Mexicans - they eat food

OK, so here I go on the mass generalisation that makes the world go round and also initiates wars. From what I've discovered Mexican food revolves primarily around the soft corn flour tortilla (floppy flat round bread), whatever they may dress it up as. The other intregal part of Mexican cuisine is refried beans, a bit like baked beans that have been stewed for a long time, are a chocolate colour and don't taste of processed 'tomato' sauce...so nothing like baked beans. The third commonality in all Mexican food is that you will end up wearing a lot of it, on your face (resulting in gringo chin), down your arm, in your lap, wherever.

Pants' guide to Mexican fayre

1. Tacos (beans on side): Open soft tortilla loaded with as much as you can pack in; prime cause of gringo chin.
Brit equivalent: Pie & Chips

2. Quesadillas (beans on side): Basically same as tacos with a cheese element; can be a bit flattened as if accidentally coming into contact with chef's elbow.
Brit equivalent: Cheese & Veg Pie & Chips

3. Enchiladas (beans on side): Rolled tortilla (i.e. a closed taco, you see?) covered in an improbably red coloured chilli sauce; troublesome finger food, recommend cutlery.
Brit equivalent: Pie, Chips & Gravy

4. Burritos (beans within and on side): Rolled tortilla incoporating a beany element.
Brit equivalent: Pie, Chips & Beans

5. Tostadas (beans on side): Flat tortilla that are crispy and covered in a topping (in short a taco that has been left out in the sun).
British equivalent: Burnt Pie & Chips

6. Queso Fundido (beans on side): (see Quesadillas)

There are a thousand other variations with assorted names like Flantas, Molletes, Sincronzada, Flacoyo, all have either beans within or on the side and are tortillas with stuff in them.

Pants' guide on where to eat Mexican food

Taco stands. End of story. These are the greasy cafes of Mexico and like greasy cafes can be very fine indeed.To spot a goodie look for the tell-tale signs:

A. A crowd, preferably not angry or agitated, that's a mob and can mean the complete opposite of what you're seeking.

B. A good name like 'Tacos Grande', 'Tacos Buena', 'Las 1000 Tacos' (shouldn't be a supply issue there) or 'Fat Bob's'.

C. Dogs - well, come on, if they're around the stand, they're not in the tacos, capiche!

D. Plenty of 'additions'. This is the whole point, loading up your tacos with an endless supply of salsa, guacamole, innocent looking chilli sauce that burns the roof of your mouth off etc.

E. A gritty clientelle - they are usually taco shack regulars and the most discerning. Note - do not attempt to wipe anyone else's chin. Bad form!

The Pacific - it's unnaturally blue!

Sept 22-27, 2006: Ajijic - Mazatlan
After three delightfully relaxing days availing myself of Jim & Bettina's hospitality, catching up with family news, being taken out for breakfast, lunch and dinner, drinking more fruit & veg juice than I had previously done in my entire life and generally being spoilt, it was time to move on. It was clear from my woeful 'planning' (yeah yeah, Iwan, cork it sonny!) that a complete lap of Mexico was a little bit unrealistic. Instead of biting off more than I could chew, I decided the Pacific coast and Baja California Sur were destinations 'A' & 'B', mainly as I was looking for some high quality and intense loafing along with a chance to go diving and this plan seemed to fit the bill. After all, this section of the trip had been earmarked for 'wind down', right? (Errr...which bit of this trip is earmarked for intense activity and hard graft?)

So off I set by bus again heading for Mazatlan (not to be confused with Matalan, a whole different kettle of fish altogether). It's a Mexican (as opposed to being overrun by Americans) resort town on the middle of the western coast. It's also where I could get a ferry over the Sea of Cortez to the Baja peninsula. The descent from the central highlands north west towards the coast was impressive and you could see the vegetation and landscape change from upland temperate to coastal tropical, Mazatlan being on the Tropic of Cancer. I'm sure, had it not been for the teeth chattering air con, I could have felt the skip in the thermometer too. [Memo to self: take sweatshirt on air conditioned buses in future for fear of hypothermia.]

I had a day to kill in Mazatlan waiting for the next ferry so wandered around the town with a view to setting my eyes on the Pacific Ocean for the very first time. I was excited. Following my guide book map of the town I headed west through the colonial quarter. At the end of the street (Flores) was the wide Pacific Ocean in all its glory. There it was, this amazing cobalt blue strip in the distance, a quite uncommon colour, especially given the leaden sky. I was amazed. And above the fantasic coloured sea there's a dirty grey streak, perhaps that's the Baja peninsula in the very distance. But the Baja's 18hrs away by ferry, surely that can't be right? And sure enough it wasn't. The eye catching blue strip was the concrete promenade and the dirty grey smear was the Pacific Ocean. I sat down to take in the majesty of it all anyway and a giant cockroach dropped from nowhere onto my leg and got me all dancing about and slappig my thigh like some crazed latino Bavarian. Ah well.

Tio Jim The Strawberry King

Sept 21, 2006: Mexico City - Ajijic, Guadalajara
I woke up early, bright 'n' breezy, full of beans and vigour as I usually do after drinking too much the night before. Robert & Anne, not content with chaperoning me around the city the night before had agreed to escort me to the bus station. I think they were convinced by the cunning cloak of vulnerability that I don in these situations to attract assistance. So after breakfast of huevo ranchero (fried eggs and soggy tortilla smothered in chilli sauce - always good to challenge your stomach the morning after the night before), off we set.

The bus ride to Tio Jim's in Ajijic south of Guadalajara was an eye opening eight hours! This gave me plenty of time to stare out of the window, feeling queezy and regretting my spicy & greasy breakfast. Mexico is a big place and I think I may have underestimated its size. I mean Mexico City to Guadalajara looked like a short hop, barely over a thumb's length in the Collins Atlas of the World. Eight hours! Bloody hell.

Still, I made it OK and without peeing myself which was a bonus - there was a loo on the bus which I have to say was state of the art (mainly the bus, not so much the loo) complete with video screens showing a western. The gunfight scenes were particularly painful on my strangely sensitive ears and head.

So Tio Jim, who is he and what does he do? Strictly speaking he's my second cousin i.e. my mum's cousin. I don't know how old he is, maybe my mum's age, mid-60s. He left Britain after studying law at King's London and seemed to have a serious case of wanderlust. Jim had always wanted to be a farmer not a lawyer but that career is a little bit closed to someone coming from the suburbs of Liverpool and without the prerequisite land to farm. After a stunted attempt to be a Common Market lawyer in Paris courtesy of de Gaulle giving the UK the thumbs down on Euro entry, he traveled about the place, to start with working in law firms but later on just journeying. Part of this journey was undertaken in a Chrysler Apline from Vancouver, Canada down through the United States, Central and South America ending in Santiago, Chile. Apparently at one point Jim was sleeping in the car in the Zocalo of some fragile banana republic when a military coup happened all around him. Very considerate not to wake the slumbering Limey. The wee British sports car was then freighted back to the Chilean Embassy in Washington. I didn't get to the bottom of why that was, perhaps someone was wondering where it had got to.

From there Jim travelled to South Africa, up through Africa, over to India and through what is now Afghanistan and Iran, ending in Jordan. All this was undertaken using boat, train, bus, camel train and hitched ride in a Rolls Royce Phantom. Through a university contact Jim found himself back in Mexico in the early seventies doing something with sugar cane. I presume processing it and exporting sugar rather than twisting it into animal shapes. From this point it was only a short hop to starting up his own strawberry processing and export business and like a lot of organic things, it grew.

So Jim's not really a strawberry farmer as much as a buyer, processor and seller of frozen strawberries, blackberries, concentrated lime juice and more recently fresh mango. You could call him Jim 'Man From Del Monte' Rigby.

Jim's the one on the left by the way

Jim & wife Bettina. Jim is caught in rare moment of banana worship. He would be ruined if word got out.

Jim at the centre of strawberry operations - Strawberry Towers (or should that be Fields?)

This is where Jim del Monte relaxes, as did I.

One for the dog lovers to go 'Aaaaah' over - Negro (as in Spanish for black!?), the massive black Canadian Labrador.

Bettina's life giving blend of fruit and vegetable juices - the secret to Tio Jim's uncanny vitality and super human strength.

Arse cheeks abandoned on beach

It's amazing what people leave behind on the beach. A pair of arse cheeks, just nonchalantly discarded without a care in the world. Really! Joe, you're a brave man for picking them up.

Mexico City - the biggest in the world...

...I think. Some spoddy human geographer sort (like Dan) can correct me if I'm wrong but I think it's 22 million, which makes it a big old place and probably the biggest city in the world. So what do you do on a flight to a megatropolis like that, a heaving throng of foreign bodies, all jabbering away in a different language with a different culture; in short a daunting place to land at 10pm? What I did was get drunk on the plane. Yeah, nice one Pants!

As always it wasn't really my fault. I mean at $5 a sniff, drinking booze on United can be an expensive business. But I wasn't paying, I was simply availing myself of the free wine that was coming back from first class and being redirected to my fold down tray courtesy of a charming air stewardess (or whatever they're called these days). I think she was conducting some social experiment or something because I don't recall asking for it. Result: I got a bit pished.

Oh yeah, this was after I came as close to wetting myself as I ever have without actually doing it. I mean, I have actually wet myself a few times. Haven't we all? In fact I've probably done it more than most - laughing so hard whilst staying at Cameron Allen's house I spat Golden Nuggets out of my nose and wet my PJs; another time trying not to show myself up in front of Perrin McCormick I decided not to pee in the street coming back from the student union bar only to pee myself when I got scratched by a cat she had stopped to stroke - impressive. And I'm not the only one, I later learnt that Will Anderson wet himself in his sleep on his first night in Mexico City (allegedly), he claimed it was from jet lag...hmmm, and as for John 'The Baptist' McCann his self-peeing stories are legendary so I was in good company. No this near miss was on the plane and was simply a product of too much coffee and water at Washington airport and the pilot not turning the seat belt light off until about an hour after take off. I should have simply got up out of my seat and explained that my back teeth were floating but I seem to have an overt and probably unhealthy respect for authority.

I digress. So Mexico City airport, by now about 11pm and I'm a bit giddy. I was having trouble filling in my immigration form - the print was so small and badly printed I think and someone had clearly coated the form in butter or something as it kept slipping out of my hand. At this point I met two French assistants in the form of Robert & Anne who, having been to Mexico City before, helped me fill out the form, guided me onto the underground, took me to my hotel that I had had the foresight to pre-book and then we all went out for...errr...some more drinks that were strictly a little unneccessary for me. I've always liked the French. Robert & Anne, I can't thank you enough! Robert bore an uncanny resemblance to Robert de Niro as well, which entertained me greatly...for some reason.

Farewell dear friends, I'm going to miss you

For even the most trusty old friends the time inevitably comes when you have to say 'I'm going to have to let you go'. In this case it's the Old Dogs - my New Balance, chocolate brown, nubuck, old skool trainers. So long dear chums, but we've had some good times though haven't we? Do you remember that nightclub in Prague when Radar was asked to get down off the bar and stop dancing as that space was reserved for beautiful people? Genius. And what about the bike ride from Frome to the Isle of Purbeck when we saw the Cerne Abbas (i.e. the giant with the big knob)? You were great. And tramping around the streets of Seville at night with Claire, lost for about two and a half hours? Yeah, good times we shared. So long, I'm going to miss you guys. Be free.

David Bellamy - he's not just a beardy twat

What can I say about the visit to my brother's in Atlanta? Well, not too much other than I realised David Bellamy was right, bug hunting is the way forward. I shall never again discount a poor bearded fool that worships the slimy trail of the snail or the miniature knitted mound of a worm cast. It's good fun, simple and wholesome - that's it. No no no, you don't kill anything, just snag and release. Don't believe me? Try it you doubter! Get a little lunch box sized container and go bug hunting. In the words of Dr Pepper, 'What's the worst that can happen?'

[Errr...eaten by a radio actively deformed centipede that gets the hump over the fact you're looking up his/her skirt with a powerful magnifying glass? The disclaimer: David Bellamy accepts all responsibility for those that are 'taken down' by some member of arthropoda as a result of Pants 'I think they're made of Crimpolene' Spratt's incessant bleatings.]

Sprattles of Atlanta

So here I am visiting my brother and his family (Victoria [wife], Karena 5, Luke 3 & Faith 3 [twins]). Chris (aka Diff) met me at the airport and despite the three years that had past since we were last together I recognised him and he recognised me. He hadn't changed in those three years (I had to have a quiet word with him about personal hygiene...ho ho ho!). He made an observational comment about my grey hair. Hmmm, thanks! At least he wasn't wearing cowboy boots and a Stetson hat as he has been known to do.

Victoria likewise hadn't changed a lot since the last time we met, which was at Dad's funeral over six years ago! I did look for the picture in the attic that was ageing on her behalf but all I found was a kilo of marijuana (joking!!!).

The kids on the other hand had changed immeasurably. This was because I had never met them and going from nothing to something is about as big a change as you can get...I think. Yup, I think it is.

Here's some pics of the motley bunch of Sprattles. To use an untrue expression from our youth courtesy of Jimmy Alexander - 'Look at the Spratt children, aren't they ugly?!' Errr...no actually but thanks Jimmy and Gawd bless ya!

United - the Sleazy Jet of transatlantic flying

So there I was on United 919 bound for Washington DC, USA. The trip had finally begun! Here let me make some observations about United Air. Now, for me flying is flying, there's little point in paying a premium for a more fluffy blanket or for staff with a more jazzy uniform. Planes get you there. However United really are a bit crap. OK, I can put up with paying $5 ('...and I'm sorry we do not accept currency other than US dollars') for a can of beer but I do think toilets that work are essential on flights over 45mins!

All this was on top of getting upgraded to Economy Plus or some such nonsense. In reality all this meant was that the seating was less full of people than in true economy. Quite frankly, you can keep your Economy Plus and give me a working dunny!

The ying to this yang is Channel 9 on in-flight entertainment. This lets you hear what the pilot is saying on the radio to air traffic control and also all the other banter on the air waves. Quite a natty feature, even if it's a bit nerdy. I was amazed by air traffic control and how absolutely frenetic it is. As we took off you had this sweet voiced angel of an air traffic controller commanding seven or eight planes, giving them vector and altitude requirements along with weather reports and tips for the 3:45 race at Chester, at a talking speed that would put a cattle auctioneer to shame.

There's also another benefit of Channel 9. As someone that gets a little bit anxious when the plane hits turbulence, generally thinking it more sinisiter than it actually is, you have direct accesss to any MayDay call that the pilot might make. No MayDay - no problem as far as I'm concerned. Obviously there are situations where you may not want to hear exactly what's going on.

Pilot: 'United nine-one-nine'
ATC: 'Go ahead United nine-one-nine'
Pilot: 'It seems one of our wings has fallen off'
ATC: 'Oh dear, that's a shocker!'

Being privvy to that type of information has its downsides, quite literally. I think ignorance would be bliss in that situation. Still, Channel 9 eh?

Last supper

So I've moved my stuff out and Jo's moved her stuff in. That night I'm a guest in what was my flat, the following day I'm leaving the country. Not before the last supper though, courtesy of Ros & Biggles.

Bole and me fearfully late on account of traffic and my mistaking 'Graham Ave' for 'Graham Rd'. I mean, who puts two street called 'Graham' next to each other. Errr...Mitcham Borough Council? Rain teeming down not helping matters. Bole nearly punches me out! Delightful evening after that though.

Here's a snap of the darling couple and also one of me and Bole after entertaining ourselves with Biggles' Nose Operated Peep Show, the result of which is unbeknowst blusher applied to the cheeks. Need more explanation? See his website.

From whence they came they return

The boxes, The Boxes, THE BOXES!! I moved them in under duress - complaints from Ma that they were cluttering up her attic. Better her attic than my bedroom but she was insistent. Five years later it seemed they were destined once again for her attic, unopened and untroubled by human hand or eye in all that time. Didn't even have a clue what was in them. They were such a comfortable feature, haphazardly balanced around the bedroom, I forgot they were there. Others however never failed in reminding me. Hmmm. The time had come to rifle through them and rationalise.

I donned full N.B.C. suit - one should always be prepared for whatever one may encounter in cardboard boxes and for all I knew they contained Saddam's ellusive Weapons of Mass Destruction.

In truth they contained nothing more dangerous than mountains of paper that shoud have been filed, leaky pens and a pair of curly toed slippers from Rajasthan (amongst other assorted gubbins that filled up the six boxes or so). I spent hours upon hours, nay days tearing up paper into indecipherable confetti [Memo to self: buy shredder next time].

So, with the help of Jo, my clobber was shifted back to Ma's and the sun was surely setting on the Borough Bunker era...for now.

Pic of Ma, me & Harry on the day of the shift, Ma managing to smile through gritted teeth at receiving the unwanted consignment of chatels. Bless.

Bat fangs

The things people can lose on the beach. I mean your top set, fair enough but your toy Batman, well really, it's an outrage!!

Feast yer pies

Ooooh pics. Oooh dear.

Notice the attmepted Anders Frisk Salute from Simon. Truly you are one of us. I'll let the rest speak for themselves!

Ros (another Ros) and Biggles during the strange gravity anomaly.

My head's fizzing from trying to figure this out. I'm going to lie down.

The story cont. - leaving unpreparations

I was rudely awoken on my first day of 'freedom from the shackles of coporate bondage' by the phone ringing off the wall. It was Iwan of course. He suggested I wasn't going to make lunch with him as it was now 12:30pm, the agreed time for lunch, and he had plainly woken me from my fitful slumbers. Ooops. My head hurt from the inside and from without and I had a goodly bruise on my right forearm and hand. Nice one. A sign of things to come perhaps?

By the way, I had chosen to end my period of paid employment on a Thursday so I had Friday off, thereby giving myself a long weekend. I realised that with unemployment stretching infront of me like a wide and scary ocean, that was a mangled concept.

So, I had two weeks to get my act together: book a ticket round the world, clear my flat out from the boxes that seemed to adorn my bedroom and hadn't been touched since I moved into the flat five years ago, buy some magic tricks, try and squeeze as much high jinks and high balls in with friends as I could and generally close my account with London Life.

So that Saturday I walked into a deserted City branch of Trailfinders where I was helped by a stout youg fellow called Jonathan Legge. At first I think he was a little irritated by my answers to his questions of 'Where would you like to go and for how long?', these being most often 'Dunno' and 'Not sure' respectively. I'm sure he had me down as a timewasting gibbon but he persisted galantly and after an hour and a half of noodling through the vagaries of assorted airlines (and managing to wring some locations and dates out of me) we had an itinerary. [See below.] Well, 'Carpe Diem' has never been a familiar catch phrase of mine but I Carped the Diem pretty well and walked out in possession of a round the world ticket with Star Alliance. D-Day - Thur Sèpt 14, 2006. This gave me 12 days to procrastinate and panic.

Somehow, but mainly due to the firm guiding hand of Jo who was taking over my flat (and at times you could call it arse kicking), things came together pretty well with not too many pre-departure jobs dropping off the bottom of the To-Do list other than innoculations (a mere trifle I think you will agree).

One of the things as an Englishman that you should always do before embarking on an overseas voyage of some length (any length in fact) is to load up your memory banks with the varieties of British ales, their different tastes and hues, their bouquets and their dizzying effects. That way in times of gloom, when all that is available is fermented tapioca leaves strained through the sacrimonial sock of the village elder, you can look back, think of a cool, nutty brew with a light creamy head and smile (then of course get get stuck into Tapioca-sock-juice with gusto). One of the best ways to 'load up' is at a beer festival and there's none better that I've been to (and let me say, I have never been to a bad one) than the Chappel Beer Festival in Essex. What's even better is that it's run in the old sheds and workshops of a railway museum so there's plenty to look at other than the beards, Arran sweaters and sandals. Come on, we all love trains and you can actually sit and sup in the old carriages! Actually, to be fair we did see a woman there or perhaps it was a man without a beard. Same thing in those circles. I naturally was sporting a fine beard of worryingly russet tone. Many thanks to Ads & Danny for a top evening and I shall be sure to be back next year in time for a repeat trip, mark my words.

So onto my formal leaving bash on Sat 9 Sept, 2006 which was held at the traditional Royal Oak in Borough, I mean where else, it is (was) my local after all. Frank the landlord was suitably anxious his retirement fund was going to dry up in my abscence and so we tried to top up his coffers that night to make up for it. Many thanks to all those who came along (sample of pics above), appreciate it immensely and special thanks to Biggles for the magic tricks that were, well, simply magic and enchanted young an not so young alike.

Things went downhill past the witching hour with a dwindling body of revellers moving on to the less salubrious surroundings of The Dover Castle and then three stalwarts who shall remain nameless for fear of jeopardising future public office (Baz and Martin 'How Very Dare You' Grix...errr...and me) were seen in Belushi's on Borough High Street mingling with the Arabian Princes and Norwegian Coronettas that frequent that high class establishment. The three stooges were also seen stumbling about, shouting 'Up The Jihad', mooning like great fools into the camera lense, being told to stop running about madly by a passing police car and wrestling in the street like common rakes. Once again I awoke with a sore head and numerous UDIs.

[Right, time once again to call it a day. Soon, very soon I hope, I might get round to writing about some of the travel element of my trip...hopefully before it's ended! Oh and photos are proving very tricky to figure out. I tried setting up some Yahoo Photos do dah to no avail - need to install some photo viewer. Have patience. If you've read this far you clearly have the patience of Jobe.]

Major Fraud!

Out with A.W.T. and Hey Ho Here We Go with Major Charles Ingram. What a scholar and a gent. More look-a-likies as and when. (Really should put my energies into getting this bus up to speed.)

OK, time to get the story straight

So, what's this all about, really? It's a travelogue I guess, much that the idea of telling the world all about what I'M up to (look at ME ME ME!!!) smacks of narcisism, self obsession and doesn't really appeal. However, it is a rather convenient way to keep family and friends informed of the fact that I was still alive at least at the time of my last post, where I am (or was when I last updated this thing) and where to send the money coz I've had my wallet stolen\blown all my cash on painted trollopes...again. (Bad Pants!)

So how come I've ended up in this position? Well, I think simple boredom with the traditional working model of the late 20th\early 21st century - sit behind a desk for 8.5 hrs a day, stare at a computer monitor and do little good to man nor beast, take two blocks of two weeks holiday a year, die a slow and quiet death. Decided, after a lot of badgering from certain friends (Iwan for the last year or so, Adam for the past 10 years!), to resign my position of Marketing Communications Manager (whatever that bollox really means) for small Camden, London based legal publishers and hit the road for an indefinite period. My ticket does say I'm returning to Blighty on April 24th 2007 though. Maybe. Maybe sooner. Maybe later but that's the fun: not really having a fixed itinerary.

So this saw me handing in my notice at the end of July with a GeTFOOH (Get The F#ck Out Of Here) date of Aug 31 2006. Another two weeks for getting my shit together, sorting out the flat, having the big Becket House Car Park Give Away, packing some smalls, buying some magic tricks, having six farewell knees-ups, that type of thing - that sugested me leaving the country on Sept 14th 2006. No going back.

I shan't go into the sordid details of all the leaving drinks (errr...actually I will) other than to describe a few highlights. 12 years of diligent employment at work saw me awarded a notebook, a pack of Bic biros, an electronic travel games machine and a voucher for Dixons. Not that I'm a total ingrate but put it this way, the first three items didn't actually make it out of the office with me. Works leaving drinks saw me giddy with excitement right up to the point I was simply giddy with booze. Everyone was buying me shots and I did warn them that I would not be responsible for the consequences, although nobody seemed to step up and take responsibility for the staggering fool with an egg on his head after falling down the stairs to the loo at Quinns in Camden. A kindly soul did prevent me from simply sleeping in the street outside the pub where they found me curled up and bedded down for the night.

They: "You can't sleep here, come on, I'll get you a cab from inside the pub."
My replied: "But I'm very comfortable and was really enjoying that sleep."

Sense prevailed (from them at least) and instead of being left to the whims of Kentish Town's knaves and footpads, I was poured into a cab pointing in a southerly direction. My last memory was witnessing a clandestine office romance being forged on the pub forecourt and also someone on all fours being sick in the gutter. Glad others were suffering as much as me. So ended my career to date.

[Right, beach is calling, friends Joe & Dominique to meet, surf to enjoy, and a hunt for fearlessly large prawns to embark on. More of the 'story-to-date' later. For now, hasta luego from Baja Mexico.]

Dog's breakfast in a wok!

OK, so who's the joker that's added a picture of THE twat Anthony Worral Thompson to my profile? Soooo funny! Give yourself a gold star.