it, we are sat at a traffic light with the windows open and someone leans in and puts two beers in my pocket, confusing me for a fridge - I am that fucking cool!

You get ten minutes to look over the test. You'll memorise the answers.

I love her. I adore her. I know her. She knows me. We've been intimate (sorry if that's TMI). We know each other intimately. How the fuck doesn't she know that I can't even remember the number of our house. How the hell am I going to remember answers to a test in Spanish? She doesn't know me. She thinks I'm wonderful. She thinks that because I can remember the '66 World Cup team I can memorise answers to a driving test. How the hell do I break this to her gently? How can I tell her that I'm a bit crap? She might dump me for...for that bloke who put two beers in my pocket. He looks like the sort of person who could pass a driving test.

You know I'm a bit tired at the moment. You know, what with all the excitement about the phone.

She buys it. She glances over at me with that concerned look in her face. She tells me that she's sorry she lost her phone. She tells me that she read my post. Knows the stress I've been through. She tells me that she understands. I am so fucking cool. She'll never know (unless she reads this).

We'll do it tomorrow. Tomorrow you'll take your test. OK?

Tomorrow, 3pm Tijuana time - so that's 4pm PST, 11pm GMT - I'll be taking my driving test. I don't believe in god but I do believe in energy. I believe that I am a figment of your imagination. I only exist because you keep me alive (that's both of my readers). So, set your alarms, knot your hankies, magnetise a message to your fridge. Tomorrow, March 11th 2008, I need all the positive energy you can muster. Send out good thoughts. Send out positive thoughts. Pray (those of you who believe in a higher deity). Tomorrow I'm taking my driving test.

[Oh, and don't tell Maria I wrote this.]

humour - it's a funny thing

There is a moment in The Shield when Dutch loses a police laptop that he was using to research child porn on. When it turns up there is a certain amount of teasing that goes on in the station. I don't know if you watch The Shield but Dutch gets some of the best lines. His reply to the joshing he receives is simply:

Not funny now - funny later.

It became a sort of catchphrase in our flat and is occasionally dug out when one of us finds something amusing and the other doesn't - I get my head stuck in a saucepan, Maria rolls about laughing, I spend time walking into doors. [In passing, does anyone ever really get their head stuck in a saucepan? In my childhood, doctor's surgeries in comics always seemed to be full of kids with saucepans on their heads. This made a large enough impression on me that I have never stuck a saucepan on my head. Maybe that is how governments should get kids to say no to drugs. Fill comics with pictures of doctor's surgeries full of kids with saucepans on their heads and doctors shaking their heads, tutting and pointing out the danger of drugs. Drugs would look one hell of a lot uncooler then!]

Anyhoo, if there was on incident in our lives that was always going to be: "Not funny now - not funny later", it was the car crash incident. That was the single worse night of our relationship. There was no way that we could ever imagine that night would be funny. But it struck me, at the beginning of W*dnesd*y night, that eventually, most things in life become funny. [I say most things because it is obvious that some things never become funny, as was pointed out to me the other day: hemorroids are only funny to the people who haven't got them].

Maria has already written about the events of W*dnesd*y night and I have briefly mentioned it in a post already. A quick re-cap for those of you who have already forgotten/can't be arsed to go back and check: an ex-lover of Maria's was in town and wanted to meet up. He got very drunk. It didn't go well. I didn't hit him. We dropped him off at his hotel. Maria owed me bigtime - I didn't hit him!

As I sat in the car in, it has to be said, a fairly good mood considering that I had just been introduced to one (one? you mean that there might be more out there?) of Maria's exs, Maria and her ex-lover (yes, I am going to bang on about this fact for most of the post!) played catch up. They spoke in Spanish, Maria translating odd bits of the ex-lover's stories but I know enough Spanish, and I know the stories, that Maria's tales went untranslated. However, Maria started to tell a story that I recognised - or I thought I did - it was the story of the night of the car crash. However, after about ten minutes I realised that I must be wrong or at least confused. The ex-lover was laughing away like a madman (oh, why wasn't that a danger sign?) but strangely Maria was also giggling along. I looked at Maria with a raised eyebrow. Yes, she confirmed, she was talking about the.worst.night.ever. and yes, she was laughing and joking her way through it all.

Not funny then - funny later I thought.

The night was a disaster. Well, it was a disaster for the ex-lover (he really needs to think carefully and try to read a copy of: How to Win Back Girlfriends and Impress Them) and a source of upset and embarrassment for Maria. For me it was mainly irritating and annoying, but that was just the living through it. By Thursday morning it had just become an event in the rich tapestry of my life (wow, there are moments I sound like a wanker). Sometime, Thursday afternoon, when Maria was apologising for the seven hundreth and thirty sixth (or was it seventh) time, I mentioned that she really should stop apologising because the event was funny. She looked at me:

Not funny now - funny never.

At the end of the evening we attempted to leave the restaurant - actually, we didn't attempt, we left quite successfully, we just didn't get out the door with the ex-lover in tow. The meal had not gone well. He had ordered several tequilas, had messed up paying the bill, had hit me twice, had managed to announce (for the second time) how much in love he was with Maria  but failed to announce it while I was in the restroom (the  second time), annoyed most of the other patrons, upset the staff. We announced we were leaving and set off outside. We sat in the car for five minutes while the ex-lover tried to buy another tequila, was refused service and then finally ejected from the premises. Fortunately he slept on the short drive to the hotel.

When we got to the hotel Maria decided to forego the parking ritual and pulled up at the front door, we both leapt out of the car, round to the back passenger door, opened it and waited for the ex-lover to get/fall out of the car. He didn't. He couldn't. He couldn't undo his seatbelt. At that moment there were two grown people desperate to get this man (ex-lover) out of their car but neither of them wanted to actually lean into the car and undo his seatbelt - Maria was worried that he would assault her, I was worried I would assault him. We stood there, stepping forward, stepping back, neither of us willing to commit to getting the bastard out of the car. Eventually we simultaneously agreed that, much as we loved the car, it wasn't that important to us. We would just leave the car there, with the ex-lover inside, and walk home. Unfortunately the hotel staff weren't too happy with this. By now there were three of them demanding that we move the car. We couldn't move the car with the ex-lover in it, we replied. Then get him out, they demanded. We don't want to, we whined. GET HIM OUT, they demanded. I stepped up to the car, reached over the ex-lover, pressed the red button, the seatbelt flew up, he fell out. As he staggered to his feet we both hugged him in a definitely-no-contact-there hug. Informed the hotel staff that he was their problem, got in the car, and burnt rubber getting out of the car park.

I told this story to Maria on Thursday afternoon. She joined in with the telling. As she told her bits, the bits she was thinking, she smiled. By the end of the story we were both laughing. You see:

Not funny now - funny later.

[Oh, in case I didn't mention it, this bloke was an ex-lover but, you know me, I'm not the sort of person who would hold that against anyone.]

fear

There is nothing to fear except fear itself - bollocks. There are loads of things to fear: dentists and their desire to drill; spiders and their desire to exist; cockroaches and their ability to re-form and move quicker just after you have smacked them with a slipper; a strange lump in your testicles; your boss asking for a meeting at a specific time because talking to you in the corridor isn't appropriate; failure.

Failure rates pretty high on my list of fears. I don't like to fail. I don't like things to go wrong. Me, I'm a great believer in Homer Simpson's philosophies:

1) If a job's too hard then don't do it
and
b) If at first you don't succeed - give up

I passed my driving test on my first attempt. To some of my readers that will not seem like a great achievement - even if I throw in the line that I only took two lessons: an introductory lesson from BSM and an hour's lesson from a friend-of-a-friend before the test. In England (Britain?) the rules state that everyone fails their test the first time (it's an unwritten rule). Driving Test Examiners fail you on the first attempt, everyone knows that. The way it works in England is that there are too many cars on the road so the feeling is, don't let anyone pass their test that'll keep the roads clear.

But I passed my driving test the first time I took it - the exception that proves the rule!

And that was that. Passed my test in 1978 at the age of 17 which gives me free reign to think that I am a good driver. No-one can criticise my driving! Hell, I'm such a good driver that I even taught my daughter to drive and she passed on the first second attempt (because, you see, even though I am the most excellentest driver and the bestest ever teacher, everyone fails on their first attempt!)

We have a new car truck. We are having to insure it - not just for driving in Mexico but also in the USA. As far as the Mexican insurance is concerned, they are quite happy for me to pootle around with my British driving licence - hell, as far as I can work out (a bit like I'm the only qualified teacher in my school) the majority of drivers in Mexico haven't passed their test. This isn't a problem because 66.6% of all Mexican cars aren't insured, so the insurance companies are quite happy that someone wants to give them money. Basically, you've got some sort of licence and that'll do. Not so the Americans.

For some weird reason (ok, it's not that weird) as part of our American insurance they would rather I had a Mexican driving licence than an English driving licence. Which means that I have to get a Mexican driving licence.

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

I have to take a Mexican driving test to get my licence. I am very scared. The test has two parts - a driving part and a written part. I'm fairly confident that I can pass the driving part. Actually "fairly" might be an over-statement. I don't drive like a Mexican, I drive like an Englishman. This means that the whole driving part of the test might be spent sat at a "four-way-alto" as I let everyone through. And god-only-knows what will happen if I have to go round a round-a-bout. So, if I'm not bricking it enough about the driving part of the test there is the written bit. Now, because this is Mexico, you can buy the written bit of the test (with all the answers) for 100 pesos ($10 or 7.50 of your English Pounds Sterling). So, all I've got to do is learn the answers.

Learn the answers and pass the driving part.

Can you see I'm going to fuck this up?

There's something worse. Maria (I love her, I adore her, she's wonderful) is the.single.worst.passenger.ever. Maria is fantastic, Maria is wonderful, Maria is my everything. I cannot think of a single solitary thing I would ever want to do in the rest of my life without her - EXCEPT drive with her sat in the passenger seat. Now, Maria, because she is wonderful, will tell you that I can drive, that she is happy with me driving, that she loves my driving, that I'm sexy when I drive, that I am the single bestest driver she has ever had the pleasure (and it is such a pleasure) to travel with. Unfortunately, Maria will say this when we are sat/stood/leaning anywhere EXCEPT in a car. She will deny it but in a car I can do nothing right. She breathes through her teeth, she makes weird squeaky noises, she comments on everything I do (or, as it is pointed out to me through clenched teeth, everything I don't do). At this moment, she is convinced that I will pass my test easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy but, at this moment, we aren't sat in a car!

I'm going to fail.

I'm going to fail my test.

I'm going to fail my test and the next time I drive and she says something I won't be able to say that I've been driving for thirty years and I don't need her to tell me what I'm doing wrong because...because I failed my test!

I'm thinking of pulling a sickie.

not blogging - just typing

The longest week. I woke up on W*dn*sd*y morning convinced - that's convinced I say - it was Friday. I was sure it was Friday. As Beck exploded out of the alarm (quick question - does any Beck track actually explode?) and I checked the state of my body (with my mind! with my mind!! there was none of that checking my body with my hands - that's a definite no-no [on a school day]), I was absotively-posolutely convinced it was Friday. How did I know it was Friday? Because my body felt that it had done four days work already. Except it was W*dn*sd*y! Do you know how hard it is to work through a W*dn*sd*y when your body/mind thinks it is Friday? Not as tough as if your body thinks it is Saturday.

As Beck exploded out of the alarm on Thursday morning (sometimes I think we should change the CD in the player every day, otherwise I get a sort of "groundhog day effect"), I checked my body (with my mind!) and was convinced it was a Saturday. Thursday was a very long day. When Friday finally came around (three days too late) I was shattered. How shattered was I? Well, I went to bed at 6:30pm - of course that might have also something to do with the fact that I started drinking at 3pm. Drinking in that way that fish don't do, more like drinking in the way that a man who has just worked a nine day week in five days and really needs a drink does. Yay me!

So, I've been busy - very busy. I am now an English teacher - with all that that entails. Actually a bit more than what it entails as I also have to plan lessons for the two months that I haven't been teaching English because when the inspection hits the school might be in beeeg trouble. I am also a drama teacher as rehearsals have kicked into full swing for the school play and the attitude seems to be: the play is TOMORROW!!! Which is a bit worrying as it ain't until the end of June I am still a maths teacher, which is slightly problematic because one of the local High schools suddenly changed their maths entrance exam from a mathematical exam into a what's the definition of this word word. The problem is that they want the definition is Spanish and (surprise, surprise) I haven't taught maths in Spanish. And there is other stuff that is work related that I just can't bring myself to go through because...because it has been sucking the life out of me and this 2008! And 2008 is going to be great!! So, I'm not having the life sucked out of me!!! Let's just take it for granted that work has managed to fill every single waking hour this week.

In normal circumstances that would be fine - actually, in normal circumstances that wouldn't be fine! I have chosen this path because I don't want a working life that fills every hour. I chose this path because I wanted a life where Maria filled every hour!! I want a life where life fills every hour!!! And, bless its little cotton socks, life has been filling every waking hour. There is probably a list of the most stressful things in life: divorce, marriage, pregnancy, moving house, looking after a friend's pet while they are on holiday, talking to a plumber, trying to work out where that irritating squeaky noise is coming from. The person who made this list needs to add owning Maria and Will's car to the list. Believe me, I've dealt with all the other things on that list and none of them compare to owning a car in Tijuana which has no reverse gear. None of them compare with trying to organise a way to get rid of said car. None of them compare to debating what sort of car you want to replace said car with.

I am a bit crap when it comes to cars. On the whole I think of them as moving ashtrays - they get you from A to B and that'll do me. I know how cars work, I understand the physics/chemistry, I can explain how the internal combustion engine works. But I have no interest in cars. No interest in what is under the bonnet. No interest in what the bonnet looks like. It's a mobile ashtray with (hopefully) a kick-ass stereo.

This week has been spent with my opinion being sought on what type of car we should purchase and I have had to come to a decision. It MUST have four wheels. It MUST have an ashtray. I'd like it to have a kick-ass stereo. It appears I am not a very helpful/supportive/useful person - but you probably knew that! All of this means that I have had to spend the week being helpful/supportive/useful and failing miserably. This is a lot tiring than you would have thought. It has managed to fill all my waking hours. Except, I haven't had any free waking hours (due to the job being a bitch etc.).

Thus I have been a little bit over-extended. Actually I have been totally over-extended. I have managed to cram two and a half week's worth of stress/worry/work/being an arse into one week!

So, in answer to your question (both of you): No, I haven't bloody posted!!!

Nor is there any chance that I will....oh.
 

está lloviendo a cántaros

It's rained for a week. Not all day but every day. It has rained solidly from Friday night to Sunday evening.

Now, I realise that I might have been a bit cynical about the rain here in Mexico. I might have just complained (just the once) that what Mexicans call rain I would call a fine mist. There have been moments when the rain isn't heavy enough to actually reach the ground - it gives up falling about a metre from the ground and then disappears. Of course this non-rain doesn't bother me, 40+ years of living in England and I hardly notice it. However, it isn't the same for my fellow citizens.

Tijuana has a huge population but this is a fluid population. No-one stays in Tijuana long. If you move here, you move for one reason - to get into the States. If you stay here you find it is expensive compared to the rest of Mexico. So, you either make a success of yourself or move back home. If you make a success, you move across the border. Unemployment in TJ runs at less than 1% - you work, you earn or you move. Of course there are some people who are born in TJ and stay in TJ but they only make up 15% of the population. The rest of the people here are from somewhere else and in that somewhere else it doesn't rain. To be honest, it doesn't really rain here in Tijuana - TJ is in Baja California...that's CALIFORNIA, the place where it doesn't rain. My fellow citizens aren't really used to rain nor is the city.

The roads don't have a camber, which means that the water doesn't drain to the side. There would be no point anyway because there is no drainage system. Restaurants are open-aired, schools are open-aired, garages don't have roofs - you just park your car through the door, basically on the patio in front of your house. When it rains it is a shock. Worse for Tijuana is that it is built in a bowl. Through the centre of TJ there runs a river (the river Tijuana) which, once was a huge river that carved through the landscape. Now it is a small dribble and the city is built on the sides of the valley that it cut. Unfortunately this means that there are huge expanses of mud/dirt/clay/soil around the city. This is open to the elements and when (if) it rains these can wash down the streets. Fortunately it doesn't rain much. Except for this week.

And this week it has rained - proper rain. Big fat drops and lots of them. Normally when people ask me if the weather reminds them of England I just smile. However, this week it has been like living in the Lake District in April (and let me assure you, I have lived in the Lake District for a week in April [every year from 1968-74] in a caravan).

The first time I heard about acid rain I was about ten (which means Helly was walking and Maria still hadn't been born). Like any child who hears the term acid rain my imagination ran riot, probably towards the more cartoon-esque part of my imagination. I saw rain falling and everyone melting - like the wicked witch. As I grew older I realised that acid rain was a long term problem - it would take years and years of rain to actually burn through anything. Except, it appears I might have been right with my first assumption and not because people run around acting as though the rain burns!

It's the roads. I live in earthquake country. Fortunately I have yet to experience my first earthquake (and I am in no rush to do so either) but, thanks to having had to cover a missing teacher (and I can't express how bitter I am about that) I know all about moving plates. It appears that the world is made up of huge plates, fitted together like a badly made jigsaw. These plates are constantly moving. No problem if you live in England, slap bang in the middle of a plate - no earthquakes! If you happen to live on the line that two plates make - bit of a problem. This means that mysterious holes will appear in roads from one day to the next. Here in Tijuana there is a constant road crew who travel the city filling holes that have appeared over night. Because we travel the same route every day, we rarely come across new holes - maybe one a month. However the day after it has rained is a totally different thing. On Friday nine new holes had appeared on our journey (yes, I am sad enough to have counted them). And when I say holes I mean HOLES. These are big enough to swallow your tire down to the rim, some will make your exhaust bottom out on the road. They are damn big holes!

To tell the truth I'm not really looking forward to tomorrow's journey to school (although I am still hoping that school will be cancelled because of the rain). The car has not been very healthy (yesterday it refused to go into reverse for a while) and I am slightly worried that the state of the roads will kill it totally. How concerned am I about roads in TJ? Well, much as I love the fact we have a red sports car (because, according to certain internet gossip, I am only here as I am going through my mid-life crisis) and as much as I hate SUVs/trucks, I think the time has come for a change in motor vehicle. It's time for a Jeep!

Only problem is, Maria likes the Jeep Liberty. Is it me or does that just sound like a tampon?

it's not a suggestion

My knowledge of the Highway Code (which might be a bit rusty 'cos it is nearly 30 years since I took my test but only ten since I taught my daughter) includes the fact that: when you approach a Stop sign you should apply the handbrake. I'm pretty sure that is what is says because I remember having to do it in my test. In reality, this is not something that you do when driving in England - but the main reason you don't do it is because there just aren't that many Stop signs in England. On of the (loveable) things about the English is their ability to queue and their apologetic nature. This works perfectly on the road with a Give Way sign. We are all happy to stop at a Give Way and let everyone else go.

Before I came to Mexico I had driven in the States and noticed a lack of Give Way signs. The Stop sign was a lot more prevalent. Also, the freaky thing about driving is turning right at traffic lights - you can go when the light is red. This was scary, every time I did it I expected to be arrested and locked up. The first time we drove in Mexico Maria said to me:
You know, the ALTO sign is more of a suggestion than an actual command.
She was wrong. One of the joys of driving in Mexico (and the joys are few and far between) is everyone's understanding of the ALTO sign and the dance that ensues as you arrive at it. There is an ALTO sign at every junction and, as you approach, you take careful note of who else is waiting at the other four junctions. Everyone knows exactly at what time they arrived and at what time they will cross the junction, heaven help you if you get it wrong. In my two years of driving here I can categorically state that ALTO is not a suggestion - true, no-one applies their handbrakes and many cars don't actually come to a complete standstill - it is the one road sign that everyone follows. The same cannot be said for traffic lights and roundabouts.

Roundabouts are a lottery. There are two types of driver on a roundabout. The first is the person who is using the roundabout to pick up speed. He (it is inevitably a he) will enter, at speed, use the centrifugal force to pick up speed and will exit wherever (and whenever) he fucking wants to - no matter what lane his car is at the time. The second type of person thinks that the roundabout is actually a four-way ALTO with a lumpy bit in the middle. She (because it is invariable a she) will therefore stop at random points on the roundabout to let other people get on and enjoy the ride. This makes driving round a roundabout a lottery. Will the person if front accelerate or brake suddenly? Who knows. But, as far as I can understand the rules, this is why god invented the horn. As you enter a roundabout, the best survival tactic is to hit your horn. This warns everyone that you are there. Also it gets the adrenaline running so that you are prepared for any eventuality.

Traffic lights are another lottery. In England the lights follow a set pattern: red, red and amber, green, amber, red. In Mexico they work a little differently: red, green, flashing green, flashing amber, red. In theory flashing green is there to inform you that the lights will change - in practice it means accelerate! Amber informs you that it is about to go red, which means accelerate. The appearance of the red light should mean stop but in actuality means accelerate!! The only reason that a car actually stops is because, at the other junction 90 degrees to you, the lights have gone green which means "pedal to the metal - floor that accelerator", and all the other cars are now crossing the junction. Of course, there are times when there are no cars, in which case the general trend seems to be - ignore the red and proceed, with caution, across the junction. If you make it across unscathed "yeah you", if you get hit it is your fault. Those are the rules for most of the year except, from the end of November throughout December and the beginning of January. In this select period of time traffic lights are a suggestion - and just the merest one at that. It is possible to sit at a red light, cars crossing in front of you and the person behind is livid. S/he (it can be either sex) will be banging the horn, mouthing swear words, gesturing frenetically. Basically they are asking the question - why the fuck are you stopped at a red light?? Move out the way mofo!!!!

So - now you know.

oranges aren't the only fruit

They won't sell us a car! We've gone to the dealership, we've explained what we want and they won't sell us a car!

The car is buggered - that's the technical term. When it came back from the crash it was perfect - we had two weeks of incident free driving - the car ran wonderfully and all was right with the world. Then the stereo packed in, just stopped playing. Maria is a great believer in feng shui, she believes that inanimate objects conspire with each other to either provide a happy environment or an environment that is going to cause you problems. As far as the car is concerned she feels that if everything is working well, then everything works well! However, the minute one thing goes wrong (a scratch, an indicator bulb, the stereo) then all the other parts of the car decide to drop to the lowest common denominator.

The car decided to prove her right. After the stereo went the cat started to make a funny noise as it turned to the left. Then added a weird clicking noise as it turned to the right. The a horrible clunking noise whenever it went over a speed-bump/down a pot-hole. Finally one of the warning lights kicked on and the ABS system decided to kick in whenever it felt like it. I didn't say a word. I know Maria loves the car. And then she made the leap - we were going to sell the car and get a new one!

We discussed what we wanted, listed our needs and settled on certain facts. It has to be a VW - the safety factor is everything here in Tijuana. It has to be affordable in our present circumstances. It has to be a high [as high as we can get] performance vehicle (the joys of living with an engineer). It has to have a decent stereo (I am this shallow). We decided on a Golf or a Rabbit. With gritted teeth we set off to the dealership.

Maria (have I mentioned how much I love her) has set ideas and certain people she will talk to. She won't deal with most mechanics because they treat her like a girly and they she won't deal with certain salesmen because they treat her like a girly. We went to talk to Fernando. He wasn't there and so we got stuck with Armando. Armando was very nice, spoke very good English (and quite good French) and was a jolly nice bloke. He was such a nice bloke that he refused to talk about cars because he knew we wanted to talk to Fernando.

We went back the next day, knowing Fernando would be there. Fernando doesn't want to sell us a new car! The most popular car in Mexico is the Jetta - we have one. Not just any Jetta, we have a top of the range, ass-kicking, eat-my-dust, this-car-rocks Jetta. Fernando knows this because he sold it to Maria. He thinks we shouldn't sell it, especially for a Golf of a Rabbit. No-one in Mexico drives a Golf or a Rabbit, the salesman can't get his hands on one because they have discontinued production and Fernando doesn't know if the 2008 version will be available here.

We set off to leave the dealership, slightly confused and Armando stops us. He tells me that he has been thinking about our problem. We look at him for enlightenment - maybe he'll sell us a car!

You need to buy oranges. Two, maybe three. Put them on the stove, over an open flame. Cook them until they go black. Cut them in half and then eat the orange that is inside. The white stuff that surrounds the orange is a natural antibiotic. Heating them, burning them, with send all that goodness into the orange. It tastes like honey and the whole house will smell clean. Try it.

We look at him, puzzled.

I noticed yesterday you had a cold. I can't help you with selling the car, buying another, but I thought I would help you with your cold!

So, we still have the car but I have a bag of oranges!