Mexico: To Teach or Not To Teach

"Education is the most powerful weapon which you can use to change the world." Indeed when I look upon the world and the numerous issues facing humanity and the future of this planet (the threat of nuclear war, armed conflict/occupations, genocide, corruption in politics, economic disparity, poverty, racism, materialism, overpopulation, pollution, the lack of potable water, deforestation, the warming of the oceans, the extinction of species, the lack of renewable energy, the lack of sustainable food, peak oil, and 100's of other problems that occupy my mind every day) it is easy to lose hope and give in to pessimism but then I am reminded of words like Nelson Mandela's above and I know there is hope. Being the change you want to see in the world is a difference of one, but teaching others how to be the change in the world; that's how you start a movement, that is how you truly change the world. Over the course of the last four years every job I have held has more or less been that of an educator. From being a summer camp counselor for kids in the northwoods of WI, to being a program counselor for youth with disabilities in Minneapolis, to being an outdoor educator for inner city kids around the country, to being a wilderness therapy field guide for troubled youth out in Utah, my work has been about mentoring and fostering positive change in the youth around me. As a "teacher" my classroom was the fire circle, the neighborhood park, a voyageur canoe, or a mountain top. I had never been a formal teacher in a classroom setting, but as I looked toward the future and the idea of finding a "career" in life I figured it couldn't hurt to at least give the traditional route a try. Becoming a teacher in the States is a lengthy process; degrees, certifications, exams, licenses - years and many thousands of dollars of investment. Becoming a certified teacher of English in any foreign country is a fairly simple one; four weeks time and a cost the equivalent of three weeks work in the States. Hence my journey to Chiapa de Corzo Mexico to receive my TEFL (Teaching English as a Foreign Language certification).  
         My TEFL course took place at Dunham Institute, a small private "mom and pop" after school English program that offers beginner, intermediate, and advanced classes to kindergartners all the way up to adults in their fifties. My course consisted of grammar classes every morning followed with observation and teaching in the classes in the evening. The most striking thing about the morning classes is how little we know about the English language as native speakers. If you were to ask the average person what the past perfect progressive tense was they would probably stare at you blankly and yet every native English speaker is able to use this tense effortlessly. Really these classes were all about identifying and explaining why we speak the way we do. We did mock lessons with our fellow teachers in training, introducing new grammar points to them as if they were foreign learners. I found it comical that many times we as native speakers and teachers in training couldn't explain why we say certain things, why certain words are spelled the way they are, or why certain grammar points work the way they do. I now understand why many foreigners who know a number of languages say that English was the hardest to learn.

         While the morning classes of just us eight students were a bit dry and slow, attending the actual English classes in the afternoon was always entertaining. There were twelve classes being offered by four different teachers when I took my TEFL in January, with each class lasting more or less an hour depending on their level. As I said before each class was extremely different in both age and in their level of English. The first day we simply observed three of these classes, by the second day of my course we were already leading exercises for classes, and by the end of the week we were teaching a full 45 minute lesson. One of the biggest questions I got when I told friends and family I was going to be teaching English in Mexico was how was I going to teach English in Mexico when I barely knew Spanish. Actually, no matter where you teach English in the world you are not expected to speak the native language and actually you are more or less required to not use this language in class. The reason why students can become nearly fluent in English in just a few months or years of classes is because they are immersed in English from day one (and not taught in their native language as we in the States often are in our high school and college courses). So, even when I was teaching my class of eight beginner six and seven year old students I was speaking English the entire class and never once uttered a word of Spanish. 

     

 Naturally gesturing, props, pictures, and games that put grammar and vocabulary into context are essential to the learning process when teaching a foreign language. It's easy to just print off worksheets and have students regurgitate words but we found that memorable activities and scenarios where students might actually use the language in the real world were far more effective. For example, when I had to teach the concept of "Let's" to these same beginner students I dressed up like we were going on a safari with my cowboy hat and hiking pack and then drew a map of different locations that were in the classroom. "Let's go to the cave," and I led my train of eight students under a series of desks to a notecard marked "cave." I then partnered them off, gave one student in each group a hat and a map and had them use "Let's" to express a desire to go to different locations on the map. "Let's go to the river, let's go to the hotel," etc. They were adorable and I was so proud when they understood the concept by the end of class. When I was moved to the adult conversation class I had to teach the past passive voice to some ten teenagers and adults. I started the class off by introducing the concept of passive voice and then proceeded to don my sunglasses, smack some chewing gum, be a jerk, and pretend to be a police chief who was reviewing how to write police reports with his Crime Scene Investigation unit . I took simple past active voice sentences and had them turn them into passive sentences; "A witness heard a scream at 10:00 --> A scream was heard by a witness at 10:00" etc. After I made sure they were getting the concept through examples I promptly received a phone call that a murder had taken place at Dunham Institute and that the CSI unit needed to respond immediately. Before class I had set up a crime scene in another classroom full of evidence in the form of a knife, food, turned over desks, "broken glass," "blood," books, and even a body (Preston, another teacher, gladly volunteered to comically lie on the floor as if he were dead). I put the students into CSI teams and had them investigate the crime scene and write police reports which they then had to present to me at the end of class. My classes were full of such exercises. Fun games and activities meant to deliver difficult concepts in a simple contextual manner. I think that that is more or less the essence of teaching, getting students to enjoy themselves so much that they don't even realize they are learning. 
         

Accompanying me for the 4+ weeks of my certification were seven other TEFL students as well as the four current teachers from the Fall semester and there was also the director of Dunham. Preston is by far the most memorable individual from my experience of Mexico thus far. A native of Washington who loves to bike, meditate, and sing falsetto; Preston has zero social fear. Although he doesn't speak much Spanish he has no problem making friends with strangers and even has even become good friends with a local Mexican girl simply because he had no reservations in asking her out on a date more or less through gesturing ha! I love Preston because he compliments my temperament so well. I'd say I'm just as adventurous as Preston when it comes to things like swimming in crocodile infested rivers or getting up at 7am to workout but we differ in that I am definitely conscious of what those around me think; constantly analyzing the faces, body language, and tone of the people around me to deduce their feelings, and giving weight to the social norms and values of Mexican culture to more or less fit in. Preston has a haircut akin to a Jedi knight, rocks a fanny pack, usually has flowers in his hair, and has no problem dancing, singing, or praising God in public; he does what he wants when he wants without reservation of what other people think. The man is quite simply a character and every time we hang out we either end up doing something ridiculous or having deep conversations about family, love, and life. My favorite moment with this guy had to be the day we decided to float down the Rio Grijalva lazy river style. We were so stoked to float down to the beach in front of Preston's house but upon entering the water we realized the north wind was so strong that the current was more or less canceled out. So much for a free ride. We began swimming out towards the middle of the river when a random guy appeared on the near shore and began shouting and excitedly waving his arms. Preston and I stopped swimming and attempted to understand what this man was yelling in Spanish. Preston: "Did he just say crocodile?" Me: "I think so, but I can't tell" Preston: "Senor, crocodiles here?" Man: "Incoherent Spanish + Hay un cocodrilo aqui" Steven: "Uh, I think he said there's a crocodile that lives here" Preston: "Cocodrilo aqui?" Man: "Incoherent Spanish" Preston: "I think he said there's one angry crocodile that lives here" Steven: "Well, are we feeling lucky?" Preston: "Heck no I'm getting out" We swam to shore, shook hands with the man who may have saved our lives from a giant angry crocodile and made our way to the beach where there were many more people. Since then, locals have confirmed that there are many crocodiles in the river and most of them live in the canyon further up stream; however, they still travel in this part of the river though they tend to stay away from the beach and large crowds of people.

         Juliette is a French Canadian from Montreal who just finished up a trip to Spain. As an 18 year old she's already had a ton of experience traveling and receiving her TEFL is just another way to maintain her lifestyle. She's the first French Canadian I've ever met in my life and I enjoyed learning about the differences between the French and French Canadians (there's a lot of animosity there that I never knew existed). Anyway, Juliette was always light hearted, and her accent brought a smile to my face everyday as she would greet me in the morning saying "goud moorning Steban." My favorite memory of Juliette was the day she, Preston, and I spent at the beach on the river. We met some local kids, probably around 6 and 8, who we played frisbee and tag with for a good hour. After the games we went back to shore and then Juliette proceeded to give them henna tattoos of their names on their arms. The little guys were so excited about the experience, they ran and showed their parents and of course they were cool with it, everyone seems to be relaxed in Mexico! A few days later the three of us returned to the beach again and this time we met two Italian guys who were doing a several month tour of Latin America and happened to be in Chiapa for the Fiesta. Shortly after, we met a Mexican couple from Guadalajara who were traveling with the carnival that was in town for the Fiesta and the seven of us hit it off and began talking to each other, with each conversation being more or less in a different language... English, Spanish, French, and Italian all flowing together. It was another beautiful day of cultural exchange on the Rio Grijalva. 

          Brian is a former Bank of America Customer Support Representative from Portland Oregon who came to Mexico looking for a career change; obviously, ha! Brian makes me look bad on a daily basis with his well manicured beard and mustache while I tend to look like a dirty Jesus. Brian always seemed to be the most level headed in our group and I feel like we share much the same temperament; the quiet observer that knows how to have a good time. Brian lives with my "cousins" just down the street so technically in Chiapa de Corzo we're family. There's been a sort of covert "Who's the Better International Son" competition going on between us with my mom and aunt always discussing what we're up to and how far along our Spanish is. Needless to say, Brian and I have already had a number of family experiences, from a day trip to the coast with our families, to the wedding, to my sister's birthday party at my house. My favorite memory with Brian had to be the utter confusion that ensued when the Mexican birthday song began to be sung by all the family members present for my sister... They all looked at us like we were crazy for not singing along and gestured for us to join in; however, the Mexican birthday song in no way resembles our simple "Happy Birthday" with repeating lines and only lasting about 30 seconds. No this song has zero chorus or repeated lines and about 10 verses that go on for a solid five minutes. Everyone seemed to be surprised that we didn't know it, but heck even if it were in English there was no way we could have learned such a complicated song that quickly. Afterwards, we sang "Happy Birthday" to the birthday girl which sounded pitiful after following up their eloquent song. 
     Corrinne is an aspiring teacher from Ohio who has been traveling around Mexico with her boyfriend, another French Canadian (the first two French Canadians in my life and I'm in the middle of nowhere Mexico!?), for the last couple months. Corrinne seemed to have similar intentions for her TEFL as me; testing the waters of the teaching world and deciding if it was something she wanted to pursue further in life. For about the first two weeks I didn't really talk to Corrinne that much, to me she seemed pretty professional and reserved, especially when compared to Preston and myself who were constantly giggling and cracking jokes in class. My favorite memory of Corrinne comes from the first time I really hung out with her outside of school. It was a Friday night after our second week of teaching and we were all exhausted and proud of ourselves for having now taught some 10 hours of classes. We decided to buy some beers and whiskey and rendezvous at Brian's house. We ended up playing truth or dare Jenga (which I never even knew existed) and drinking a bit. At one point Brian said something funny and Corrinne uttered out one of those snorting laughs. The kind where you can tell the person is trying to hold it back but can't! Her laugh made all of us laugh even more and she proceeded to snort even more as all control was lost. We enjoyed playing games the rest of the night, and getting Corrinne to ridiculously laugh on occassion. Cheers to those folks with oddly unique laughs.
          Laura is a seasoned traveler of Mexico that originally hails from South Carolina. She's spent the last eight months more or less in Mexico traveling with her Mexican boyfriend. Her Spanish was the best among the students and she was our go to translator a number of times when we were hanging out in the city. Laura was another one of those quiet students that I didn't really get to know until we decided to meet up at a hilltop park that overlooked the whole of Chiapa, the Rio Grijalva, and Tuxtla. Naturally we all brought some beers with us (this was still during the Festival season, where open container was legal and literally everyone was drinking in the streets). My favorite memory with Laura was at this location where we started playing a charades game with Brian's smartphone where you held up the phone to your forehead and everyone else had to act out or describe the word until the person with the phone guessed it correctly. We played this game and talked for a couple of hours at which point a group of cops came to the park and started hanging out right next to us which felt a little awkward. We began discussing in English why all these cops decided to start hanging out here when there was plenty of other places they could've gone. We figured drinking alone with cops, as foreigners, wasn't a good idea and decided to pack up and leave at which point Laura said she wasn't going to let them ruin our night. By this point Laura was a little tipsy and we all gave her a "Laurrrrrra don't, are you crazy!?" Laura staggered over to the cops and actually touched one of them and began to spout off some Spanish asking why they were there in the park. The rest of us were aghast. Doing something like this in the States would get you thrown in jail for the night or probably beaten, or these days shot, for "assaulting" an officer. But apparently the officers were really nice and didn't care that we were drinking and apologized for scaring us off. We still ended up leaving though! 
       Luke is a fellow midwesterner from Michigan who came to Mexico to shake up his life. He had recently gotten out of a relationship, was working a job he didn't seem to enjoy that much, and was living in a small town without much diversity or culture. Luke's first night in town we talked about our future plans over a beer at a restaurant in Chiapa. He seemed set on returning back home even though he didn't want to, the TEFL and this month long experience in Mexico was merely a brief escape and a dream for action in the future. My favorite memory of Luke was meeting up with him in San Cristobal to celebrate our graduation from Dunham. He showed up to the restaurant with a lady on his arm, who I later found out was his new Mexican girlfriend, and he told me he had decided he was going to stay in San Cristobal and become an English teacher. Luke's story reminds me of so many people I know back in the States. Folks who are slowly dying behind desks and are very open about the fact that they don't enjoy what they are doing with their lives but seemingly do nothing to change their situation. People who have dreams and aspirations for something more but who think they are stuck when really the only thing holding them back is the fear to take a chance, to leave their comfort zone. I'm proud of the guy. He's one of the few who is turning his back on the life he despised to pursue something more meaningful, more memorable. I can't wait to hear more about his story and what happens next for him. 
      Ian is a former bartender originally from Philly who spent the last year in Puebla experiencing Mexican culture and serving drinks. Like Laura he too speaks a lot of Spanish and is very well versed in all things Mexican. Ian came to Chiapa because he was seeking a career change and a fresh start. He was tired of tending bar and the drinking culture that accompanied it. A TEFL would allow him to travel Mexico and the world without having to rely on bartending. Whereas Preston is constantly smiling and full of innocence and energy Ian is the exact opposite; a hardened realist who has experienced a thing or two in life and who has no problem telling you exactly how he feels and why. He was the yin to Preston's yang and watching the two interact was extremely entertaining. Whenever we did example lessons for each other Ian would often incorporate his dark humor and overall attitude of "why the hell are we doing this right now" into his lessons through his example sentences and games. Alright class let's go over the future tense again, "Ian will need to have a drink after class today." I think his own status update from his last day of class captures the essence of Ian's sarcasm and humor well "As time passes I realize more and more how teaching little Mexican kids english is just like keeping drunk adults entertained at the bar." 

             Rob and Kate are an Australian couple that are nearing the end of their year long honeymoon together. They traveled South America and then worked their way up to Mexico where they stopped to teach in Chiapa for 6 months. They are both eventually going to return to Australia to be primary school teachers and they needed a break from traveling as well as to get some more experience teaching under their belt before returning home. Rob and Kate are the type of people that could probably succeed at whatever they pursued. They have this contagious energy and passion that shows in everything they do, especially in their teaching style. They are going to change some lives in the classroom back in Australia and make some fantastic parents. My favorite memory with these two was probably a combination of experiences from the previous blog. The moment where Kate protected the kids and then gave me one of them during the Parachico parade, salsa dancing in the street until 3am and watching Rob bust moves with the drunk Parachicos and the local Chiapenecas, and having the pleasure of meeting Kate's parents and sharing a dinner together near the central park on the last day of the Fiesta. Her parents seem to have traveled to nearly every continent and their honeymoon consisted of a trans siberian railway trip through Soviet Russia followed by a stint in the UK and ending with a several month caravan trip through Europe, the Middle East, and ending in India. And although they are in their 60's they're still exploring and traveling - I think I know where Kate and Rob got their idea for a honeymoon of traveling from. Couples who travel together and share life experiences together, stay together (or at least that's my theory). 
           

James is a former pharmacist from Ireland who had also been on a Latin American travel tour before winding up at Dunham to be a teacher. I didn't get to know James that well since he was the one teacher I didn't observe during my TEFL course but we did spend a large amount of Parachico day together. My favorite memory with James probably had to be the hour break we took together as San Sebastian entered the church and he suggested we go and get tacos. As to date it's been the best food I've had here in Mexico - I don't even remember the name of what we ordered but it included chorizo. Over our delicious meals I asked James to fill me in on the Troubles in Northern Ireland (aka the Protestant/Catholic conflict). We compared and contrasted other ethnic conflicts with the Troubles including civil rights for African Americans in the States along with the Israeli/Palestinian conflict. It was another instance of my eyes being opened a little bit more to the world around me. The events that took place and to some degree continue to take place in Northern Ireland are things we never ever talk about in school or hear about on the news. I guess the idea of Christians gunning each other down in the streets, bombing shopping centers, and persecuting each other doesn't make for good press in a "Christian" nation like the States - so that's why we focus on all those Muslim barbarians! 
          Paul is a native of Massachusetts who came to Mexico to gain more experience as a teacher, simultaneously receive his TEFL as he taught, and improve his Spanish before taking off to travel. Paul tends to be soft spoken and more of the quiet observer type but when he does speak up he always has something positive share. He actually taught our TEFL course a couple of days and shared some insider tips with us on how to prepare resume's for teaching, search for English teaching jobs in Mexico, and also introduced us to the concept of online English tutoring. The man is selfless and was always there to help any of us TEFL students when we had questions. My favorite memory with Paul was attending the going away party for the teachers with him at Krakow bakery. We had wine and guacamole and I had the opportunity to meet the friends the teachers had made over the course of their six month stay. We took a break from the gathering to go buy some hamburgers from a stand with two of Paul's Mexican friends. When it came time to pay they insisted that they pay for us. When we returned we were offered Jamaica (a type of fruit punch made from flowers) also on the house. It was an awesome night of practicing Spanish, free food and drink, and it all happened because Paul extended me an invite on our walk home from class. 
          Joanna is the director of Dunham Institute. She had just graduated college with a biology degree on the the east coast when she decided to take the leap of faith and get her TEFL certification in South America. Some twenty five years later and Joanna hasn't lived in the States since. She has spent these years living and working around South America and eventually making her way to Mexico. She was teaching in Tuxtla when she realized she was tired of the bureaucracy, of all the paperwork, all the oversight when she felt confident enough to start exploring the option of starting her own school. Chiapa de Corzo was only fifteen minutes away and was an untapped population for English learning. With a small loan she bought the property for the school and began her first semester of teaching as the sole instructor and four students. Over the last fifteen years the program has grown to where there are now four other teachers and some 60 students. Joanna lives above the school with her two children that were born here in Mexico. When asked if she would ever return to the States she told me "God no" - and is certain she will call Chiapa de Corzo or at least Mexico home for the rest of her life. My favorite memory with Joanna was probably chunta night when she, her son, and daughter joined the rest of us gringos and our families in the parade. At one point a random group of chuntas approached us and attempted to pour a bottle of tequila into Joanna's 14 year old son's mouth (in their defense he looks much older than 14). Joanna hastily took the bottle from her son, took a pull, and handed it back to the other chuntas. Oh the things parents do for their kids!
          So now that you know the cast of characters that accompanied me for the first six weeks of my stay here it's time to tell you that I am not currently a teacher. It was a difficult decision but ultimately I came to the conclusion that I wanted something different from my Mexico experience. Chiapa de Corzo is great, and that's why I'm still here for the time being, but come March it's common for the temperature to reach 100 degrees with a humidity of 75%. Basically, I've been told, given my Wisconsin winter roots, that I will die here. Talking to Ferry, my dutch friend, who taught here last Spring he told me it becomes so hot that you literally cannot leave your house between the hours of 11 to 4. Already, it feels like a Wisconsin summer here with the daily temperature being in the high 80s with 55% humidity, I don't know that I can take much more. On top of the actual environment there were also some concerns with my work environment. Joanna is a pleasant enough person outside of the school but at the end of the day I didn't feel like I could trust her as a boss. There were issues with expenses and the conditions of my work exchange that didn't seem to add up and I was directly lied to on at least one occasion. If someone breaks my trust and can't be honest with me when I ask questions about the nature of my work or the costs associated with it, well you lost me. When I work somewhere, it's not just about the clientele or the service provided, it's about who I'm working for and who I'm representing as well. Then there's the fact that teaching is not for the faint of heart. I'm a good teacher. I felt like I delivered some excellent classes and made deep connections with my students but teaching English just isn't something I'm passionate about. If I'm dedicating hours a day to developing lesson plans and delivering classes it's going to need to be about something I feel is truly important, something like green architecture, permaculture, or sustainable living. So maybe I could do the classroom life but it would need to be under very specific circumstances. When it comes to teaching I like the organic teaching moments more, those spontaneous conversations that I share with youngsters while we're hiking or when we're sitting around a fire cooking dinner. So can I teach? Could I be a teacher? Yes. But is it what I want for the future? No. Having said that, I have gained an enormous amount of respect for all the teachers out there. Those that taught me years ago and those who continue to teach the youth of today and tomorrow. Your job is not easy, hell I would argue it's one of the hardest jobs out there, right up there with parenting. The hours of lesson planning, the actual instruction, dealing with bullying and behavior issues, adapting your lesson to when students simply don't get it, changing a lesson when only half the class shows up, developing homework or exams, grading coursework and papers... and on top of that all the extracurricular activities that they are often involved with from coaching basketball to chess club to school dances. Man, having merely tested the waters for four weeks I feel the need to seek out my former teachers and thank them in person because I have that much more respect for them now. 

        So my initial plan of teaching at Dunham would have meant that I would be staying here until the beginning of June (a five month commitment, one more reason why I chose not to teach) but now that that plan is off the table I'm changing things up. I'll leave the grand scheme to future blogs but as of now I've decided to stay in Chiapa de Corzo with my wonderful host family until mid March before moving onto the next adventure. So you're not teaching and you're still in the same place, what exactly are you doing Steven? Well let me tell you! 
       First of all I remain a teacher; or at least that's what I tell people that I meet. Two of my sister's friends that I met last month at the parade started taking English lessons from me. I'm charging a rate of $2.50 an hour so you know I'm doing this for the money! No, actually it's just something to keep me busy, put my TEFL into practice, and maybe pay for my weekly snacks. It's interesting because during my TEFL course we taught students who already knew how to speak English (they were all at the end of at least their first semester since classes started back in September) but with my two students they know almost no English so I'm starting at the very beginning which is a whole new challenge that we didn't really cover in my course. I'm developing my own curriculum, selecting the vocabulary I feel is important, and hopefully giving them an even better experience than they would experience if they attended a private English school like Dunham. Ironically both of these girls have taken years of English courses in public school but as I've been told by everyone that I've met in Mexico these classes are a complete joke. The public Mexican English teachers have no incentive to teach the language and so most of the classes are spent speaking Spanish and the teachers do nothing; some don't even speak much English! 
             I also have a new identity as a basketball player. Last week I went to the deportiva for the first time (an outdoor sports complex with basketball courts, arena soccer courts, soccer fields, a track, and playground equipment that is open to the public). Paul and I met a group of guys that play basketball twice weekly in the evenings on Tuesdays and Thursdays and they invited us to play with them. Paul has to teach classes but since I'm now a freelance teacher I get to choose my own schedule so basketball it is! When it comes to Mexican basketball this actually isn't my first experience. Back in Wisconsin I began playing in a Mexican basketball league last February and again this past November with a group of guys, and the experience here is strikingly similar. Same age group more or less, same old slippery type of gymnasium, same basketball with zero grip, same gringo with a one foot height advantage, same inability to fully comprehend what my teammates are yelling at me, same assumption that I can dunk, same continual attempts for me to alley-oop the basketball, same universal language of laughs and smiles, same community, same friendship. In addition to playing with the men on Tuesdays and Thursdays I returned to the deportiva last Wednesday for some additional practice and encountered a youth basketball training program. I talked with the coach and he asked me if I wanted to participate alongside the youth who ranged in age from fifteen to nineteen, I figured I'd give it a shot. And that's how I became a member of this basketball "team." We run laps, climb up the bleachers, do ball handling drills, one on one's (I feel bad for the kids during these drills), and basically get whipped into shape for an hour and a half straight. I've been enjoying the practices because it's the first time I've really been a part of a team and practiced since lacrosse back in high school and it's the first time I've done basketball drills in ten years since 8th grade when I was fourteen years old (god that makes me feel old)! When I show up to practice the kids that haven't met me have this great expression of surprise and confusion on their faces; "is this gringo playing basketball with us, there's no way he's in the age group, my god is he two meters tall, why would he want to practice with us kids, my god he's tall but he still can't shoot" (this is just what I assume goes through their minds). So it's basketball five days a week, maybe I'll actually improve over the next month! 
         In addition to playing basketball I've also started taking salsa dance lessons at the local traditional school. As I mentioned in a previous post I love dancing and I've always wanted to take more lessons so when I ventured over to the school two weeks ago and found out salsa was one of the options I was ecstatic. In addition to salsa classes the school also offers courses in painting, wood working, sewing, marimba, guitar, traditional dance, and even hip hop dance. The coolest thing about the traditional school is that all of these courses are completely free. Like I mentioned when I wrote about Don Antonio, the parachico mask carver, the Mexican government is making efforts to preserve and promote traditional skills among the population. There are apparently hundreds of schools just like this one around the country offering free instruction in a number of skills. How cool is that? So for myself and a few of the other teachers to receive an hour long private lesson we have to pay absolutely nothing whereas in the States most private lessons will run you around $50 dollars an hour. Just another aspect of Mexican society I wish could be found in the States. So while I'm here in Mexico I figure this is the place to learn to dance, in a society where even children in the womb are salsaing to the beat of their mother's hearts (okay maybe that's a stretch but every man, woman, and child I've met here can more or less tear up the dance floor when it comes to latin music). 
      Not being in the classroom five days a week has also given me the liberty to travel a bit more. About two weeks ago my family and Brian's rented a 15 passenger van with a driver and drove some 200 km southwest to the town of Puerta Arista on the Pacific coast to celebrate my sister's and mother's birthdays (within four days of each other). We arrived at a mostly deserted beach town that clearly catered to the tourist crowd. We drove straight to the beach and then hooked left on a road that paralleled the ocean. We drove for some fifteen minutes further passing by dozens and dozens of empty restaurants, hotels, and bars whos employees ran out onto the road attempting to flag us down and convince us to stop at their place of business. Eventually we pulled up to a little restaurant, no different than most of the others, other than that it had a water slide! There was a little kitchen with a full array of dishes, an eating area with a tropical vibe thatched roof, a swimming pool, a hammock to lounge in, and of course a beautiful view of the beach and the ocean (which stood only 100 meters away from our table). The beach, just like the restaurants, was completely empty. There were times when it was just my family and I in the water. There was even a point later in the afternoon where I was literally the only person in the ocean for as far as the eye could see. We built sand castles, played cards,

tested out the water slide, and body surfed in the ocean for the entire day. The waves were perfect and I only wished there was somewhere nearby to rent a surfboard. It's been over three years since I've been surfing and I miss it every time I find myself in the ocean. Even without the surfboard I still rode my waves and got my fix. Talking to my host brother, I find out that this place will resemble Cancun in a matter of weeks. Thousands of tourists will descend on Puerta Arista like a plague. The only reason they're not here right now is because it's "out of season" although the 90 degree weather and blistering sun make it hard to argue that there is not better time to be at the beach. I had a similar experience only four months earlier when I traveled to Stone Harbor New Jersey to spend a day at the beach during a day off with my crew of the Canoemobile. It was October and even though it was in the 80s and it was the perfect day to be at the beach we were some of the only people, not just at the beach but in the entire town. Almost every business was "closed for the season" and once again I found myself at times being the only person in the water; this time though it was the Atlantic. 
       

 We finished the day at Puerta Arista taking in the beautiful sunset together as one big family on the beach. Once again we were all but alone. As we sat there taking in the colors of the sky I couldn't help but feel like I had found paradise in that moment. Oh the love I have for the "off season," that lovely phrase which keeps the droves away, and gives me and my companions the opportunity to enjoy Eden all by ourselves. Given the heat index of the coming months I know I'll be headed back to the beach soon; hopefully with a surfboard but without the tourists. 

       San Cristobal de las Casas is ranked as one of the top places to visit in Mexico among nearly every travel site on the web. Tucked away in the mountains, a mere 50 km from Chiapa de Corzo, lies this curious little city that stands in direct contrast to the concrete franchise jungle of Tuxtla and also the quiet traditional town of Chiapa. San Cristobal is something completely unique. Remember the story of the Spanish explorers who first came to this region of Mexico that I told you about in my first blog? They originally settled on the banks of the Rio Grijalva thus establishing Chiapa de Corzo as the Spanish capital for this region; however, after only a few years they found the heat to be unbearable and thus picked up and headed to the cooler climate of the mountains to create a new capital; San Cristobal de las Casas. It is for this reason that walking the streets of San Cristobal readily reminds one of walking the streets of a small town in Europe (I haven't been to Europe but from what I see in the movies and TV it sure looks like it). There's also the fact that the town has an enormous population of foreigners; many of whom are European. While I can walk the streets of Chiapa de Corzo and be recognized as the one of maybe five foreigners who live in this entire town of 50,000 people, in San Cristobal I'm just another white dude with long hair. Depending on what street you're on or what establishment you frequent you may find yourself surrounded by more hippies, traveling kids, and wealthy tourists than locals. The economy of San Cristobal caters to this; it is a year round tourism hub for foreigners and Mexicans alike. Nearly every other establishment in the city has some sort of connection to tourism; hotels, hostels, bike rentals, rappelling, canyon tours, museums, gift shops, European cafes, clubs, bars etc. The town is beautiful and full of culture, I'll give it that. There's live music in nearly every bar, dancing can be found on most nights, there's an array of restaurants that serve foreign food, there are beautiful colorful buildings that have been around for hundreds of years, and there are wonderful pedestrian streets that you can stroll upon as you sip your Cabernet Sauvignon from Spain. Sounds like Eden eh? Even with all the perks I'd still rather be a local in my small town than just another tourist in a tourist town. That reason is precisely why I decided not to move to San Cristobal after getting my TEFL; but I can still visit when I feel the need to have some night life and blend into the crowd a bit more.  

       I ventured to San Cristobal for the first time some three weeks ago to celebrate the completion of my TEFL course with the seven other TEFL students. It was a bittersweet ending to our month spent together, although I still had the chance to see a few of them back in Chiapa and one or two are still hanging around town like me. What I want to dedicate this paragraph to though is my experience couchsurfing there last weekend. To those who are new to the concept of websites like Couchsurfing, WWOOFing, HelpX, WorkAway, WarmShowers, etc. I encourage you to immediately check them out, especially if you are a 20 something year old traveler who wants to walk away with a community of friends and some unique experiences that you probably couldn't have, even if you wanted to pay for them. These websites all more or less function on the idea of free room and board in exchange for some sort of service. Using WWOOFing, HelpX, or WorkAway you could find a job as an organic farmer, a sailor on a catamaran in the Caribbean Sea, or an English Teacher in Mexico (but seriously there are thousands of unique and interesting jobs to be found around the entire world through these sites) where you work a few hours a day in exchange for the basic necessities of life. Couchsurfing and WarmShowers seem too good to be true, the service that is used in exchange for housing and sometimes food as well depending on the host, is simply your presence. The time's I've used these sites people take you in because they want to hear your story, share their city with someone, have been helped before by other hosts, or they simply want to have friends from around their country or the world. 
       

My host for my couchsurfing experience in San Cristobal was Marco, a twenty five year old tour guide who has lived in the city for the last six years. Marco lives with his friend Ale, also a tour guide, in an apartment only two blocks from the main square of town. Ale's parents, Antonio and Theresa, along with her brother, Ricky, from Jalisco were also visiting San Cristobal that weekend so all six of us shacked up in the two bedrooms of their small apartment. Like every other hosting experience I've had I was welcomed with open arms, smiles, and free food. And even though I didn't always know what we were talking about, since Spanish was the only language spoken, I was firmly included in their community and family for the duration of my four day stay. My first night Marco, Ale, Ricky, their friend Javier, and I hung out in their apartment talking and drinking some whiskey until about 11pm. I was thinking we were going to be heading to bed soon when all of a sudden all of my companions started taking showers and getting dressed up; I knew where this was going. When in Rome. So we hit the streets a little before midnight and thus began a five hour tour of the bars and dance spots of San Cristobal. We salsa danced with cerveza, we socialized with Argentinians, we took shots of Mezcal and had a dance party with folks from Mexico City, we feasted on cheap hot dogs and Sabritas at Oxxo, and we fell asleep with the sunrise. 
         The next day we hopped into Javier's pick up truck and took a ride out to the town of Chamula 10km outside of San Cristobal. I got to ride in the bed of the truck and take in the beautiful panoramic mountain views, an experience I haven't had since the Dominican but that I missed dearly. Chamula is famous for being a village which is nearly entirely indigenous and where the indigenous language Tzotzil is spoken more than Spanish. The main draw to Chamula is the church of San Juan. This is no ordinary Catholic church, in fact it hardly resembles anything "catholic" at all. If you were teleported into this church, not knowing where you were or the context surrounding it, you would probably think you had stumbled into some sort of satanist gathering. On the outside all appears normal but stepping through the doors you are met by dozens of creepy ceramic statues of saints in boxes mounted on the walls and hundreds of lit candles arranged in patterns on the floor with indigenous folks prostrating themselves reciting Tzotzil prayers. What's taking place is a strange blend of the Catholic faith

and pre Spaniard Mayan traditions. I'm told that it's common to see chickens offered to saints as sacrifices along with Coca-cola (I have no idea where the soda comes into play and my Spanish vocabulary wasn't extensive enough to get to the bottom of this). Really the whole

church seems to be more of a vodoo-ish place to offer sacrifices to saints in hopes that they will intervene in your life and remedy your affliction or problem than a place of worship (but I suppose the idea of sacrifice in exchange for services isn't that different than what takes place in the States; prostrating yourself and promising to give up your drinking habits if it means some saint will cure your ailing mother in the hospital etc. It's more of just how that "asking" is being done that's different; saying the rosary versus cutting the throat of a chicken, downing a liter of Coke, and lighting a hundred candles - However, I'm told both have the same net effect in solving one's issues). 
        Speaking of rituals and religion that brings me to the reason why I visited San Cristobal and was staying with Marco and friends in the first place; el Papa. That's right, in the middle of the mountains of the poorest state in Mexico, Pope Francis was making a day trip to visit and this gringo was set on seeing him in person. There are few people, if any, that I would alter my daily schedule for just to get a glimpse of (I wear a shirt that says NO KINGS for this exact reason. To express that I don't care whether you're a celebrity or a politician, my waiter or a bum on the street, you are more or less going to receive the same treatment from me). Having said all that, the Pope is probably the one exception to my mantra. He's a man I will change my day for. I left the apartment at 10am that morning in order to stake out a spot to see the Vicar of Christ (from this point on I'm going to use every other name for the Pope that I can find, purely for purposes of entertainment and the fact that I will get very tired of writing "Pope."). Even though I set off solo I ended up running into Antonio, Theresa, Javier, Ricky, and Ale in the street and we decided to set off together to find the prime real estate for our Holy Father fix. Thousands of people lined the streets decked out in Papal gear; hats, shirts, flags, posters, giant cardboard cut outs of doves, it was like a tailgate except we were waiting for the Bishop of Rome instead of the Green Bay Packers (that and alcohol was forbidden from being sold this day; should tell that to the folks pouring tequila in the streets to celebrate San Sebastian back in Chiapa, guess we all have our different interpretations of how God would want us to celebrate).

        Anyway, we eventually claimed our spot and the waiting game began. It was during this time that I began to really question why I was making such an effort to see this man and why so many others were doing the same. I began thinking; if Obama or Beyonce came to Green Bay I would never wait for five hours just to see them drive by and I think most people worldwide would side with me on that one as well. Yet here, in rural Mexico thousands of people had turned out from all across the country, Guatemala, (and when you consider all the international tourists) and the world to see this man. Really, the Pope could probably go to any country in the world and draw a similar response, in fact he has. Muslim majority Turkey and Egypt, communist Cuba, Buddhist Sri Lanka, Jewish Israel, highly agnostic/atheistic South Korea and France, the evangelical/protestant dominated States and yet the crowds were there. I tried to think of a single other person that could do the same in today's world. There were zero other religious or spiritual leaders with the same universal appeal (the Dalai Lama was the closest I could come up with, and yet if he were to visit San Cristobal the fervor and attention simply wouldn't have been there). There are no political figures that are liked and respected across the world, hell there are very few that are even liked in their own countries. There are no entertainers that draw the same crowds, send Justin Bieber to the Philippines and see what happens. There are no scientists or inventors (literally can't even think of anyone to even use as an example, guess that speaks to how important they are considered in our society) that could fill a stadium and need to have the military called in for protection. Nor are there any artists or authors that attract this much devotion. There exists no one like the Governor of the World (maybe this one's a stretch) who has the ability to command respect and influence the opinion and policy of dictators and president's alike. Now add the fact that Pope Francis is the most radical (actually I would argue the most true Christian) Successor of St. Peter to ever call the Vatican his home and you know why I wanted to see this man. There are NO KINGS, and I think Pope Francis would second me on that, but this is a man worth seeing.

         So five hours later and the moment was nearing. I laid down in the park, had lunch, took a walk, listened to mariachi, joined in some Catholic chants, and ran to the street nearly a half dozen times with the crowd as someone would scream in Spanish "he's coming," only to realize they were mistaken, before the Shepherd of the Universal Church finally made his appearance. By the time he showed up I had grown tired of the boy who cried wolf and resolved to only get up when the actual motorcade began to go by (Matthew 24:42 Watch therefore: for ye know not what hour your Lord doth come. Or the Pope). Finally the motorcycles began going by and I rushed to join the crowd along the street. Once again the foot advantage came into play and while those around me couldn't see a thing behind the lines of Holy Father fanatics I had a clear view of the avenue. The white pick up truck with bullet proof glass, aka the Popemobile, came cruising by and there he was; el Papa! Five hours of waiting for a five second glimpse but I can say I saw the Pope and cross it off the bucketlist. Then there was the group of women who turned there cameras on me after having just taken photos of the Pope because they said I looked like Brad Pitt. I was flattered, one because they compared me to Brad Pitt and two because after the Pope I was the person they were most happy to see that day. Now that's a guy I don't mind playing second fiddle to. 

My Brad Pitt Fans from Tabasco Mexico

         

Mexico: Damas, Drinking and Dancing

"The pub is the poor man's University." I remember reading that quote on the wall of my favorite restaurant back in Green Bay when I was a kid. Looking at life now, with the current price of a University education and the future of the economy I would wager you could probably have a better chance getting a job and learning applicable skills at a pub than from the classroom or lecture halls of America's schools. Like most things in life you're probably going to get out what you put in. I mean you can end up bankrupt, drunk, and jobless from spending too much time in pubs, but you can also end up that same way spending too much time in universities. Just matters what your intentions are when you enter. Anyway, the reason I thought of the initial quote is because I thought of an alternate one for my situation. "Traveling is the poor man's graduate school." It is literally what I've been doing since college, in place of graduate school, but it is also what I actually believe in, in my life; that traveling is a much more economical and practical way to experience the world and grow as a person than the University setting. Different strokes for different folks, but regardless the value of travel in one's own country and abroad is something I will vehemently defend as an honorable pursuit equal to that of the traditional route many choose to take.
       

 So speaking of traveling, I have another host sister named Andrea who just returned home after traveling for the last three weeks as part of her college's J term program. Andrea is in her second year of studying tourism at the University in Tuxtla and traveled to Baja California to work at a hotel to gain some real world experience in the industry. Internships and actual job experience in the field you're studying is something that you would think would be much more common in college and yet I know numerous people who studied accounting, hotel management, or education (just to name a few) for four years only to find out that they hated working the actual jobs associated with their majors. Andrea seemed stoked about her experience in Baja. She told me she wants to move to the coast after graduating and get a job at a hotel on the beach now. The day Andrea got back, the whole family sat on the couch and we watched her power point presentation. After seeing some of her photos of sunsets, beaches, and tour boats from her trip I can understand why she wants to get a job there (much different place and culture than Chiapa). One thing in particular that was funny about her presentation were the cans of beer that appeared in a couple photos. Andrea is 20 and I guess she's not supposed to drink beer at University, so she was a little caught off guard when she had forgotten about "those" pictures. Luckily her Dad was in the kitchen preparing lunch during this part of the presentation and so we all giggled as the few shots of Andrea and her friends drinking beer passed without Javier noticing. 

         When it comes to parenting, Javier and Tone are awesome and I've yet to see this family fight or be angry with one another in my month's time here. Maybe me not always understanding what's being said has to do with my impression but honestly it always seems to be smiles and laughing around the dinner table and hugs, kisses, and cuddling on the couch for my family. I realize using this one family as a representative of all of Mexican families is a vast generalization just as using my own family's experience is a generalization of all American families but here I don't see that same teenage/young adult angst that I see in the states, or that I personally felt in my life. My brother Javi, is 24, Andrea, is 20, and my sister Tone is 18 and yet they still all enjoy living at home and hanging out with their parents (True Andrea wants to move to the coast, but it's not because she wants to get away from her parents, she just likes the beach). I was so ready to move away when I was 18. Heck I was so ready to move away when I spent two months this winter living at home before this trip (I love you Mom and Dad but I need my space!). I think it's a very American concept. That we permanently leave our parents and make our own future, even if it's halfway across the country or halfway around the world. Even if we end up living in the same city, rarely do we share a roof with our parents again in our lifetime. Obviously there's the concept of the boomerang generation, folks my own age, who are now more likely to spend some years of their 20's at home while searching for work or as a home base between traveling but more than not we don't spend the first 24 years of our lives continuously under the roofs of our parents and most people who do aren't happy about it. I don't necessarily think any one way is better than the other, I just know for me, I needed to move on. I think it speaks to the strength of these families when the norm is for kids to stay at home until they are married. Are there economic reasons, I'm sure, but everyone seems more than content spending time with their families. No shame showing up to the same party as your parents or holding your Mom and Dad's hands in public or snuggling up with them on the couch. The concept of the family here just seems that much more important and it looks that much stronger. Different cultural norms, different viewpoint on what matters, as someone who considers himself more or less a loner and a rugged individualist it's a change of pace.
      Along with this emphasis on family, comes the emphasis on tradition. My Dutch friend Ferry, a former teacher at Dunham Institute (my language school), told me a story about visiting his Mexican girlfriend's family this past Christmas in Mexico City. They've been dating for a few months but at night, just to keep tabs on these young lovers, his girlfriend had to sleep in the same bedroom as her parents while he had to sleep in the same bed as her aunt and uncle (I joke; bedroom of the aunt and uncle, not bed, but you get the idea). This is a culture where you are going to need Mom and Dad's blessing if you are going to date someone and especially if you are going to marry someone. In the States, sometimes parents don't even meet people's significant others until after the engagement. I mean personally I've been in relationships and my parents didn't even know I was dating someone, and of those relationships they did know about they rarely met my girlfriends. Here, your family is going to know everything. Probably because you told them and want to get your family's blessing, also probably because you spend so much time with your family that they're just going to meet the person naturally, and also because Chiapa (despite being a town of some 70,000 people) is still fundamentally a small town where you're constantly seeing familiar faces and I imagine secrets aren't kept for long. 
       I still remember going on a walk with my family the first weekend I was here and being surprised by what I saw. My parents were more or less giving me a tour of the neighborhood and first I saw one couple making out on a bench. As we continued walking down along the river bank there was a second couple, and then a third all in each other's arms kissing vigorously. We turned up a set of stairs and there I saw another couple. I think in our 30 minute walk I saw eight couples kissing while leaning against buildings or sitting on steps and benches. At the time I thought it was strange but thought of it in terms of the kissing when you first meet someone. If you're kissing someone on the cheek when you first meet in public maybe if you have a girlfriend or a boyfriend that entitles you to french kiss wherever you please. However, now understanding the importance of family and tradition it makes sense why all these couples are doing this on the streets. And when I say couples, I'm not talking about teenagers or even necessarily people in their early 20s, we're talking late 20's maybe even 30's. Presumably since folks are still living at home with their parents, siblings, and maybe their grandparents until they are married, that means they have no place to go. So ironically the only place they can go to get some privacy is in public. Maybe to some folks it might be gross to see people in each other's arms kissing passionately but hey I think we all could use a little more love in our lives. Doesn't bother me one bit nor the rest of this town. It also doesn't hurt when the women here are some of the most beautiful I've ever seen in my life.
         I'm not sure if there's something in the water (other than bacteria that will bring upon Montezuma's revenge for us gringos) or something in the air but honestly the women here are drop dead gorgeous. Right now I've only really experienced Chiapa de Corzo so I'm not sure if it's like this everywhere in Mexico but my Dutch friend Ferry tells me it's a unique characteristic of Chiapa de Corzo and nowhere else in Mexico or the world for that matter. The state of Chiapas is already relatively isolated and Chiapa de Corzo even more so. Folks don't tend to stray far from home, so maybe all these genes just stayed here, between the Rio Grijalva and los Altos (the highlands). Objectifying women? I'm just pointing out the facts here people, they have great natural features (most don't even wear makeup) and heck they even have straight teeth without braces. There are beautiful people everywhere and anyone who knows me knows that who you are is always more important than what you look like. And to all my female readers out there, the genes apply to the guys too. When they dress up as chuntas it's dangerous, sometimes you really just don't know what's under that dress. Anyway, I have already met two different foreigners here who married local women down here. I actually just attended one of their weddings last week. 
       The wedding took place between a British gentleman named Ed and a local Chiapa de Corzan named Ceci. Ed first came to Chiapa de Corzo a few years back to teach English at Dunham Institute and he met his wife here in town during his stay. My parents were friends of Ed and Ceci so they received five invitations for the family, but since Andrea was still up in Baja I got to take her place. I don't know too many of the details of their relationship but Ed's fluent in Spanish and I believe he's been living in Mexico for the better part of two years. One thing I do know for sure though is that they could not have had a more beautiful location for their wedding. It took place at a venue right on the banks of the Rio Grijalva and the mouth of the Sumidero Canyon called Las Haditas. Tree canopies covered the outdoor stone terrace, where the entire event took place. Chandeliers hung from tree branches above each of our tables. And candles flickered in the warm "winter" breeze. 

       Being at the venue felt like you were transported into another world. Chiapa de Corzo is a beautiful town but just like the Dominican Republic, there doesn't seem to be a good system in place to handle trash. Instead many times it is simply dumped in piles on street corners or just thrown onto the street whenever you are finished using a product. True, much of this experience for me has been during the Fiesta when there simply wasn't the infrastructure to handle the thousands of tourists but even now, there still aren't many public garbage cans... it's kind of like a social experiment. Even the starkest environmentalist will litter if there is nowhere for him to put his trash. It's ironic that I'm an environmental educator and I taught kids all about watersheds and how trash ends up in water and yet during the Fiesta I found myself dropping cans in the street because there was nowhere else to put them. I saw guys running around with barrels picking up trash the next day, but they don't always get all of it. Plenty of it ends up on the banks of the river or in the water. So yeah, they could definitely use some help in city planning and taking care of the trash and even more importantly they could use some recycling programs. Once again it's about priorities. I don't know the details but I have to believe it would be feasible to do something with all those cans and plastic bottles, especially when you consider the environmental costs. Composting is also something I've yet to see here. There's an empty lot a half block away from me all gated up, I'm tempted to just start putting my personal compost there, if not for gardening at least to just have that much less going into the landfill (an unknown location to me at this time). 
        Anyway, back to the wedding. There was a simple ceremony held right down by the shore in a little outdoor "chapel." The ceremony itself wasn't religious at all in nature but instead just included the usual legal jargon, the rings, and the sharing of vows. It was basically the same thing you would hear in the states other than that it was said in Spanish first and then translated into English. There were probably some thirty folks in attendance and after the ceremony probably another two dozen or so showed up for the dinner and festivities. There was a three course meal with a corn soup appetizer, a chicken dinner, and cake for dessert. To be honest I don't remember too many details about the food, probably because I was too busy flagging down my favorite waiter, Abel, and asking for another whiskey coke. Over the course of the five hours or so that I was at this wedding I had to have drank at least ten whiskey cokes (and that's low balling it). Am I that much of a drinker, no. The reason I drank so many was one, because they were free, and two, they were probably some of the weakest drinks in my life. If I'm still standing after nearly a dozen drinks... there's something different about the drinks. At my wedding I'm making the drinks strong, if I'm going to go light on something it'll be the table pieces or heck even the food! 

        Well, after about eight drinks I was finally feeling it a little and that's when the bride got on top of a chair at the center of the dance floor. Her maid of honor got on another chair across from her and they held a piece of fabric between the two of them (think limbo more or less). At this point some fifteen women got onto the dance floor in a circle around the chairs. Then the band started playing and one woman started leading the group in a sort of conga line around the dance floor. They weaved in and out between tables and ducked under the fabric between the chairs. All the while the bride spun her bouquet over her head with the same wrist motion that one would use for a lasso. And then she tossed it in an arc toward the train of women. A miss. Then a man ran and retrieved the bouquet for the bride. This happened another five times or so. The bride seemingly randomly throwing the bouquet at the women in the conga line and it mostly missing although there were opportunities to catch it but nobody did. I was tipsy, I was confused. Were they supposed to catch it or not? Just then the band stopped playing. The chairs were removed. All the women in the snake now grouped together. The bride turned around. There was a drum roll. And the bride through the bouquet over her head. Aha, this was familiar, this is what we did in the states. But no, once again nobody tried to catch it and the flowers fell to the ground. So they reset. And did it five more times until finally it basically landed onto a women's arms and she "caught" it. Maybe the bouquet has a different meaning here...
       Then it was the guys' turn. My Dad, uncle, brother, Brian (another TEFL student who lives with my aunt and uncle), Mike (an older Canadian fellow) and I all got up and joined the circle of men on the dance floor. Ceci was sitting on a chair in the middle of the circle and Ed was kneeling down in front of her. The men then all did an about face and turned to face the tables while Ed removed Ceci's garter. Then Ed climbed the chair, the best man climbed another chair, fabric was held across, the music began, and we started our train. It was at this time that I heard a voice behind me ask, "do you know what's going on?" I turned my head to see an equally tall, and equally confused, irishman who was presumably one of Ed's friends who made the trip over for the wedding. I told him I had no idea what was going on and that I didn't speak Spanish either. We both laughed and continued to be taken on a wild ride around tables and ducking under the limbo fabric. Ed through the garter with the same success of his wife. Eventually the music stopped and we all grouped together while Ed turned his back to us preparing to throw the garter. I noticed my Dad and uncle were among the group of us, along with several other men that were surely married. Wasn't the point of the bouquet and garter to signify who will be the next person to get married? Anyway Ed threw the garter and lo and behold my Dad caught it. There was applause and my Dad went and sat back down by my mom (in my mind I'm thinking what the hell is going on?). Ed throws it a couple more times. The irishman and I have a full foot on the competition and the wingspan to catch the thing but we're both so confused and giggly that we don't make the attempt because none of the Mexican guys are. Maybe the bouquet and garter are bad luck down here or maybe nobody wants to get married soon? Some six throws later and another guy sort of haphazardly "catches" it.   

     

Back at the table, I have another whiskey and coke, because I need to have a drink in order to get my head around what just happened. The newlyweds then come out for their first dance. Ah, love is in the air. I thoroughly enjoy weddings, even more so when I don't even know the bride and groom that well. Such a special moment in someone's life and here I am, a complete stranger, having the privilege to share that memory. Open bar doesn't hurt either, but more importantly than the drinking is the dancing. I love dancing. Most people who know me probably wouldn't guess that. It's just something I've never invested the proper time into. I took swing dance lessons out in California when I went to school there (honestly it's probably the course from college that I apply most in every day life, once again, the American University system ladies and gentlemen). So yeah, I did a little swing dancing and salsa in Minneapolis but part of the reason I came here is because I wanted to be thrown into an environment where dancing was the norm, and I mean real dancing (not the "hey let's dry hump on the dance floor" dancing that occurs in most bars/clubs in the States). 

      There's a full musical ensemble that includes, drums, guitars, brass, bass, vocals and of course marimbas. Literally everyone was on the dance floor, young and old. I don't even know the name of the dance style or the type of music that we were dancing to. The dancing was similar to the basic step of salsa but hell I don't really know what differentiates salsa from the cha cha or merengue from bachata. I just did what everyone else was doing, moving my hips and not looking at my feet, ha! For being a couple of white guys, I felt that Brian, Mike, and I all handled our own pretty well. Nothing special but it was respectable (I mean no one was laughing or pointing and our host sisters were still dancing with us). Then a Spanish version of jailhouse rock came on and a flip was switched in my brain. I enjoyed the salsa dancing and music but when all you know is the basic step and a few turns it can get a little repetitive after two hours. So when I heard that guitar, piano, and drum beat I went straight into swing dancing with my sister. The memories from the dance studio in Humboldt came flooding back. I was all smiles and my sister's expression was a mix of fear and surprise as I twisted and turned her around the dance floor.
        Catching up with Ed during a break in the dancing I ask him what his plans are for the future with Ceci. He tells me they're moving to England and taking over his Dad's carpet cleaning company there. He assures me they're going to take time every year to come back to Chiapa and visit for a few weeks or maybe even months depending on his responsibilities back home with the company. Given how far the American dollar and Euro go down here that plan is easily feasible. For example in my month of being here I've spent roughly eighty dollars on groceries, equal to maybe one grocery store visit back home. Also back home, going out to eat for a full plate of food that fills me up will probably cost me around 15 bucks. Here I could buy dinner for myself and three other people with that much money. Rent falls into roughly the same ratio. For a little under one hundred dollars you can get yourself a one bedroom apartment. Is it going to be fancy, no, is it going to be beautiful, no, but it beats spending 500+ dollars for the same square footage back in the States. The biggest difference I've discovered here in terms of the value of the dollar so far though is in terms of taxes. Real estate taxes back in Wisconsin average about 2,500 dollars per year. Here in Chiapa de Corzo you'll pay about 40 dollars a year. Nearly everything that is bought and sold in the States will have a state sales tax, Wisconsin is at 5% while California has rates as high as 10%. Here in Chiapa there is zero sales tax, unless you go to the grocery store (which to my knowledge is the only business here in town which cares to collect taxes for the government). I don't know enough about the income tax system in Mexico to make a comparison but irregardless I think the picture I'm painting is clear. Mexico is inexpensive. I could spend probably 50 dollars a week and all my needs would be met; food, alcoholic beverages, outings to restaurants, internet, rent, and other miscellaneous expenditures. You could easily work 6 months in the states with a minimum wage job and save enough to live in Mexico for the following 6 months (I guess I say "you" implying you're someone who doesn't mind living the way I do). If you keep things simple, minimize expenditures, you have more freedom than you think you do. It's a future I would definitely consider, spend spring, summer, and fall back in Wisconsin, skip out on most of winter to come to Mexico. That's what my Canadian friend Mike has been doing for the last six years.
         

 Mike is a retired accountant from Edmonton who ended up visiting Mexico as part of his global tour to collect masks. He has hundreds of masks from different countries around the world back at his home in Canada. Chiapa de Corzo is famous for it's parachico masks, but when Mike told me this was his sixth season of coming back to Chiapa I was a bit confused. Why would a man who collects masks spend so much time in one place when there were so many more masks to see? The answer is a man named Don Antonio Lopez Hernandez. You see Mike no longer just collects masks, he makes his own too with the help of Don Antonio, the master mask carver of Chiapa de Corzo. Mike had planned on spending only a few days in Chiapa when he originally visited but upon learning that Don Antonio offered classes on how to reproduce his work Mike was hooked. Don Antonio has been carving masks by hand for over 65 years. His work is so sought after that it takes more than a year to receive a piece from him. He is one of the last Chiapa de Corzans that knows how to produce masks entirely by hand without mechanized tools and received the highly esteemed Artist of the Year award for the entire country of Mexico a few years back. As part of his honorary duties he has been instructed by the government to share as much of his traditional wood carving skills with the public as possible, this includes offering free classes. 

             Mike invited me and a couple other teachers to visit Don Antonio's workshop and see firsthand how the parachico masks were formed. When I heard we were going to the workshop of one of Mexico's leading artists I was expecting something inspirational, not necessarily elegant, but something poetic. But it turns out Don Antonio's workshop is actually just a corner of his living room with two small desks that were covered with a few chisels and gouges and some paints. Don Antonio sat at a table with a few young men from the community, presumably talking about details of masks and mask making. Mike led our tour since this had been his "home" for six years now, and it would save us the need to translate Spanish or disturb the Don. Mike began by showing us a 1 foot by 1 foot block of cedar wood on the floor. He then held up a finished parachico mask. He told us it takes a well trained carpenter two weeks to go from this block, to this piece of art. There were other masks in various stages hanging from the walls that Mike went through as well varying in size and type. Mike shares with us that the carving is the easy part (although he shares that even after six years he still has a long way to go) but that it's the painting where the true skill of the artist shows through. 

           Parachico masks can be found everywhere in Chiapa de Corzo, but if you want an authentic mask, this is the place you go to. When you compare one of Don Antonio's masks to one of the ones you'd buy from a vendor on the street, it's night and day in terms of craftsmanship. And while there are differences in terms of carving (intricacies of the beard, the shape of the lips and the nose) the real difference can be seen in the paint and how realistic the skin looks. The key is the type of paint and how it is applied. The paints he uses are derived from mashed up chia seeds that are grown here in Chiapas (I could be way wrong on this but I believe that's what Mike said, I'm no artist). The paintbrush that is used to apply this paint is actually the tissue of an esophagus from a bull that is slaughtered during a full moon (I kid you not, that's the secret to how Don Antonio's masks look so damn good). The esophagus felt almost like rubber to the touch and apparently it's this lack of friction that allows the paint to be applied in such a smooth, human like way. They're beautiful. 
       

While we're at the workshop Mike also takes the time to give us a little more information on the Fiesta Grande de Enero since at this time we are still in the middle of the Fiesta with the biggest days yet to come. He tells us that even six years ago the Fiesta had a different nature. There were only a few hundred parachicos whereas today with the popularity of the Fiesta surging there are now hundreds if not thousands. Mike shares with us that there are actually three different parachico masks, something that we never realized. There's the traditional mask which is the most common with a sort of strange neck beard and a boyish face that's cleanly shaven around the mouth and chin. Then there's the bearded mask which is a little more rare and features bushier eyebrows as well as a mustache and full beard. Then finally there is the Patron mask of which there is only one in the whole city of Chiapa de Corzo. The Patron mask has even bigger eyebrows and a fuller, pointier beard. Anyone can buy or wear the traditional or bearded parachico masks but the Patron mask is only for the Patron (pronounced pa-tr-ohh-n) who is the leader of the parachicos. 
           

Traditionally, when there were fewer parachicos, they would all gather every morning at the house of the Patron to change into their costumes, then they would follow his lead throughout the day, and finish sometime in the night or early morning hours, returning back to the Patron's house and changing once more to officially end the day. The Patron was there to bring order to the parachicos, to lead the music, and physically lead the parade of masked dancers through the streets to the corresponding shrines and churches depending on the holy day. Now, the Patron is still the leader, but there are so many parachicos that it is more or less the duty of the parachicos to seek out and find the Patron on the street rather than meet at his house. He dons a guitar and his mask and takes the front of the parade at all times. The interesting thing about Patrons is that it almost has the same reverence as a position like the Pope. One you have the position for life, or until you are no longer able to uphold your duties, two, you are responsible for carrying out a spiritual tradition which thousands hold to be sacred and three, even in death you are still revered.
       

There have only been 17 Patrons since this tradition first started a couple hundred years ago but every January 18th the parachicos visit the graves of the previous Patrons to pay their respects. I went with my sisters, Tone and Andrea, to see what this ritual looked like. We set out from our house a solid thirty minutes before the parachicos would begin entering the cemetery; however, we ended up arriving near the end of the ceremony  because my sisters didn't want to admit they didn't know where the cemetery was (eventually they had me ask a local for directions while they hid around the corner to hide their embarrassment). I had thought the ceremony at the cemetery would mirror that of veterans day, something quiet and solemn but when we finally showed up it was anything but. The front gate was surrounded by vendors selling, fruits, snacks and beer making the entrance feel more like Lambeau than a cemetery. The graves themselves were mainly above ground in brightly colored rectangular blocks. Mausoleums, with little spaces to kneel and pray were also mixed in among the graves. Probably the starkest difference wasn't just the types of graves or their bright colors but the sheer lack of space.

Zero grass, and you could barely walk between the graves. In fact, by the end of the night we ended up walking on many graves. In the States this may be seen as disrespectful but here it was the norm. There were even people who had climbed the roofs of the Mausoleums in order to get a better view. Meanwhile there were people scattered among the graves, walking, sitting, and standing on the graves of the dead. We were navigating the labyrinth of the graveyward when we heard the chinchins of the the parachicos and the whistle that signaled they were coming. We ran off to the side to let them through, only to find that the grave we were standing on was the grave of a past Patron. The parachicos engulfed us and they began their ritualistic dance that I would see numerous more times that night and the nights to come. The tempo of the music increased and they raised their arms in the air dancing in circles. When the tempo changed again they put down their rattles and stomped their feet to the beat of the drums. Then all in unison the music stopped and they got down on their knees in a moment of silence. The whistle then began again and before you knew it they were on their feet dancing and moving to the grave of the next Patron. 

           Rubel Gomez Nigenda is the current Patron and when he passes away his grave too will be danced upon each January just like the Patrons that came before him. Rubel has been the acting Patron for some fifteen years having been nominated by the previous Patron before his death, as is the custom. I see Rubel a few days after even learning that the position of the Patron exists at the January 21st firework display on the Rio Grijalva which also happens to be my host father, Javier's birthday.
         

I've never much cared for fireworks or firework shows. So much planning, so much money, for a few fleeting moments of entertainment. One of my favorite 4th of July memories comes from summer camp when the firework show more or less got crashed by a brilliant lightning storm. When you compare man's attempts to inspire wonder and awe with a few artificial lights in the sky to that of nature and her ability to light up the entire sky and shake the very earth, there really is no comparison. Yet, having said that, the show that took place that night on the river was probably one of the best displays of fireworks I've seen. We had an amazing view from the terrace of a family friend's house right on the river. Forty five straight minutes of fireworks mixed with ignited displays of chiapanecas and parachicos. It wasn't until after the firework show that the real celebration started though. Some tables were brought down onto the terrace and about twenty folks including my aunt and uncle's family brought out an array of dishes to be shared. It was at this time that a bottle of scotch was also brought out and I was designated my father's drinking partner for the evening. No one else was really drinking, so I figured I owed it to the guy to keep up with him and not let him drink alone on his birthday. Some six beers and three glasses of scotch later I found myself trying to defend the ethics of hunting for meat versus buying factory farmed meat from CAFOs 

           My cousins and siblings seemed to more or less think I was crazy for not eating the rubbery hot dogs that were part of the buffet while simultaneously believing I was a bit cruel for killing animals. I asked them where they thought their hot dogs came from and ended the conversation there. I find myself having to explain myself in a similar manner in the States. If I don't eat meat, especially as a man, our "carnivore" centered culture perceives you as weak, unnatural, and a conspiracy theorist. Ironically, as someone who defends the practice of hunting the same people who might defend my choice of being a vegetarian suddenly flip flop and the hunter is now perceived as violent, unnatural, and cruel. I guess that's what you get when you live a "paradoxical" life of only wanting to eat meat that's been hunted, people on both sides will dish it out. This is a difficult conversation to have even back home. Add a cultural barrier, language barrier, and alcohol and it's impossible to convey your feelings. I'm a little angry for the first time during my stay here, feeling like I've been attacked for thinking differently and frustrated that I can't properly defend my beliefs. My Dad comes over and pours me another drink and gives me a smile, and in that moment I realize I'm being too self-righteous and taking the conversation too seriously. I raise my glass, tell my Dad happy birthday and throw back another scotch. 

  I partied more in those final days of the Fiesta than I have in years. I felt like I was in college again celebrating Spring Jam, the week long concert series that marks the end of the Spring semester at the University of Minnesota, except now I was at a religious festival hanging out mostly with my family. The following day after the fireworks was the day of the big parade. As I mentioned in my previous post there seemed to be multiple "parades" every single day over the course of the Fiesta. It wasn't strange to hear the parachicos or chuntas go by at 2pm or at 2am and I often wondered how many, if any, of these groups were official "parades" of the Fiesta. My own experience of seeing these groups on the streets seemed to give me the feeling that these were more a perfect storm of friends and families who happened to meet up and form a critical mass than planned events put on by any one person. For as much chaos as the Fiesta seemed to contain there were still traditional events that have been going on for decades, and even hundreds of years. Events such as the Chunta parade on the 8th, the first day of the Parachicos on the 15th, the firework show on the 21st, and the more conventional parade through the heart of Chiapa de Corzo on the 22nd. 
The festivities on Friday the 22nd began with a mug of whiskey and ended with shots of tequila. I left my house in the afternoon with my sisters and about five of their University friends from Tuxtla to stake out our spot to view the parade. We stopped by the house of my Aunt and Uncle just down the street and all the girls headed upstairs. I assumed they were just getting ready, but my cousins told me to come with. I followed the train of now ten girls and we climbed through a doorway and came out onto a narrow balcony that overlooked the streets below. Having walked these streets dozens of times over the last few weeks I had never even realized that these balconies existed. We followed the balcony around the corner and below us stood a mass of hundreds of people and floats as far as the eye could see. We had the best view you could've had and the parade started literally in front of our balcony. For me parades are a little like fireworks. Normally after about five or ten minutes I lose interest. Okay, more floats, okay more children, okay more marching bands, okay more candy. Once again though, Chiapa didn't disappoint.

There were floats, there were some children, there were a handful of bands, and some candy but there was also cross dressing dudes handing out shots of tequila and violently throwing fruit and vegetables at onlookers. The people watching alone was exceptional, then add in the component of dodging peppers and bananas that are being thrown at you and this two hour parade kept me interested the entire time. I believe the parade is supposed to be a celebration of fertility and life, but like always I hear this through my broken Spanish and from my fellow gringos. Nearly everyone in the parade has something that they're throwing, whether it's confetti, candy, or vegetables. I'm told all the produce is supposed to symbolize the male genitalia, so when my sisters and I end up with over a dozen different phallic looking fruits and vegetables I'm not quite sure what to make of it. Either way my grocery bill will be a little cheaper this week. The floats are mostly brightly colored trailers full of chiapanecas dancing

and beauty queens waving. The one exception in this madness of dancing, laughing, and music is the float of the Reformed Church of Christ. A stern looking family is standing straight and tall on a platform that has a big clock tower. They're dressed in their Sunday best, their lips are pursed, and their eyes gaze straight ahead. There are a few young children on the float and I can see the confusion and desire in their eyes. "Why can't we dance or throw candy?" "Because Satan's in the music, and the candy too!" If one had to pick a Christian church to belong to down here I think it would be difficult to not go Catholic. Best party of the year where I can wear a dress and drink in the streets or a depressing gathering where I have to wear a three piece suit in 90 degree weather and am then told I'm going to hell... I think I know which one I'd choose.
I woke up early the next morning on a mission. I had stayed up until 2am the previous night; first drinking beer with my sisters' friends, then joining my brother and his fourteen med student friends and drinking whiskey, then hanging out with my parents and drinking more beer, and finally rejoining my sisters and their friends once again to drink some tequila, and I can proudly say I've yet to have a hangover in Mexico. Is drinking that important to me, no. Do I advocate it, no. But when in Rome! Anyway, I got a few hours of sleep and had an appointment at 9am to rent a parachico outfit for the last day of the festival. The current teachers and two of the other TEFL students in my class all planned to join the final parade that afternoon. Similar to the chunta dialogue that went through my head two weeks earlier I realized this was a once in a lifetime opportunity to join in a unique tradition like nothing else in the world. For about $13 each of us got a full parachico outfit for the day; sequenced pants, a poncho, a chinchin (rattle), head wrap, mask, and the yellow headdress. As we donned our outfits together it was ironic to realize that here I was, a white, blonde haired, blue eyed, bearded foreigner dressing up to look like a white, blonde haired, blue eyed, bearded foreigner. I don't think I look anything remotely like a Spaniard in my every day life, and yet according to this criteria, I was the spitting image of one! 

When wearing the parachico outfit there are two things that you realize right away. One, it's hot and you begin sweating immediately in the sunny 80 degree weather with the pants, long sleeved shirt, poncho, and tight fitting mask that are more conducive to a cool cloudy fall day than the winter heat of Mexico. Two, as if the sweat in your eyes didn't already make it hard to see, your mask has two tiny slits in it that make navigation extremely difficult since you have a tiny tunnel of vision. Pretend to make your hands into binoculars around your eyes and then close the diameter of the circles of your hands by half and you're entering the vision of a parachico. This wouldn't be such a big deal if not for the fact that you are traveling over cobble stone streets, going up stairs, avoiding cars, and trying to stay with your friends who all happen to look exactly the same as everyone else. Our first foray onto the street and Preston, one of my fellow TEFL students, takes off his mask and says he can't deal with the heat and the lack of vision. As we seek out the larger parade of parachicos and travel across the city I experiment with taking my mask off only to realize it is very difficult to get it back into place. No one else in my group seems to have a problem with easily taking their mask off and putting it back on but for me it's a 5 minute procedure. I decide I'm not taking it off again. 

Tripping through the streets, and climbing up a series of stairs we arrive near the graveyard. We are now a group of ten or so with all of us gringos dressed as parachicos except for Kate who is dressed as a chiapaneca. I'm making an effort to try and memorize the colors of the ponchos of my friends as more and more parachicos surround us. Then we hear the whistle and the sound of the chinchins. I turn my whole head 90 degrees to catch a glimpse of a wave of dancing parachicos heading straight for us. They break upon us and suddenly any plan we had to stay together is cast aside as we are gobbled up by the dancers. I'm rattling my chinchin with my arms in the air, thinking I'm completely alone when I realize Preston and Corrine are behind me. One of the benefits of being 6'4" is that even when you're wearing an identical outfit as hundreds of other people your friends can still find you. I see Kate, the lone chiapaneca, in a sea of parachicos, and we rejoin her and her husband Rob who is

easily identified as the one parachico without long sleeves. There's five of us now, but we don't know where anyone else is, and we continue to be taken by the flow of parachicos. The flood eventually subsides and we're in the courtyard outside a shrine dedicated to San Sebastian. We're still body to body but we have stopped our forward progression. Now, the whistle changes and I realize we're doing the same dance that the parachicos did the day at the graveyard for the patrons. First we shake our chinchins and spin in circles, next we all simultaneously cease to shake our rattles and stomp our feet to the beat of the drum instead, then we all get down on our knees, in front of a small statue of Sebastian, in a moment of silence. It's a strange moment of tranquility, this calm before the inevitable storm that will ensue when that whistle plays again. It's also the first time I have knelt in front of a crucifix or saint in over four years. When in Rome!

The dancing resumes, and we make our way over a hill towards the house where the main statue of San Sebastian is being held for the 2015 year. We get to the house of San Sebastian, but we're so hot and dehydrated we decide to stop at a strangers house nearby and buy water and take in the shade. I remove my mask after having worn it straight for over an hour and the air upon my skin feels miraculous. Preston has left but we have found another teacher, James, so we are once again five. We're told that the parachicos are getting the statue ready to be moved and it will be about an hour before we're back on the street for the procession. 
I'm still a bit rusty on what the significance of the whole Fiesta Grande de Enero is really about but the moving of San Sebastian from one house in Chiapa de Corzo to another is the climax of the festival. Why San Sebastian, why a statue, why is he housed in people's homes, why is he processed through the streets, these are questions I don't have answers to. But what I do know is that the house where the four current teachers of Dunham Institute live, is the next house to receive San Sebastian, meaning that this parade will eventually end at their residence. It is an enormous honor to house San Sebastian. As of now the waiting list to be approved to house him goes all the way until 2030, you might have a better chance of getting Packer season tickets than hosting this guy. Not only is it a huge honor it's also a huge responsibility and investment on the part of the family that hosts him. For example at the teachers' home half of the first floor was renovated in order to host the statue. Walls were knocked out, floors were redone, other walls were erected. But construction, and the loss of living space, isn't the only cost. The host is also responsible for feeding the parachicos the night of the 23rd, as well as hosting and feeding pilgrims who come to visit San Sebastian throughout the next year. Their house must be kept open for days at a time so people far and near can see him. Once a month they must also redress the shrine with fruit, flowers, and other offerings. There's more details that I don't quite know but regardless it takes a lot of time and money to have this honor. Ironically, I'm told that Gustavo, the host father of the teachers, who is hosting San Sebastian, isn't even a religious man. It's a matter of pride and giving back to the community. It would be rare to see a middle class family in the States dedicate their home, their time, and their money so freely. Sure there are weddings but there are usually things expected of you at weddings, gifts or tickets that are bought, and besides you need to be invited to attend. Here, all are welcome, the homeless, the foreigner, the drunk, the homosexual, no one is turned away. 

San Sebastian comes onto the street. He stands about five feet tall and is being carried by several people on a large litter. We let most of the parachicos and Sebastian pass before rejoining the parade. They're on their way to the main church in town for a three hour service. We follow at a safe distance and decide we'd rather grab some dinner than sit for hours in a crowded hot church. Tacos. Then we stake out our spots in front of the teachers' home. We are all still in our full parachico outfits except with the coming darkness we've removed our masks. It was already hard enough to see in the daytime! We receive strange looks from the folks that pass by, especially from children, as they see our faces and think we are normal parachicos only to see our eyes blink and mouths move and realize to their dismay that we are actual white people. I check my watch and sure enough, nearly three hours exactly from the time we left Sebastian near the church, he is back on the street, making his final push to his new home.

Like most parades and shows in my life we showed up two hours early to get the best spot only to watch it all go to hell a few minutes before the main event. This final parade was no different. We had a spacious section of the sidewalk across from the house all to ourselves with a great view but as the parachicos began flooding the street there wasn't enough room for the bodies of both the spectators and the participants and we were forced to adapt. We all got pushed up against the wall of the house we were in front of. For me it wasn't a big issue. I'm big and I'm tall so I could still see what was happening and for the most part the parachicos didn't try to push me. However; there were two small kids in front of us who didn't have the same luxury I did. As I mentioned before parachicos are basically blind. They don't mean to hit you but they basically keep moving in one direction until they run into someone or something and then spin around and head in a new direction (basically like a roomba floor cleaner). Also some of these guys have been out on the streets dancing and drinking since noon so they're that much more unbalanced. Anyway, while we're being overrun with parachicos Kate has the motherly instinct to shelter these two children and take the brunt of the impact. She picks up one of the kids while Rob takes the other (God these Aussies are going to be awesome parents some day!). Eventually Kate passes her child to me because I have a better vantage point and I'm taller. The whole day up to this point was awesome and what would transpire later that night was also amazing, but having this little 5 year old kid on my shoulders shaking my rattle and wearing my headpiece truly made my day. Even after the parachicos thinned out and he was no longer in danger I just kept dancing with him up there. Him rattling away and me stepping with the beat. I have no idea who the kid was, never met the parents, but its a memory I'll never forget and I hope it's the same for him.

        After San Sebastian arrives at his new home we grab some dinner with Kate's parents at the park and then return our parachico outfits, exactly 12 hours after receiving them that morning. I briefly stop back at my house to change out of my sweaty clothes and then hit the street again to rendezvous with Preston and Ferry. We go to the central plaza because we know there will be live music there but what we find is an impenetrable wall of tourists. We try and make our way towards the center but eventually come to the conclusion that there are so many people that even if we wanted to dance we wouldn't be able to. Ferry tells me these are all people from Tuxtla and that we need to find the local parties where all the Chiapa de Corzans are. We go up and down streets, searching in vain for music or dancing. It's amazing that a mere hour ago there were thousands of parachicos and spectators and now these same streets are abandoned. We walk past Preston's house and he calls it a night. Ferry and I continue on, eventually finding ourselves back at the teachers' house. The scene there is tranquil. There are a few people inside the house paying their respects to San Sebastian while a few more linger in the front yard and on the street. We talk with Rob, Kate, and Paul (another teacher). It feels like the night is winding down to an end when out of nowhere a marimba band appears and begins to play. The people who are still around rise to their feet and even more seemingly appear out of thin air and suddenly this empty street becomes a dance floor.
Everyone is dancing, young and old, drunk and sober, local and foreigner. There are girls still in their chiapaneca dresses, next to them is a group of goth punk kids, on the other side of them is a guy named Victor wearing a bright pink shirt, dancing expertly with his wife who wears a matching pink top, next to them is a group of older women who pull Ferry, Rob, Kate, and I onto the dance floor, and then next to us appears my own family, and lastly a few stray parachicos join the fray. I dance with my sister, my mom, Victor, and even the parachicos. When the music stops everyone sits down and the dance floor empties. The parachicos collapse in a drunken stupor, unable to even stand. But when the marimbas begin playing again everyone is back on their feet, the parachicos put their masks back on and dance in perfect rhythm, and the street is filled once more. We dance for hours until finally at a little after 2:30am my family calls it a night and decides to head home, it's been a long day and I'm ready to go as well... the next day I find out the band didn't stop playing until 4am and people were out there until the very last minute; knowing that these were the final moments of the Fiesta, and they wouldn't get an opportunity to celebrate with this same fervor again until next year.