Edinburgh is for life, not just for August

How do you love Edinburgh? I love it like this: in its past and its present glory, in fair weather and in foul. The city stands frozen in time by bleak winds that through countless winters have stripped it to its bare bones; yet even in nakedness Edinburgh retains its dignity. Discover the exposed Samson's Ribs of Arthur's Seat, a mausoleum cage housing the stone heart of an igneous giant (first live, then dormant, now dead). Bared by fingers of glaciers long gone, these rib lines are reflected in the city's Old Town, in the straight backs of buildings that house spines of books dusted by fingerprints. Edinburgh Castle is the jewel in the crown of a former volcano, standing proudly on remnant rock. The whole city is living history. A visitor exploring Edinburgh's streets could easily imagine turning a corner and meeting a resident from a past century. Edinburgh is easy to love and also difficult, because of its ferocious climate. That a city in such a bitter and defensive environment was the crucible for the heat and spark of a cultural Enlightenment is nothing short of wonderful. That must be the reason why people flock here each summer: to experience the heat and magic of the Fringe, an annual incandescence.

Edinburgh in August is ephemeral. This summer I worked at Black Medicine Coffee Co., on the corner of Nicholson Street and Drummond Street. By the end of July you could hear the whole city hum with the patter of one thousand approaching artists. The season turned on the first of August, when the winds of change blew open our front door, and let in this year's gaggle of Pips, Olivias, Sophias: birds flying north for the summer. On vacation from the Big Smoke, they arrived in groups – a flock of theatre kids, a storytelling of comedians, the common leafleteer and the lesser-spotted street poet. You could identify the newcomers by their voices, as well as their clothes. On the first Monday of the Fringe I saw Rhymes With Orange: spoken-word in the dungeons of the Underbelly Cowgate. I watched the poets teeter on the tightrope lines they'd written, sweating under the jarring lights and spitting rhymes against an audience in the dark. They were marvellous, I said afterwards, my words jarring out in the Baltic biting air. Mum replied, but didn't you notice? Not an och among them. It was true: we'd watched southerners speak. As we walked down the cobbled Cowgate it struck me for the first time just how much of London was in Edinburgh.

The Fringe brought more than just a change in the accents. The southern capital's obsession for the new had become its northern brother's affliction. Those cheerful leafleteers, handing you show flyers to be disposed of: they were really charity muggers in disguise, on vacation from canvassing for Greenpeace in Camden Town. A rash of pop-up cocktail bars appeared around the New Town, while an acne of posters luridly decorated Edinburgh's walls, incandescent shrieks of newer, brighter, better, all pleading for attention. An adolescent scourge on a dignified city.

The people and the leaflets left after two fortnights, gliding home on the thermals of planes and trains and automobiles, leaving Edinburgh scraped clean. Now that it's September, I recall the vivid pamphlets and travellers' wild plumage in the orange leaves (briefly crisp) that scuttle through the Meadows; stern October will wipe away, with a sponge of grim grey cloud, the painted face that Edinburgh assumed for the festival; and the city will be eternal again, at least until next summer.

But here's the thing: Edinburgh is for life, and not just for August. Why is it only visited then? To be enjoyed as a fun-park, as an amusement arcade by a certain kind of PYT (pretentious young thing), self-consciously different and indifferent, with septum piercing and mermaid hair and shiny iPhone on which they swipe ferociously and incessantly. When I was at the shop, serving these fair-weather friends of the Fringe, the script was always the same: placing a blithe order, dropping the change in my hand as if dirty, and then off chattering to their assembled flock about what was new, what was fresh, and what was most likely to have nudity in it – to the total detriment of anything that was actually worthwhile seeing for its own sake, the only requirement apparently being “weirder than 2015”. Even more irritating were those people who would come in to tout their own shows, which I was always assured had a chance of nudity and/or was wackier than last year. And I would smile, place their order, and think, Well aren’t you unique. Unfortunately, even the notoriously poor Scottish summer is warm enough to melt snowflakes – and in August they are so numerous that they´re not special at all. The Fringe is just an annual opportunity to them to imagine fame.

I know I sound like I've been embittered by the Edinburgh climate. Let me say that in myself, the Fringe inspires not hatred, but ambivalence. It delights and terrorises me, sometimes simultaneously. I agree that a city which saw an 18^th-century artistic renaissance, that has influenced so many celebrated poets, authors, and playwrights, is the perfect location for the biggest annual arts festival in the world. And there are many things that I love about the Fringe. Many of the people I served in Black Medicine were inflamed by the festival. I always enjoyed serving those who had just seen an unforgettable event, which had them enthusing to me about their first time in this fair city. I love the ingenuity, the excitement, and how on the single sunny day of the month the Meadows were alive like never before with tumbling troupes, chatting students, smoke from barbecues and other sources. I would also contest the idea that the Fringe used to be better, because the complaints about the size of the festival, and the disruption it causes, probably held true a decade ago. But there is something I would like to say to the visitors. If you should come up again, and I hope that you do, I would urge you to do two things. One, if you come in August: seek out something that's really worthwhile, something that someone has put their heart and soul and passion into, and not something that´s done solely to be different or shocking. Two: don't come in August. I promise that Edinburgh doesn't vanish. There is an enormous amount of talent on year-round, and it is wonderful not to have to part people like the Red Sea in order to get a round in at the bar. Furthermore, we tend to put the good weather out in May, so that we can enjoy the guid city ourselves. Therefore you won´t be dispirited by yet another wettest summer on record.

But what do I know? I'll certainly be in Edinburgh before next August, but it is likely I'll return for the festival in 2017 – and since I won't be working, I'll be the one buying the coffee. To the person serving me coffee next year, I apologise in advance: I look exactly like the kind of pretentious art student you love to loathe, and I have come at the busiest time of the year. You will probably think I only know and care about Edinburgh in August, too. And you'll judge me. Since this will inevitably happen, I'll say now that it's hypocritical of me, this year, to judge the PYTs too harshly: perhaps their intentions are better than appearances would suggest. This is a city, after all, not only of past and present glory, of weather foul and fair, but also of appearances that deceive, of the superficial sparkle and the dark underbelly. The Royal Mile and Mary King´s Close, the Rebus novels and The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, the Edinburgh saying of “fur coat and nae knickers”– I love Edinburgh both for its darkness and its light, and my love wouldn't be complete if it weren't tinged by ambivalence towards its strange summer vacation and the people it brings with it. So I´ll try again: Edinburgh is for life, and also for August.

Don't Worry About Me/Sabor A Mi

I touched down on Tuesday afternoon. Through the haze of glass and jet-lag, to my right I could see my first views of the United Kingdom in 2016. There were busses and grey skies, Stand on the left and Left baggage. With the familiar was juxtaposed the strange, or strangely familiar. Why was everyone so pale, and so tall? Are those busses really driving on the left? Why is everyone speaking English (obvious) and why does it sound to me like double Dutch (less so)? Finally, why does everybody look so miserable? I attributed this last observation to the recent Brexit situation. Two days before I had been in Vancouver, and some English friends and I had watched the results be revealed to a stunned Europe. Given that we were eight hours behind the UK, we had the unfortunate pleasure of seeing all the action before we went to bed.

Back in June, while still there, I was thinking of Mexico. I dreamed about what I would miss here. One of my friends in Guanajuato asked me: but aren't you excited to go back? - quite sincerely, and I agree with him now. I am quite happy to be home. There's the sense of rediscovering the familiar. Here I have friends and family in abundance, and there's no greater pleasure than falling into conversation with pals that you haven't seen in a year, but with whom it appears only a day has passed; or to call a relative on the phone and hear their voice. I enjoy the small things too: the easy availability of crumpets and the ritual of tea at three o'clock, as well as being able to talk British English again, and say things like "o'clock". 

I still miss Mexico, miss Latin America, miss speaking Spanish. I suppose the novelty factor was still present. After four months in the country I was still a stranger in a strange land. Also, while I was exotic to Mexico, Mexico was exotic to me. London's quirks are too well-known to me to be charming, and when the quirks are disagreeable, I find myself grumbling. For example: it is raining here intermittently, the cloud showers turning on and off like a leaky faucet. I am disgruntled. However, I know from friends' Facebook that it is also raining in Colima, Mexico. Would this have upset me if I lived there? Not at all! I would have been fascinated. My thoughts would run wild (Perhaps the unseasonable rain could be attributed to the El Nino weather phenomenon. Look at how the streets shine in the wet! And did you know the Spanish verb for drizzle is 'chispear'?). Pessimistically, with a glass half-full of rainwater, you could say that I loved Mexico so much because its frustrations had not yet become familiar enough to me. (We hadn't been in a relationship long enough to see each others' flaws). However, I am an optimist. The sun has just come out in London, and there are so many things to enjoy here at home. In addition, I know that I have another home-from-home that is only six hours away across the Atlantic. Yesterday I took a shorter journey, and followed the Northern line from London Bridge to Chalk Farm. While looking at the Tube stops, a thought occurred to me, one so wonderful that it came with a rush of euphoria. I knew where I was and which stop I had to get off at. My time here in London was short, this visit and that feeling fleeting. No matter if things here were bad or good, they were temporary, and what my time abroad had given me was the marvellous knowledge that I could start over again anywhere else in the world, afresh and afraid and adrift with no friends as ballast, and in a matter of days or weeks, once again I would be fine.

                                                                                                                                                  

Acaba de parar a llover, y un sol débil brilla en el cielo azul y se seca las calles de Londres. Me sorprendió la primera vez que oí la palabra 'chispear' en español; había pensado que este fenómeno de lluvia ligera era único para el Reino Unido, pero ocurre en Latino América también. Hay cosas en común entre el Reino Unido y México, más cosas que hubiera pensado: la gente es simpática; siempre hay más de hacer que hay tiempo en el día; y chispea en cada parte del mundo. 

Yo me aburre de mi proprio país. Creo que esto solo llego a ser un problema cuando empiezas a viajar: si no sabes lo que te falle, no vayas a extrañar por un lugar exótico, que nunca has visitado. A veces, cuando se viaje, se encuentra un lugar que parece a quedarse mejor que su propio país. Tengo un amigo ingles quien vive en Vancouver, y la ciudad es la encarnación física de su personalidad. Por mi parte, creo que México me quedó muy bien: por la música y la comida, por supuesto, pero además por la riqueza de la lengua y la franqueza de la gente, y el antojo que tenían por las cosas pequeñas, por la vida cuotidiana.

Creo que estar enamorado de un lugar sea como estar enamorada de alguien. Al principio, te lo encanta cada parte: su voz, por ejemplo, o las voces que escuchas en las calles; su disposición (una persona o una ciudad cálida); su apariencia (el estilo personal de tu novia, o las casas coloridas de un barrio). Hasta sus ademanes llegan a ser encantadores, y sus fallas: si tu novio siempre esta tarde, o si siempre hay tráfico. Cuando sientes amor, perdonas todo; pero de poco en poco, cuando vienen a estar más familiares del uno a otro, se puede dar cuenta de las fallas que te enojan. Bueno: todavía estoy joven, y ahorita no quiero vincularme por siempre con alguien o cualquier lugar en particular. Esta pregunta llegaran cuando estaré más madura: ¿Estoy lista a envejecer contigo? 

Hay un libro que me encanta, que hace poco tiempo leí. Se llama 'The Art of Travel', escrito por Alain de Botton. En un capitulo, el autor describe un vacación en Barbados que hice hace unos años. Una noche, estaba parado en un balcón del hotel en donde estaba quedando. La vista era increíble, con palmas onduladas en la brisa suave, y un olor delicioso que vino de un sinfín de flores exóticas - sin embargo, él autor sintió mal. ¿Porque no pudiera aprovechar de este momento, si estaba (como pareció) en paraíso? Él escribe: “A momentous but until then overlooked fact was making its first appearance: that I had inadvertently brought myself with me to the island.” (En resumen: “de repente me ocurrió, un hecho que hasta ahorita no me ha tocado: que, sin querer, yo he llevado conmigo en este vacación yo mismo.”) Yo sé que no he pasado suficiente tiempo ni en México ni en Ecuador ni en Colombia de fastidiar de ningún país, tampoco de permitir que el país descubriría unas de mis fallas numerosas. Cada vez que partí del país, era antes que podría comprender las partes malas. Lo que tendré que buscar, en la vida que viene, es un país o una persona que me querrá aún después de la etapa primera, en cuando estamos enamorados de todo. Creo que haya encontrado unos lugares que puedan llevar bien con mi idea de lugares perfectos - pero sólo el tiempo dirá. Mientras que espera, sigo soñando de Latino América, y sigo viviendo en el Reino Unido. Ya tengo ganas de mi próxima vez allá, el año que viene, en cuando iré a Guatemala. Entre ahora y luego, tengo dos amantes de visitar, uno nuevo y uno viejo. ¡Edimburgo y Bristol, nos vemos pronto!

Mexico No.8 - Una guia para Guanajuato (en progreso)

Por la primera:¡gracias por leer mi blog! Me da mucho feliz que alguien esta interesado en lo que hago en mis dias viajando por Mexico. He hecho tantos amigos aqui en Mexico, personas generosas y amables y calidos, y quiero agradecerlos por sus amistades durante las ultimas cuatros meses. Este entrada, entonces, es mi manera de ´matar dos pajaros con un tiro´: seguir amejorando mi espanol, y a la vez, dar un regalito a cualquier amigo espanohablante que esta leyendo.¡Que tengas un bien dia!

Guanajuato, capital de su estado, escondida en los cerros secos al mitad de Mexico: la corazon de su pais. Pase una semana fantastica por alla, y aun si ya me fui a San Miguel de Allende, llevo dentro muchos recuerdos de la ciudad y la gente que viven alla. Debajo he incluido todo lo que he hecho en mi semana corta, para su informacion. Espero que vengas pronto a Guanajuato ...

Hacer:

Guanajuato tiene una historia rica. Los cerros que enrodean la ciudad son llenos de depositos de minerales, asi que por todo del siglo XVIII y parte del siglo XIV Guanajuato era la ciudad mas rica en el mundo entero. Ademas, la ciudad pertenezca del grupo de pueblos en que la Independencia de Mexico naci, en 1810. Y si no tienes antojo por lo que dije, Guanajuato es conocido por sus festivales y exposiciones. La Cervantina en octubre es la mas grande, pero hay muchas otras de gozar.

La Alhondiga: edificio impresionante al centro de la ciudad, en donde se puedo encontrar exposiciones sobre las culturas prehispanicas, el movimiento por la Independencia, la Revolucion, y otras obras de arte. Las cuatros esquinas del edificio muestran los nombres de los cuatros lideres de la Independencia, cuyos cabezas eran desplegado despues de ser ejecutado por sus crimenes contra el poder reinante.

Minas de San Ramon: ubicado en el pueblito Valenciana, aqui se puede entrar una mina y mirar un veno de plata. Las guias tienen mucho informacion sobre la historia de Guanajuato como un pueblo de minas. Ademas hay una escultura parecido al Manequin Pis en Brussels, distincto aqui solo por su casca de mina.

Valenciana: pueblito ubicado sobre un cerro al norte de la ciudad. Desde aqui hay una panorama increible de la ciudad - pero es un poquito escondido. Mensajeme por las direcciones!

Museo de Cervantes: pinturas, escultura, y ceramicas dedicado a la personaje de literatura mas famoso en el mundo espanohablante - Don Quijote de la Mancha. La explicacion del fundador del museo me impresiono con el entusiasmo que tenia por este personaje excepcional.

Basilica Colegiata de Nuestra Senora de Guanajuato: impresionante, bella, enorme. Vi una peregrinacion de las mineras aqui domingo el 29 de mayo. La devocion que tenian era algo magnifico.

La Bufa: Cerro al sur de Guanajuato, con vistas panoramicas magnificas de todo la ciudad. Tambien se puede ver hasta el estatue del Cristo del Rey, al este. Subate por la calle San Juan de Dios: si empiezas al centro de la ciudad, hay que caminar al oveste, hasta que casi llegas a La Presa.

La Presa: Super hermoso! Este contenador hecho en piedra llena y drena de una agua verde que reflecta los pinos que le enrodean. Al otro lado de La Presa puedes encontrar unos tienditas que venden comidas y antojitos - prueba el tlacoyo.

La Pipila: Si solo haces una cosa en Guanajuato, haz esto. Desde el balcon, debajo del estatue, puedes ver la campus central de la Universidad de Guanajuato, la Basilica Colegiata, y todas las casas coloridas (durante el dia) o las luces de los calles (en la noche). Merveillosa.

La Universidad de Guanajuato: Si puedes ir, el campus de artes plastica, musica, fotografia y turismo es ubicado frente de la Bufa en una situacion hermosa.

Teatro Juarez: edificio impresionante ubicado al centro de la ciudad. Cuando fui habia un guia de tur bien unico, que era vendiendo su novella al mismo tiempo que conducia su tur. Espero que cuando vayas puedes encontrarlo!

Casa Diego Rivera: Lo mejor de lo mejor; pero, interesamente, no por la arte de Diego. Habian pocos murales, y aun si me encanto sus bosquejos en estilos de artistas diferentes (Picasso, Seurat), lo que me gusto lo mas era la exposicion temporal de Dylan Williams, que hace pinturas de color y blanco de muchas texturas sobre la tema de Nueva York y Guanajuato.

Mercado Hidalgo: costruido segun a los disenos de la arquitecta que diseno La Torre Eiffel (Brunel), esto mercado es lleno de algo que quieras: montones de chiles, jugos en cualquier sabor, vestidos y cosas artesanales de Oaxaca, joyeria ...

Cosas alternativas: classe de danza Africana, peregrinacion de las mineras, festival de peliculas brasilenos, cantantes y minstrels ...

Comer:

Como era, comer a Guanajuato? La ciudad es 80 % estudiantes, famosos por siempre tener hambre, entonces hay antojitos y comida rica en cada esquina.  El Rincon de Guanajuato es un lugar con arte bonita, que prepara desayunos barratos que no fallaran a satesfacer tu apetito. Otras opciones por el desayuno incluyen Truco 7 (un poco mas costoso); Casa Ofelia, su restorante vecina; tambien hay unas restorantes en Plaza de San Roque que ofrecen desayunos completos por solo 50 pesos. Vaya a el Lechon Ilustrada por tisanes y yerba mate te, y un ambiente hipster. A Alas8 comi mis primeras alas de pollo - super rico, y llevarian mas salsas que podria llamar. Cafe Tal es muy popular, y merezca este popularidad. El internet es rapido, los americanos son buenos, y sus bebidos de chocolate caliente me pusieron una ´cara de ponque´ (literalmente, ´una cara de pastel´, significa que estuve muy feliz. Santo Cafe esta en un ubicacion muy hermosa, pero siempre hay gente! Mama Luisa es algo diferente. Una ristorante dentro una galleria, comimos rico pizza artesanal con champinones y zucchini, mirando las obras de arte por las paredes. La unica cosa que habia cambiado de nuestra cena era la musica, que parecio algo de un funeral. Vaya a Habibi por sopa de lentejas o wraps de falafel, si extranas por el sabor del oriente. Mas al oriente, los Sushiballs en Plaza de Los Angeles tambien son super ricos - ordene la bola que lleva camaron, aguacate, y queso Philadelphia. Despues de todos estas ristorantes, si todavia necesitas un antojito pequeno, ve a buscar helado oaxaqueno en Calle de Alonso. El helado de zarzamora y queso es divino.

Tomar:

Hay tantas barras en Guanajuato, y el bueno es que la mayoria tiene un ambiente alternativa, con arte por las paredes y sillas escondidas en las ventanas. Hay dos La Inundacion de 1905: la primera esta en Plaza de San Roque, y la segunda, atras de la Iglesia de San Diego. Prefiero la primera, pero ¡aguas! las mesas bailan. Cada segunda viernes del mes, hay una noche de musica Veracruzana en Anil Azul, que debe ser visto a ser creido. El talento de la gente en Guanajuato que tocan musica Veracruzana es algo unico. Los Lobos es, en mi opinion, lo mejor de las barras en Guanajuato. Siempre lleno de estudiantes, especialmente en los jueves, pero siempre es divertido, y las murales por las paredes son hermosas. Me encanta tambien Golem, con su terazza al tercer piso, y la Oveja Negra. Nunca he estado en Bar Fly, pero siempre toca la musica reggae, y de vez en cuando hay musica en vivo.

Algo que falte o que debe ser corregido? Estoy abierta a todos los opiniones y commentas, contestas y preguntas. Escribeme abajo o mensajeme por Facebook!

Mexico No.7 - A return to writing/Volver a escribir

The following post will be rather full of errors, at least for the first half. Espero que ellos que leyan me perdonen por mis errores en espanol. For English speakers, please scroll down!

Ahorita estoy frente de la computador, escribiendo, en un cafe de internet aqui en San Miguel de Allende. A traves de la puerta abierta, que muestra la calle, veo la lluvia que caye en la banqueta y el camino. La lluvia trae un olor tan fuerte que alcanza a mi posicion; huelo el suelo, las paredes de los edificio, todo: huelo el petricor. En una manera rara, el olor me acuerde de la intensidad y el color de este pais increible.

Aun si llueve, y si no hay apostrophes en este teclado, y que una version horrible de Stitches viene del radio atras de mi, estoy feliz. San Miguel es pacifica y bonita, un pueblo magico real, y aqui es el lugar perfecto de descanzar por un ratito y recollectar mis pensamientos. Acabo de llegar de una semana asombrosa en Guanajuato, la capital de este estado. Creo que por alla, maneje de evitar la errore commun entre los viajadores de vivir demasiado o en el pasado o en el futuro. Realmente vivia en los momentos presentes, de dia en dia - ¡y que bonitos dias! Del otro lada, estoy una persona reflectiva, y creo que escribir es una manera perfecta de recaptar el pasado. Solo vivir en el presente es perder tanto; hay este expresion que me encanta, "escribir es volver a vivir". Espero que aqui en San Miguel pueda volver a escribir y captar lo que pueda del lugar magico de Guanajuato, mientras que disfrutar de las vistas y las sonidas de esta ciudad nueva.

Vamos a ver si todo se armara. Espero que si - y que seran muchos mas articolos de Reasoning with Volcanoes pronto!

                                                                                                                                                                

I am writing this post from an internet cafe in San Miguel de Allende. Through the open door to the street outside, I can see the rain pounding on the cobblestones, and the smell is strong enough that it wafts through towards me - a pleasant mixture of plaster, humidity, and earth, that somehow reminds me again of the intensity and the colour of this incredible country.

Despite the rain, and the lack of apostrophes on this keyboard, and the fact that a terrible electronic version of Stitches is playing in the background, I am happy. San Miguel is peaceful and beautiful, a pueblo magico if there ever was one, and it is the perfect place to recuperate for a little while and collect my thoughts. I have just come from spending an incredible, intense week in Guanajuato, the capital of this state. I think that there, I managed to avoid the common traveller mistake of living too much in the past, or thinking of the future, and really lived in the moments, day to day - and what wonderful days they were! On the other hand, I am a reflective person, and believe that writing things down is a perfect way to capture the moment again. Only to live in the moment is to lose so much; in Spanish there is a wonderful phrase, escribir es volver a vivir - "to write is to return to live again". So that is what I hope to do while here in San Miguel; return to writing and capture what I can of the magical place of Guanajuato, while at the same time enjoying the sights and sounds of this new city.

We shall see how this works out. If I am lucky, you should look out for more Reasoning with Volcanoes posts in the near future!

Mexico No.6 - Michoacan

Sunday, May 22nd, 2015

From this distance you can't see the shore. The sea rolls away in a single perfect curl, a seamless wave machine, and when one line crashes on the sand another has already risen to take its place. Here at the mouth of the ocean, I tread water beside a jagged rock, where a pelican shyly hides its head under its wing. The craggy peninsula up which we scrambled is left exposed by the receding tide; on its southern face, a few hardy cacti boldly grow.

It feels very peaceful here. The water below me is an even turquoise, and surprisingly opaque: I can't see my kicking legs. It occurs to me that the bottom could be only four metres below, or full fathoms five. I would have to risk it in order to find out. In the same vein, I wouldn't have known about this view if I had stayed on the beach - it required the journey. The question is, how far out do you want to go? That depends on how much you want to risk. However, the difference between real risk and perceived risk is sometimes difficult to measure. The decision of whether to travel to a place with a dangerous reputation is a tricky one. With some exceptions - North Korea and Venezuela swim to mind - travelling out of safe harbours is sometimes a matter of diving in. 

                                                                                                                    

Within Mexico, the south-western states of Guerrero and Michoacán have a reputation of being mad, bad, and dangerous to know. The shocking kidnapping and murders in Iguala; the cartel violence that erupts, bloodily and without warning, in the northern highlands; the arbitrary bus raids; Harry Devert. In contrast to these lurid stories, the bus journey we took into Michoacán was muy tranquillo. Once past the border town of Coahuayana, the passengers drifted off, and beyond San Juan de Alime only three of us remained: Elodie, me, and an old man slumped against the window, his white sombrero propped over his snoring nose. The wind sped past us and we curled up along the curving route until Kilometre 153, where we were deposited beside a saturnine truckers' stop with awnings drooping in the heat.

Bougainvillea shimmered in the dusty breeze; a dog lay on its side in the shade, panting. Boys idled through town with their rickety bikes. Everywhere, faces turned towards us, curious, smiling. The everyday feel that permeated Maruata village rubbed up against the magical surrealism of the coast it bordered. We found a pearl-white virgin beach, hidden from view by fringes of corrugated sandstone. Towards the east, the stretch of sand was terminated abruptly by a jagged peninsula, which held within its rugged palm a bay: overtaken by a witch's whirlpool of seething jade waters, a cauldron from which rose a jagged stack poking out from the sea, resembling perhaps the discarded hat of a venerable warlock.

The other tourists had vanished by the afternoon, and Elodie and I remained. Throughout our stay we were approached and made welcome by the locals, who treated us with kindness, curiosity and gentleness. Dahlia sold us sweating bottles of water. Carlos graciously agreed to let us string hammocks from his palapa (a simple shelter made from tree trunks and palms). Jorge accompanied us on a stroll through town. I am afraid that we made poor conversationalists, as I had to ask him to repeat his questions at least three times over. A simple 'De donde viene?' ('Where are you from?') passed through the narrow gap of his lips in a slurring, syrupy whistle, bubbling from deep in the throat and arriving richly seasoned with the cigarette smoke of forty years. Alongside Jorge ambled four or five teenagers, stealing us quick and sharp and shy glances. One of them, slightly bolder than the rest, translated two of Jorge's many questions before they all turned, suddenly, and scattered down a side street.

                                                                                                                    

'Nosotros hablamos Nahuatl, pero hablamos más el español porque es más facil"*  he said. I asked him to speak some of the Aztec language, Nahuatl. He pronounced something in a liquid, flowing tongue, and repeated in Spanish, 'Como te llamas, me llamo Juan'. Nahuatl sounded completely different from any other language I knew. Earthy, thick, obviously but impalpably ancient. We practised words for a while, but all I learned was 'lawal', meaning man, and 'sigwal', woman.**

Juan was the best of our strange encounters. It was eight p.m.. Elodie and I had bought two Coronas and sat on the beach drinking, watching the twilight change from civil to astronomical. A slightly-built impish man approached us: did we want to see the turtles nest? We did. Well, he could show us, and he would be around should we wish to find him. Elodie and I thanked him, and he melted back into the shadows of the town. We stayed talking. It was now dark, and on the peninsula to the east a light stood out against the black rock. I supposed it was a large tent, and guessed that someone must have lit a large lantern inside it, for it glowed with a strange and hypnotic brightness. 

Some time later Juan returned. The tent had blown up over the horizon, so that it hung suspended in the air: it was the moon, rising red. We asked him why it was that colour. Atmosphere, he said, and told us that it would grow paler as it rose. Eventually it would be bright enough to light the beach like daylight. 

By the mid-morning light of 10 p.m., Elodie and I walked along the beach. The village lights diminished in strength and numbers as we proceeded. Finally, there was the military outpost, with its red light standing sentinel. Beyond it the highway bended away from the coast and up towards the mountains. Once in a while a car would pass and light the way; otherwise it was dark and silent. The sand extended in front of our feet, one kilometre, two, until it reached a rocky barrier of many dozens of hundred metres in height. There was no way we could go further. Our torch beams lay weakly on the sand, a pale reflection of the golden moon that shone like a spinning coin in the sky. It drew its trails on the black mirror of the Pacific, fluttering over little waves that broke rhythmically on the sand. I watched the psychedelic ripples, imagining that each break of black in the glass of gold was caused by the coursing back of a turtle, flippers like spatulas, swimming for the shore. It was a great moment and, at the time, I imagined as good as the night was going to get. 

We returned to the village, a little disappointed not to see turtles. It was perhaps eleven p.m. and we sat under a palapa consuming guacamole. 

'Hola chicas!' Juan came into view again, and the night got brighter. His broad grin persuaded us that there was perhaps more to be seen. As we retraced our earlier steps along the beach, Juan regaled us with stories and advice, opinions and legends. He tried to teach us Nahuatl. Next he told us about the turtles. Yesterday had been full moon, and he had seen four. He pointed out tracks that we had not noticed before. They appeared like the marks of 4x4s, marked by a central depression, and each was wider than I am. These creatures were clearly enormous. 

He was even more eager than either Elodie or me.

'We will keep going to the end of the beach until we see one, and then we will turn back and see them all on our way back!'

It seemed as if the man never stopped talking. He told us of his readings about peyote ceremonies. He told us of his mother, a Nahuatl speaker from an indigenous tribe in the mountains, and how you could hunt wild boars in the woods around her village. He told us about the high season in Maruata, when tourists would camp on the beach, and how they would wake up in terror at scrabbling noises at 3 a.m.: the nesting turtles, who would climb up the beach oblivious to intruders, and tear the trembling tents with their enormous claws. His voice and his mannerisms, the engaging flutter of his hands, all served to capture our full attention. We moved forward, all four of us - for we were accompanied by a stray dog, who had initially taken a liking to my packet of tostadas, but had soon given up and sought entertainment in hunting the crabs who hid in the sand. A short attention span; but the animation of Juan had entranced all of us, and the dog now stood looking up at the man, whiskers quivering in the moonlight.

We moved forward. The moonlight drew us to the end of the beach, and I marvelled at our strange quartet, ragged and flamboyant. I thought - and then Juan shouted, suddenly: 'Hay una por alla, está al punto de irse', and he began to run, the mutt raring after him. A line of footprints typed out. I turned to Melo and said (I remember it now clear as night) - 'I'm never going to forget this' - and then we were running to, charging towards a slick little mountain that was molten with the moonlight, and moving slowly, and approaching rapidly, and then we were there, and the turtle was enormous, a blackened trunk shrivelled and alive and with a face that was wrinkled and ancient, wise but made frantic by the dog that was teasing him, prancing around and sniffing his face. I was dancing, too - this was something magical, an enchantment conjured by the warlock who had left his hat behind. The amazing creature had climbed up the beach, ten metres in, and decided now was not the time to nest: it had turned to continue back to the ocean. But its way was blocked now by a curious bewhiskered enemy. The turtle sniffed in confusion. Wasn't it was time to go? Quickly, Juan and I acted as a team, dancing around and fencing in the turtle, batting away the dog, while Elodie snapped pictures. It was only a few steps to the safety of the water, but the turtle lumbered its way with the grace of an arthritic rhinoceros. He reached the shallows and was transformed. His lumber increased to a scrabble, and then a slither, and for a few short seconds his carapace quivered on the surface, breaking the light as I had imagined before. Then he was gone. 

We walked back after. No music, only a roaring in my ears that almost drowned out the crickets to my right and the waves on the left. I found myself unable to stop smiling, unable to attempt to answer Juan's talk. Only half-way home did I begin to pay attention to where he was pointing. A small fishing boat, a lancha, was passing us in the dark. Juan explained. They knew their way along this coast, where the rocks were, where to dive. If they were fishing for langoustines, they would take small torches with them, and jump off the boat in the dark. If they wanted fish, they would anchor the lancha and leave a small lamp at the surface, which would attract the fish that would be caught.  

We looked back to Juan, and I saw his smiling, cheerful face. There was no danger here: all he wanted to do was to pass on his knowledge, to impress us with a view that Maruata was a peaceful and beautiful place, unspoilt by its state's reputation. How could we argue? The beach, the sea, the turtle: all of it had been magical. I couldn't say for certain whether I would enter a risk zone again, but this time, I was glad to have done it like the fishermen, and dive straight in.

*'We all speak Nahuatl here, but we speak more Spanish because it is easier.'

**Did you know that Nahuatl affects us more than we think? This is fascinating. Apparently many words with which we are familiar, in Mexico and in the anglophone world, are derived from this ancient language. Avocado, chocolate, peyote, axolotl, chile, chayote, are all Nahuatl words.

Mexico No.5: Final Week

Friday, 20th May 2016

I leave Colima in one week. I am going to travel north, into the silver mines and mysterious mountains of Guanajuato, where independence was conceived in 1810, and realized in 1821. There is so much to see and to do; I can barely sit still for excitement. The map below brings it to my attention: I leave Colima in one week. That makes me think!

Plans for travel: Jalisco, Guanajuato, San Luis Potosi.

In the high mountains of Ecuador there's a phrase for altitude sickness: La altura me cogió. Literally, 'the altitude has caught me'. In Mexican Spanish, that phrase is both impolite and incomprehensible - but it applies to me now, because since my high-altitude flight over Volcán de Colima last Saturday, I have been feeling strange. Drawing the map above has placed a pin on where that strange is coming from.

Time passes slowly, until it doesn't

In March and April I was caught up in the seamless flow of my day-to-day life. The days would dawn blue and bright, seemingly the same, although I eventually learned to distinguish them by details: a slight breeze from the east, a touch more haze in the sky. (I am no exception to the charming British stereotype of weather appreciation.) I would go every Monday to the grocery store to buy papaya and pan, and would notice the increasing ripeness of mangos. We drank tequila on Friday evenings and slept in on Sundays. Occasionally I found myself humming along to Pink Floyd's 'Time'. I lived on details and rhythms. Before Colima, I never considered that life can pass you by wherever you are.

I love it here. I am incredibly lucky, two-fold lucky: I get the big perks of camping on and studying an active volcano, and living abroad allows me to appreciate the small quirks of this strange and fragrant country. On every walk around my neighbourhood I notice something new. Would I ever get bored of living here? Suddenly three months is not enough time at all. And now that I have only a week, I wonder if I could have squeezed more out of my time in Colima. Did I do enough with the time that I had? I feel wistful that I didn't stop and smell the roses (or the hibiscus) more often.

Nostalgia is inevitable, and it's not all bad: what about the 'grass is greener here' phenomenon?

The flight gave me my first taste of nostalgia for Colima. I literally had an overview of my city, my state, and my volcano. I used to think it was strange that scientists could be so passionate, so protective, of a single edifice. It's just a volcano - it's an inanimate object! I understand now. The flight: wind roaring through the open window, air as freezing as a mountain burn, the eruption on our final approach. This is not just a volcano, it's mine! 

My nostalgia grew as we flew back from the volcano towards the city. There were the coloured circus tents at Villa de Alvarez. There was the university campus, and the road north. There were the pozos and termales that I hadn't yet visited, that I wouldn't now have a chance to. Every evening here is still the same, the jardins and parques bathed in golden light at eight o'clock. It's only me who sees it differently: the golden hour gilds everything in a shade of nostalgia. I'm learning that time is finite, all over again. The most difficult thing about leaving a place you love is knowing that you can never go back to it without this sentimentality; it's also one of the best things. I remember that my enthusiasm for London was so much stronger in my fourth year of undergrad than my second. I'd already left it once, and knew I would do again. The streets grew grander, the Christmas lights shone brighter, and even the grass was greener on my side of Regent's Park.

Nostalgia is dangerous, because you spend too much time in the past, or the future. 

If given the opportunity, I would travel for the rest of my life. That optimism I feel en route is matched in intensity only by the excitement I find in exploring the destination. However, the cost of travel is relentless restlessness and a yearning both for past destinations and future discoveries. Some people who propose travel as a way to 'live in the moment' will find themselves, ironically, spending more time dreaming of the future or delving into the past. I may be one of them.

So that's why the altitude caught me up there over the volcano. When the past, present and future came together so suddenly, I was bound to feel a little sick at heart. Could I have done more with my time here? I want to make the most of life - but. The problem with all those aspirational, seize-the-day articles that I devour on Refinery 29 is that they don't really apply when I have to do the ordinary tasks, like drafting and sending a boring admin email; it's difficult to persuade myself that it's a carpe-DM. These emails and those deadlines can be found in every time zone from CDT to GMT. Moreover, the seize-the-day mentality has a paradoxical effect on me, in that I find myself overwhelmed by everything that I could be doing, and relish the guilty pleasure of not doing it instead: Day Two of my plan ends inevitably in bed, gorging on episodes of New Girl. One of the best pieces of advice I was given, by one of my closest friends, is this: "your life is only a collection of todays".And that isn't an injunction to catapult yourself into living as though it's your last day on Earth. It's the opposite. You live an ordinary day, working when you can and taking rests when you're tired, appreciating the small things that happen. It's a two-fold process. First: you learn that any life, however exotic, contains some ordinary days, some filler. Second: you do things anyway. This process also involves a paradox, but this time it's a good one: while you are busy living, drinking tequila with friends and working on the volcano, things happen to you. 

So...

I still haven't fully taken this advice to heart. There are days when I wake up and think I'm going to smash it, and by four o'clock will have settled back into 'nah'. Hopefully, however, you recognise some truth in this blog post. I don't think it's perfect, or I am, and I am certainly very far from achieving the presence of mind in the present that I aspire towards. I know that it's a long process, though. In this spirit I've decided to leave this post as it stands, without additional obsessing. It took me three hours, and it's a decent post - not perfect, not terrible. I just did it. Make of that what you will.

This post is partly inspired by a post on the excellent thoughts-written Wordpress blog, which was recommended to me by a friend. I advise you to check it out!

Mexico No.4: Nevado de Colima

This is an amalgamation of two trips to Nevado on successive months: 2^nd - 4^th April and 2^nd – 4^th May. Some of the events occurred in April, some in May. I'm revisiting Nevado as promised in this blog post here. 

It is four o’clock in the morning when the regular hum changes to a whine that rises and falls. At a time when the whole of Mexico should be asleep, there are three people awake inside our small refugio. One of us opens a door to briefly illuminate a room full of screens; then enters, shutting it fast behind him. Another opens the front door. Outside it is six degrees above freezing, and the night appears black as smoke. Within a few seconds, however, my eyes have adjusted to the darkness. The stars are fantastic here; it is always easy to pick out Orion, standing watch. In the middle distance his fallen friends twinkle in an orange puddle: Colima. Despite the throbbing activity of the lights down there, I am sure that most of the 160,000 people in the state capital are asleep. It’s a quiet city town, after all, where nothing ever happens. Nothing is what we are looking for now. The orange puddle is cut off abruptly by a great, vast darkness, an enormous mass that blocks out half the rift valley. If I wait, and squint my eyes in the cool air, I can see a black plume unfurling from the summit, gradually blotting out the stars. This is the silent source of the alarm: Volcán de Colima is erupting.

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Colima city lazes at 600 metres above sea level. In May we are nearing the rainy season, and every day brings more heat. As I wrote this at seven p.m. in the park near my house, temperatures had cooled to 30°C; the swings creaked, women chattered, people were starting to wake up. Life there is swimming in a hazy mist. The refuge at Nevado, meanwhile, squats proudly at 4000 metres, in such a different environment that it seems another continent entirely, or another world. Surprising that only 40 kilometres separate the two. At Nevado, spires of pines rise to thirty metres in height, then fall away to stunted wisps as they near the tree line. The face of the mountain is bare and uncompromising. The air here is stainless and sharp, and a pristine crisp blue that stands in contrast to Colima’s faded skies. I breathe in great fresh gulps of alpine air, and imagine that I am cleaning myself from the inside out.

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Of course it takes a while to get up here. If you pay attention on the drive, it’s possible to see the world change around you. We begin at toll road 54, and cross the state boundary into Jalisco. Continue on towards Ciudad Guzman, and then towards a dusty, forgotten town called El Grullo. Just beyond it begins a track 25 kilometres long that will take us to our destination. The first few hundred metres are so deeply rutted and pitted that it’s a wonder anyone can get up the road, but get up it they do: Nevado de Colima is a popular national park, and the lower slopes of the mountain are dotted with picnic benches and campsites. We are going all the way. There’s three of us in the truck today: James and Alex and I. I’m not driving, fortunately, because this allows me to see the scenery evolve around me. On the lower slopes there are avocado farms, the trees’ trunks painted white and tufty grass growing between; in the middle, massive and dignified oaks hang drooping moss from their branches, creating a dappled shade; these give way at high altitude to tall and fragrant pines. The flowers don’t thin as we climb, but their colours change. The lowest slopes had many growing with the avocados, a bouquet of red hibiscus and starry yellow and enormous pink trumpet-flowers. At 3700 metres there are star-petalled white flowers, tiny like edelweiss, hidden between the rocks. Around here the road splits. You can turn right, down to el Playon, the saddle between the two mountains, with its pine forest and access to the parasitic domes of Volcancito. Alternatively you can go left, up to the refugio. There’s only one kilometre to drive, but the road is narrow and slippery, and the last four bends make a hairpin seem generous. In this field trip we forgo the bends, and leave our truck parked at the bottom of the split, while we labour up with our equipment. Usually we radio through to Ciudad Guzmán in advance, to let the headquarters of the Protección Civil de Jalisco (PCJ) know that we’re coming. The message is rarely passed on, however, and true enough, when we knock on the refugio’s front door, it is opened by an enormous, red-headed Mexican who regards us quizzically. His expression doesn’t clear when we tell him that we have come to stay for two nights. For a second I worry – we’re here with three boxes of equipment that we’ve lugged up, is he really not going to let us in? – but eventually he smiles charmingly, and opens the door. His name is Aaron, and he’s a bombero, a fireman who works with the Civil Protection of Jalisco state and is posted up here occasionally for duty. Aaron is a typical bombero: amiable, curious, full of fun. When I tell him my name he responds, ‘Like the movie, Frozen?’.

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We left Colima at half-past eight and arrive at Nevado at one o’clock. From now we have exactly 48 hours of monitoring to perform. Throughout the night there are generally always three of us awake: two CIIV students and a bombero. The PCJ maintain a permanent presence at the refugio, as a team of three do a 24-hour shift, changing over every day at 11 a.m.. In the mornings we see the team of incoming bomberos rolling up the track towards us, their compact 4x4 making light of the less-than-hairpin bends. The CIIV presence at Nevado is less frequent. We come up here occasionally, hopefully once a month, and our team is of three, too (if we’re lucky) or two (if we’re not). The two-team is brutal, because the night shifts are so long. The bomberos have a relatively easy time during the night: they have a series of infrared cameras, with many monitors, so all there is to do is watch the live feed in the room of screens, and radio Ciudad Guzmán if there’s an eruption. CIIV has rather more to do. We have a thermal camera and a visual one, the former of which is a primadonna and our main reason for being up at this ungodly hour. Thermocam is very particular about the SD cards it accepts, and taking photos every 3.5 seconds eats up memory. The result is that the memory card only lasts 25 minutes at some time, and someone must be on hand to change it. The visual camera needs its own TLC, with regularly changed batteries; there is also the weather sensor and notes to take in case of degassing activity or eruption. I must admit that there is something fantastic about an eruption in the dark. That alarm that is a constant soundtrack to your time here, that one-note hum, its monotony changes: the undulating wail of the siren is your call to arms. Generally the volcano itself is silent, although I know that back in January there were spectacular explosions and volcanic lightning. I like to watch the eruption unfold through the LCD display of the thermal camera: the volcano, unfamiliarly rendered in Technicolour tones, lets loose a dramatic curl of ash and gas, a glamorous cigarette. The first instant of the eruption is hottest. A white spot on the screen, a burning coal. Temperatures recorded by the camera are relative and have to be corrected for, but a measurement of 240°C is the highest I’ve seen.

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The bomberos are a friendly bunch, and because their shifts rotate, over the course of our two days here we’ll meet nine of them. It is interesting to see how they interact with each other, and with us. Some are playful, like a group of schoolkids on a holiday – the second shift gleefully hold burping and farting contests, and drag their mattresses around the fire sleepover-style. These cool kids are exceptionally warm, and turf us out to the screen room under the pretence that it is comfier there. I would argue with them – except that they maintain the wood-burning fire, which presumably means that they can lift pine trunks and handle an axe. Moreover, some of the bomberos are in a bad mood. They can’t hide their disgruntlement at being here (it’s a mandatory part of their work) and spend all day hunched in an armchair, watching The Walking Dead on tiny iPhone screens. Still other bomberos are very curious. One takes an interest in me being Scottish, and tells me about a guy called John Stevenson who used to work with Nick at CIIV and played the bagpipes. The firemen may not be interested in volcanology, but they are good sports.

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What I enjoy most at Nevado is that there are always surprises. Even when monitoring for 48 hours constantly, sharing responsibility between three people means that there is only 16 hours of work each for every day; and so when we are not marking time, we’re killing it. Alex’s pack of Monopoly Deal, played in never-ending rounds, goes down like a storm; I sketch the mountains and write about what we’re doing, which surprisingly amounts to a couple of thousand words of text. On a craggy ridge the refugio is isolated but we can wander around: to the weather station on the nearby hill, to our infrasound that we have set up below, and of course there is the mountain itself. Only three hundred metres higher than us – surely it can’t be that difficult to summit?

James and I begin at 3 p.m. of our second day, lathered in sunscreen and carrying only water. Alex is left to take care of the equipment, and we promise to return in three hours. Our trip up the mountain guarantees him the same time off duty the following day, should he wish to take it.

The first part of the route is a difficult scramble up behind the refugio, with a stack of enormous aerials ahead of us. The knife-ridge is narrow and windswept and made more treacherous by the distractingly beautiful views to both left and right – left, into Jalisco, with Ciudad Guzmán in the bottom of the rift valley and pine trees in the foreground; and right, into Colima, towards the city and home, with Volcán de Colima standing proudly in front. We clamber our way among the rocks and scramble down a mighty cliff, not falling but landing, quite anticlimactically, on soft, powdery earth. We have hit the ash fall.

There is a faint thread of path through this lunar landscape and we follow it towards the hulking behemoth of rock. In mid-afternoon sun the western face of Nevado is made rugged and handsome. After we reach the footwall of rock our path dies out, and we must create our own. We run into two other hikers, a couple of Americans who are studying in Guadalajara, and we exchange chat – all of us are mystified as to where we’re supposed to go to reach the summit. They’re tired and James and I leave them in the dust, carrying on ahead to God knows where. Suddenly, there it is: just under a rocky shoulder, a cairn, and a couple of straight poles of bamboo. That must be a sign. We ascend the final part of the mountain by these strange markers, and the top marks the same: a metal crucifix, with crumpled bracelets tied round and the tattered remains of a Mexican flag.

The view at the top is breath-taking, in many ways. At 4286 metres, the air is reed-thin. The final hundred metres of ascent were steep, and we take a few minutes to catch our breaths. The altitude has caught us, but the view makes up for it. In all directions we can see, into two states simultaneously, towards the sea to our south and to both sides of the rift valley, east and west, and even to Guadalajara, to our north. The distant hills are a uniform shade of blue, as finely cut as glass at the summit, but rubbed out to an indistinct white near the base. The sole summit untouched by the heat is the volcano to our south. Not five minutes after we have topped out, a plume of smoke streams out from the top. It’s perfect.

James and I return to the refugio, famished. It’s near the end of our second day so there isn’t a lot of food left to eat. I remember that we brought up a bag of marshmallows to toast on the fire, and wonder idly where they are. Next afternoon, just before leaving, the truth is revealed. I am doing a final sweep-round of the refugio for leftover possessions and/or tequila, and decide to check the screen room. I find two of the bomberos on the leather sofa, cuddled together under a blanket, watching an episode of Friends. Just as I ask them about the marshmallows, I spy a crumpled polythene bag on the counter, clearly recently enjoyed. I tell them they've eaten my candy. Their looks of dismay are almost sincere. There’s something rather sweet about thinking of bomberos snuffling bombónes.

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It’s three o’clock on our third day, and beyond time for us to go. We load our equipment into the back of the truck, and head down the narrow track to our ordinary world. We are swelled with our success, with 48 hours of successfully gathered footage, a mountain summited, and a fair few laughs. The sun shines and we bounce along the road, singing along to music on Alex’s phone. A few small divots on the road ahead – only minor potholes. We roll over them, spring up and sag down, and the Toyota makes the strangest squelch. The cab keels. We go out and inspect the route. Only a minor pothole, but it has sheared our axle clean off! We’re 14 kilometres from proper civilization, and the cell phone reception is patchy. As we try to contact our friends back in Colima, we prepare ourselves for a long wait; out comes the Monopoly Deal. It’s been an intense 48 hours of adventure here at Nevado de Colima, and it appears that there is more to come.