NATATE

Our main aim in coming to San Cristobal de las Casas has been to visit Natate, a partner organisation of UNA Exchange. We have been very well looked after by the Mexican staff and the volunteers. We have visited a private alternative school, a street school, sustainable development project, an ecological park, a Mayan Medicine Museum. Tomorrow we are returning there, with basil and an egg so I can have soul healing.
There are volunteers from France, Italy, Belgium, Czech Republic and elsewhere, but no British volunteers. This is an excellent place to volunteer. You can come for two weeks on a work camp, or up to a year on a range of social, educational and environmental projects. Theres no upper age limit. You can learn Spanish for 40 pesos an hour (about two pounds fifty) in the language school next door, run by the Italian woman responsible for setting up Natate a few years ago The town is lively, lots going on, very pretty and elegant, culturally and historically important and interesting, and many tourists. We have felt very safe here. Mexican people are friendly and helpful. Theres also lots you can give and contribute. And lots to learn. Tomorrow we will be meeting with the Director to talk about how we take forward two-way volunteering between Wales and Mexico.
Then, we àre off on a fifteen hour bus journey to Mexico City before heading home on the 3rd of May.
Finally, we just heard from Larry. He hàs seen his first hummingbird of the season, humming and hovering on his jasmine. The Aztecs believed that the hummingbird was the spirit of a warrior and they were prized as talismen, representing vigour, vitality, and power. It seems a fitting symbol for Larry s return to his own home..

THE IRISH & ZAPATISTAS

Tuesday 4.30pm. Hotel of the Half Moon
I am so excited. I can not quite believe what I have just experienced. Rhys and I took an alternative tour to the usual tourist trail. We had a young Social Anthropologist as a guide and visited the regional HQ of the Chiapas Zapatista Movement. Inspired by the revolutionary Emiliano Zapata, this movement started in 1994,  overpowering the local municapality and police for thirty ours but managing to negotiate an agreement on the rights of the indigenous peoples. The people fought with sticks. Over 600 were killed and around the same number police and army.
It is still trying to get these rights recognised, but this movement is still very much alive. They work and organise themselves quite separately and autonomously from the Mexican Government.
We drove for about an hour into the mountains and stopped at what looked like an ordinary village. The difference was that the women dressed in traditional Mayan costumes were also wearing black woolen balaclavas. Our passports were checked and we were led into a small room. Behind the table three men in black balaclavas took our details, writing them down carefully on what looked like a home made scrap book. Black eyes peered at us without any real curiosity. They àre used to Gringos visiting. The next stop was another hut, where six people, four women and two men in balaclavas welcomed us as comrades-campaneros. Again our details were taken, three writing meticulously in exercise books and we were given permission to take photos of the murals but not anyone else and not the cars. We sat on a bench in front of them like we were being granted an audience with the Pope or the IRA. In fact above their table were photos and flags, images of Che Guevara and Zapata, and a green silk kipper tie, with the inscription,
Kiss me I m Irish.
We were told about the Zapatistas. I cant remember much of what was said through our translator, except, we àre still here, struggling for our rights to social justice, freedom and peace. Half of the reception committee were falling asleep in the heat. The temperature must have been in the 90s.
Our guide took us round the village. Those wearing balaclavas were volunteers coming from other villages and were part of the organising authorities. We saw a secondary school, where education is focused on cultural tradition-these communities are indigenous Mayans- history, culture, revolutionary change, leadership,and organic guardianship.  We visited handicraft cooperatives, a clinic and we photographed all the murals we could. 
I hàve just read in my Rough Guide that being in or near the conflict zone invites suspicion of taking part in political activities-illegal for foreigners-and can lead to deportation.
If it does it will have been well worth it.

SAN CRISTOBAL DE LAS CASAS

Sunday evening 9pm.  Hotel Media Luna.
Well, this is going to be interesting. I am using the hotel s computer. It is linked to another keyboard. Both are Spanish and a lot of the keys donàt work or work differently, as you can see. So this blog will be full of typos, so apologies in advance.
The journey from San Miguel de Allende to San Cristobal de las Casas took nealy 24 hours with a long stop in Mexico City North Bus Station. It is spacious and clean, not like poky old Victoria so we felt quite safe sitting and biding our time. We travelled from Mexico City by night and woke up to a misty dawn over the most stunning scenary-semi tropical and mountainous, very different from the plains of Central Mexico
We are here mainly to meet people and visit projects run by UNA Exchange s partner organisation, Natate. On the first evening the young staff and volunteers did a presentation about their work and yesterday we visited a school, where a young French man and an Italian woman are working. It is an alternative private school, a bit like Steiner and I had the sense that both would like to be working with indigenous, more needy children. On his own initiative, the French man, who is just 19 and on a gap year, has set up, with an Irish guy, an evening school for children who are working during the day. It is held on the streets and we àre hoping to drop in. Young boys polish shoes and little girls, often followed by younger brothers and sisters sell handicrafts. Our children dont know they àre born. Tomorrow, we àre hoping to visit three projects, two are environmental and the other a museum for Mayan medicinal plants.
San Cristobal de las Casas is a lively little town surrounded by limestone hills with the Rio Grijalva running by. Today we went on  a boat trip through The Sumidero canyon, full of Egrest, Vultures and Pelicans. We even saw some crocodiles!.  The town was designed as a Spanish stronghold against an often hostile indigenous population. In 1994, there was an uprising  in the spirit of Emiliano Zapata, led by a pipe smoking balaclavaed Commandent.  Even now, there are signs everywhere, Action not words. The Mayans are the predominant indigenous group and it would seem that there is still a lot of discrmination against them.
Yesterday, we visited the home of Trudy Blom, a Swiss journalist and photographer, who died at the age of around 95, in 1993, and who recorded the faces of the indigenous people of the Lacandon rain forest, particularly the women who fought in the 1910 revolution Her house is known as Na Bolom. In the local language, Bolom means Jaguar, which has special powers as a spiritual messenger between this and the other world. When she and her husband, a Danish Archaeologist, first arrived there was a misunderstanding about their name. The local people heard Bolom rather than Blom, and so this gave her a great start in the respect department. She is still highly regarded for the work she did to protect and advocate for the rights of these people who were never colonised by the Spanish.. Their house became known as The House of the Jaguar.

FAREWELL NAGU RAO & SAN MIGUEL DE ALLENDE

Tonight, is our last night in Larry's palace. It's eight thirty and just dark. There's jasmine and lemon blossom perfume wafting in through the open patio doors.  The only sounds are the cicadas and the odd dog wishing his pals, 'Buenas Nochtes'. I'm on my third Margarita. Well, it is our last night.
I've had awful problems with my lap top. It's been fading and taking for ever so today I popped into an internet cafe to pick up my emails and chanced to look into my Counselling Cardiff account. I found some shocking and devastating news. Nagu Rao, a dear person, who I trained with at the start of my career as a counsellor in 1994-5 has suffered a heart attack after a clot on the brain and has died suddenly. She was a loyal and committed friend, highly intelligent and fun loving, who had first trained in India as a chemist, then a lawyer, and in Newport at the University of Wales as a counsellor. She was very active in the Hindu community and on the board of various voluntary organisations, including 'People in Partnership.'  She described herself as 'a Welsh Indian', and even phoned us while on holiday in Dallas on St David's Day to wish Rhys, 'Dydd Gwyl Dewi Sant Hapus!' I will miss her greatly and our heart goes out to her dear husband, Raj.
Today, we also said goodbye to Larry. We took him out for lunch to show our appreciation for letting us house-sit even when his plans had changed and Equador was off. He could have cancelled but he didn't and although he was gracious about house-sitting his friend's house, supervising the installation of a new septic tank, it was clear today that he was greatly looking forward to getting home and being able to sleep in his own bed.  His motives it would seem have been entirely honourable. He hasn't asked us for anything extra than what was originally agreed; that is we pay the Maid's weekly visit, and we reckon he could even be out of pocket as we've also used three weeks of gas, electricity and water and then there's the wear and tear  on his furniture and hosuehold goods. 
Being someone's house sitter is a strange relationship. It's not like staying with a friend. You're giving a service albeit in our case, very miniscule. Larry's been very friendly and amenable but he hasn't introduced us to any of his friends or taken us places.  Not that we expected him to at all, but that's the difference.  And what friend would have you stay for three weeks and move out?   So, here's to Larry, the Archangel of San Miguel de Allende.     Oh, and what was that you said Larry, about visiting Europe next June? 
Tomorrow, we take a couple of buses down south, to San Cristobal de las Casas. We are going to visit projects run by Natate Voluntariado Internationale. The organisation runs work camps and projects that British volunteers participate in. I am a trustee of a partner organisation in Wale called UNA Exchange that sends and hosts international volunteers and we want to promote the work of Natate back home. The journey will take over 24hours and we're not sure yet where we'll be staying. One thing's for sure it won't be like Larry's place. Still, it will be another adventure. Just like going up to Shetland.  . . Er, but not quite.

BUS & BAPTISM AT ATOTONILCO

Yesterday was Sunday and the town had a real holiday feel about it. Young families strolling about: Dad in front followed by Mum and two or three small children, wide eyed and excited. People like to eat lunch out here on Sundays and the stalls and roadside restaurants were full of groups loving each other's company , laughing and enjoying the hundred and one ways to eat a tortilla. The covered market downtown is a bit like Pontypridd market. It's a mixture of fruit and vegetables, baby clothes, CDs, shoes, flowers, more CDs & DVDs, raw chicken, watches, handicrafts, cactus, toys & lots of women's fashion. Working women were having their hair streaked or styled.  'Can't imagine Ponty hairdressers opening on Sundays.
We'd decided to visit Atotonilco, a dusty village about ten miles from San Miguel de Allende. It's famous because of the church, Sanctuario del Jesus Nazareno, newly declared World Heritage by UNESCO. Here it's called a temple. It's ceiling are covered in murals, the conquisadors are pictured giving Jesus vinegar on a sponge. Some call it the Mexican Sistine Chapel. It's name means 'place of hot water' as it's near to Gruta hot springs.
So we went looking for the bus. It took sometime, asking lots of people, for us to understand that where the first bus had dropped us was the correct place to get the bus out of town to Atotonilco. This bus had a different system from the ones we've been on. You pay when you get off the bus and you don't get a ticket. I said to Rhys that it seemed an expensive bus ride and it was. The driver over-charged us coming and going. The fare should have been seven pesos each one way, we read later, and we paid thirty-eight. We've just got to learn our Spanish numbers.
The village is in a rural area and the main occupation for men is bricklaying. In front of the temple,women sell rosary beads and gruesome pictures of an anguished Christ wearing a bloody crown of thorns, and other religious knick-knacks and handicrafts. The monthly income of families is around 1500-2000 pesos, about £125.
The church was full one moment and the next most of the congregation had disappeared. A priest in white dashed in front of us into a grilled door, that was opened and closed behind him by a sacristan. Then we saw a notice, which said, 'No Flash', and behind it was the whole congregation, who had moved into a side chapel. It was a community baptism. About seven or eight babies, swaddled in lace and satin in their  teenage mother's arms and flanked by young fathers and god parents, casually dressed in denim jeans and smart tops.We spied the whole event through the grille. It was in four parts. First, the priest came round and with his thumb drew a cross on the forehead of each baby.The father of the child did the same thing as if to stress his belief in Christ. Then the baby was taken by the godmother to the font for the baptism itself. The godmother had a box with a little handkerchief and white candle. The father wiped the wet baby's head with the cloth.The
 blue-eyed priest  came around again and with oil made the sign of the cross once more on the child's forehead. By this time most of the babies were screaming like a pack of nocturnal dogs out on a hacienda.
Then the godfather lit his candle from the large white candle at the baptismal font and the parent, godparents and priest all held the candle while a photo was taken. The priest called each child's name and the godparent came forward to claim the baptism certificate. Another eight catholics received into the church.
We hung out with a few stray dogs and some bored young people while waiting for the bus to return. A brass band and what sounded like a rock group played in loud competition with each other. We guessed it was all part of the post-baptismal fiesta. We didn't like to gate crash.

PC, GUANAJUATO & DIEGO RIVERA

Saturday morning. Bliss! We can lie in Larry's four poster bed, don't have to go anywhere, and can read  'The Ascencion.' Not as fat as the Saturday Guardian but a good Gringo read nevertheless.
Yesterday, we took the first class bus, Primera Plus, to Guanajuato.  That's a hard one for us to pronounce so we've been using Guatanomo as a shorthand. I know, not very PC. We were sent off with a little bag of provisions by the hostess wishing us a safe journey. Well, she may have said something altogether different. We've been somewhat lax about listening to the Spanish tapes. Rhys has taken to writing down phrases like, 'Can you tell us where to get off the bus, please Sir?' which he tries to say, but when faced with a confused bus driver he shoves the paper in front of the driver's nose, and usually gets a 'Si,Si!' or a 'si,si', depending on how many other passengers are waiting patiently to board the bus or if he needs to get out his reading glasses.
 Rhys has taken to hooking his reading glasses and sunglasses onto the top of his shirt. It saves time but doesn't do him any favours in the cool department. Not that I can speak about looking cool either. In my straw hat, beads, long skirt and flat grubby canvas shoes with plaster marks on my heels I look like a throw- back to another generation, but an older round person also carrying a Nordic walking stick, very uncool.
Going back to learning Spanish, we're trying to learn the numbers but not with a great deal of success. The other day we managed to bargain upwards with a taxi driver. He must have thought we were right idiots.
This is beginning to sound like a Ronnie Corbett tall story or should I say, short story. That's not being sizist. I'm vertically challenged myself. 
Anyway, back to the journey to Guanajuato. It takes about an hour and a quarter across the gentle rolling hills of the Sierra Guanajuato scattered with cactus and I think (from the tree book we bought at the Jardin Botanico), Huizache chino and Mesquite and other unidentifiable (to us) shrubs & trees that grow in semi-arid conditions.
Guanajuato is a prestigious university town, and it was buzzing with young life doing young things: hanging out, chatting, smoking, laughing, shouting, making rude gestures,couples into each other on plaza benches and others sitting in the shade of food stalls, eating gorditos and enchilladas. We sat down with them and muscled in, eating from a stall for the first time since arriving. There must be a knack to eating hot filled tortillas. We managed to get chilly and tomato sauce all over ourselves. But that was the only consequence.
The city is shoe horned into a narrow ravine and a rainbow of square houses totter up the side of the hills. For centuries it was the wealthiest city in Mexico, its mines pouring out silver and gold. It's a UNESCO World Heritage Zone and there are no traffic lights or neon signs. It's laced with tunnels taking traffic in and out of the city. It is bursting with history. Our friend and local hero, 'El Pipilo' (Turkey Cock) is waving a light from the top of the city. Using a huge stone slab on his back for protection he blew up the door to the granary, helping the fight for independence, but dying himself in the process. Walking from shady plaza to plaza, up and down narrow streets, catching views of large colonial churches, peering up at wrought iron balconies, into small shops selling silver jewellery, the sun shining, a buzz of intellectual life- it felt like being in Nice- without the seaside.
 It is also the birth place of Diego Rivera and his house is a museum with a gallery of his paintings. Thirty odd years ago, in Battersea, I was involved in an action group trying to save a mural painted by local artist, Brian Barnes in the tradition of Rivera; a record of local life and aspirations, including the Wandsworth bus depo, where my father was an inspector. It was highly political in its local and national content. The local people loved it. The Morganite company, that owned the wall, hated it and wanted to demolish it so that they could sell the land for housing. Not for local people but for the gentry moving in from across the Thames. We even went to the High Court to save it but sadly the interests of big business won the day.
When I came to Wales, Rhys and I became involved in painting murals with local children. Diego Rivera has always been a hero of ours. His paintings are a great disappointment. They seem to imitate well known artists of his day, such as Braque and Matisse. They only start to become interesting, original and accomplished when the content is political and then you start to see his commitment, his energy and strength as a painter. If you're travelling this way I think you could pass over this museum. But, we can't wait to see his murals in Mexico City!. 

PICASA WEB PHOTOS

Hi Family & Friends
Sorry about the problems in viewing the slide show. Here is the link. I've tried to change the number to an easier user name, like Janet Daniel, but it won't let me. I'll keep trying.
http://picasaweb.google.com/ 108583614049565790828

Can you let me know if this works?
Thanks for reading the blog,, for your support, interest and feedback. We really appreciate it all.
Love
Janet and Rhys

CHILDREN, EL CHAN & EL CHARCO DEL INGENIO

Today, has been a wonderful day.
First we got to see and talk to our children Angharad and Steffan for free on Scype. Thankfully, they couldn't get to see us. I haven't  managed the visual bit of the technology yet and as I rushed out of the bathroom wearing just a shower cap and towel to answer Angharad's call, it was probably for the best that I haven't.
Secondly, we took a short taxi ride to the Jardin Botanico, called El Charco del Ingenio. It is dedicated to the conservation of nature, especially Mexican Flora. It consists of 220 acres, divided in three zones: the dry chaparral, the canyon and the wetlands.
 We wandered about this beautiful area, admiring different varieties of plants, cactus and succulents.
The cactae are in so many interesting forms. Some have fruit and flowers on the same structure. Some look like groups of Balinese dancers, bodies leaning into each other, their faces fringed with a red and yellow head dress. Others resemble groups of tall guys making high-fives. Others like oblong ancient coins. Others just look like cactus. In the market women de-prickle them so they can be cooked and they are delicious. Others, like the Agave variety are used for their alcohol content in drinks such as tequila.
There are a lot of different types of  trees too. The most common was the Mesquite, particularly attractive to bees, with medicinal virtues and the seed pods are used as animal fodder. Apparently, in the region of San Miguel there is a delicious and nutritous drink called 'atole' also made from the pods. We'll have to look out for it.
We saw many exotic birds,which we later identified in our Audubon bird book as a White-Faced Ibis,The Black-Necked Stilt, the Black Phoebe, Barn Swallows, the Golden Fronted Woodpecker, the Snowy Egret, Kildeer & the magnificent Northern Cardinal, totally scarlet and apparently a newcomer to this area. We saw fluttering yellow butterflies as big as birds, velvety black and turquoise ones and green dragonflies. We even saw two squirrels but they had bigger heads than those at home and sported number 2 haircuts.
There was an area dedicated to 'Rescue Plants,' brought over from Queretaro in 1991 at the time they were building a dam there. They looked like giant green hedgehogs that had been kicked randomly into touch. We wanted to pet them like rescue ponies that had had a hard life and were now in retirement but they weren't responsive.
We didn't see any snakes or lizards. We could have gone into a special exhibition of reptiles in plastic cases but were too mean to pay the extra entry fee.
On our two hour saunter around the gardens we saw only two people, one Gringos and one Mexican. Guess it's different at weekends. The Mexican man was painting posts on the bridge across the lake-once a reservoir for San Miguel de Allende.  The Gringo carried his own fold-up chair. We heard a few children's voices from the depths of the canyon where El Chan, a scary mythical creature with supernatural powers is said to reside in a deep pool that changes colour throughout the year. It is also the source of an original spring that quenced the thirst and watered the needs of San Miguel residents.  It's the place of a sixteenth century mill, a piece of engineering (Ingenio) installed by the Spanish to grind seed and make cloth.
At the Cafe,while sipping fresh orange juice and recovering from the heat we met another Gringo, an artist, Agnes Olive, an American who thought Rhys' accent was Scottish. Her father was from Paisley and she's been living and working here for fourteen years. In her art, sculptures mainly I think, she uses indigenous materials. The Gardens are also a focal point for local ceremonies and rituals. They have rituals at the time of the full moon at the 'Plaza of the Four Winds.' There's a mozaic there inspired by Toltec, Pre-Columbian symbols and a huge cross. The space symbolises the unity of the local communities.  Agnes is involved  in building a huge 'nest' for 'The Day of the Land', an event on the 22nd of April. Its poster symbol is of a pair of clasped hands painted in blue and green like a distorted planet earth. Sadly, this is the day we leave San Miguel. While we sat the excavators were digging out the nest, a hole of about sixty metres in diameter. In the nest she plans to help people make hands of clay and within each pair of hands will be pressed a seed.
Being out in the gardens, with signs telling us about the area, of the damage being done to the environment and the conservation work being done there we felt enormously priveleged to be experiencing such a connection with this land and with its ancient history. It's interesting for me that a two hour walk in these gardens caused me no hip or back pain, only joy and wonder. It's so sad that unless something extraordinary happens to limit climate change our grandchildren may never experience this.  Oh, how I wish we could be there at full moon! This year, one of my projects is to write a poem at every full moon, wherever I am. I've written three so far. Hopefully, the next one will be in Mexico City.

SLIDE SHOW-PICASAWEB

Hi Friends!
You can see a short slide show of some of our photos of San Miguel de Allende and the surrounding area so far, by typing in the search box of the blog, 'Picasaweb'. ...  Well, I hope you can cos it's taken me ages to upload them. ...
Janet & Rhys

WASHING WINDOWS WITH THE ARCHANGEL OF SAN MIGUEL

A lazy day today.
Well, lazy for the Chief Security Officer. The Head Gardener helped Larry clean his windows, of which there seem to be hundreds-small panes in difficult to reach places with inappropriate tools. Larry ended up gaffer-taping a squeegy -whatsit to a long pole. He's afraid of heights and Rhys isn't so no prizes for guessing who went up the ladder. Not the maid, Marcelia, that's for sure. It looks like she rarely washes or cleans anything properly. I offered to dust Larry's treasures but he said Marcelia does that-every other week-and they're covered in the stuff. I don't think she's done them for a few weeks.  Here, hark at me! You can see how easily I've taken to this life of luxury.
I broke the news to Larry this evening. Before the boys washed the windows. I thought it best to get it out of the way. Just in case we had to leave sharpish. ' Didn't want Rhys to have spent all that energy for nothing. Anyway, I asked him how he'd feel if we were to leave early. I explained that I'm a trustee of UNA Exchange and would like to visit projects run by Natate Voluntariado International, a Mexican partner organisation based down south in San Cristobal de las Casas, that we work closely with in promoting vounteering in Mexico and in Britain.
He didn't bat an eyelid.
'That's absolutely fine. No problem at all. San Cristobal is my most favourite place in Mexico,' he said. 'When you wanna go?'
'He's probably glad that he can sleep in his own bed again and have his house to himself,' Rhys said to me privately, while Larry was washing his clothes. There's not enough pressure in his friend's place so he calls by about once a week to use his washing machine and even rings the bell. I open the door to him as if I'm the lady of the house and he's the guest.
'That would work well, as the jack hammer should be finished by then and I can call in to see how the septic tank work is progressing. Oh, and I've got a friend staying on May 1st, so....'
'So, he probably can't wait to get rid of us,' I said to Rhys. 'In fact, we may have already outstayed our welcome. '
'He's not wanted to disappoint us, has he? What a sensitive chap'
'The Archangel of San Miguel de Allende?'
'We've not gone yet,' Rhys said. 'There's still another eight days.'
'Yes, you're right. A lot could happen before then.'
Take this afternoon, for example, when we were walking through the car park of Pollos Felix. On Wednesdays Mr Chicken dinners are half price. In the rush of hungry diners a shiny Chevvie reversed into Rhys who was distracted by a Vermillion Flycatcher he'd just seen fly past. Fortunately, I pulled him away-just in time- before he was raw material for a Mr Chicken dinner.

CONSERVATION,CONVICTS & CONMEN

Today, we mosied into town to attend the Audubon lecture at the Biblioteca Public on the Sierra Gorda Biosphere Reserve. Not sure who Audubon is or was but the organiser said that the Audubon Society of Mexico in San Miguel de Allende wants to be the best and foremost advocate for conservation and to preserve the fragile ecosystems in this country. As she spoke with a Californian accent we couldn't help thinking, probably with a degree of unnecessary prejudice, that this is just another form of colonialism-the yanks want to take over the local environment. However, in their literature the Society says,
'We work with local communities in order to preserve and restore habitats for birds, wildlife and plants, and to create biodiversity for the benefit of humankind.'
That's what I love about Americans they think big. Hang on we're in Mexico. Where do the Mexicans figure in this world view?
The lecturer Roberto Pedraza Ruiz, a Mexican naturalist, photographer and expert on the region's wildlife and whose parents set up the Sierra Gorda Biosphere Reserve, talked and showed slides on the scope of the reserve and its endangered species. The Reserve occupies a third of the northern part of the state of Queretaro, the city of which we visited yesterday. It contains 327 species of birds-nearly a third of all the species found in Mexico and many other forms of wildlife. As well as birds, such as the bumblebee hummingbird and parrots who mate for life- even if one of them dies, they don't 're-marry', he showed close up photos in the cloud forest of jaguars, pumas, ocelots, exotic orchids and trees you might not expect to see there: oaks, Douglas firs, willows, sweet gums. He said that bees which pollinate flowers, that produce nectar and that are key to feeding us humans, are disappearing at a frightening rate across the universe. What he didn't say, and which I only read afterwards, was that his family are involved in linking international investors to local forest owners whose trees 'soak up and store carbon dioxide'. In other words, carbon offsetting industrial production of greenhouse gases. It's highly controversial in Britain whether or not this works. I wonder what Mexicans think about it? Anyway, we salved our conscience by buying arnica to rub on my hip and some orange marmelade produced on the Reserve.
We walked onto the Institute and we sat in the Gallerie Pergola, that promotes artists living in San Miguel de Allende and contemporary Mexican artists. They have glossy coffee table books that you can browse through and we took the opportunity to read up on the arts scene. One of the artists is Daniel Leonardo, whose contemporary murals grace the walls of the Institute. I hope to put up on Picasa Web Photos some of the images from his mural of the history of San Miguel de Allende. The mural tradition that originated in Mexico has been controversial here. Is it art or is it just political narrative? What can be defined as 'art' here? If it's just political narrative, is it the instrument of government and therefore not truly a work of original individual creativity?
I'm interested in the work of Mexican female artists, such as Frida Kahlo, Izquierdo, Vaco and Carrington. Apparently, until recently it was felt that only women artists could express their private feelings through the visual arts. These women artists were famous firstly for their sexual liasons and relationships with male artists. It was only later with the advent of feminism that their work was valued in its own right. It was considered a weakness for men to express their private feelings (possibly in life too?) and their art was to be expressed by a political or public statement. It's therefore interesting that at one time Francis Bacon's 'emotional extremism' was very popular in Mexico.
As we got up off the bench from examining David Leonardo's mural in some detail, we happened by chance into another private gallery in the Institute. This had two exhibitions: one, an exhibition of historic silver jewellery and the other by Donnie Johnson, a lifer in a US prison in Pelican Bay, who had committed a murder and an attempted murder on a prison guard. It had sold very well, there were lots of red spots against the tiny pictures made from candy and grape jelly and according to the owner, like those resembling the work of Rothko and Jackson Pollock, and showing the isolation and alienation of the lifer. The exhibition had apparently been arranged through the prisoner's therapist and the owner told us he was also getting a little profit. Most of the proceeds were going to a charity for the children of prisoners at Pelican Bay. However, he told us that he'd heard that people were selling these pictures on for a considerable profit. He couldn't control that, he said, but it was clear that he didn't want to talk to us for much longer about it as we weren't going to buy anything. So, he got on with whatever he was doing on his computer. Looking for other profitable opportunities, perhaps?
I'd like to think that in Britain we wouldn't allow such an exhibition to happen but is this very different from Jeffrey Archer making a profit out of the novels he's written from his experience of being in prison for fraud?
We're not exempt from this either.
On the way back we walked behind a woman holding a large bouquet of white lillies, the sort painted by Diego Rivera and which I think are called Alcatraz Lillies. I tried to capture her photo from behind without her seeing. She criss-crossed the road, entering cafes and hotels trying to sell her wilting flowers without success. I suddenly remembered something I'd read about local people being very unhappy about having their photos taken unawares, later discovering that some Gringo had made a fortune out of a painting based on their photo. So, Rhys crossed the road and offered her a few pesos for her photo, which she accepted graciously.  On reflection, we would have helped her more by buying the whole bouquet of lillies but what would we have been doing for the environment?

'DO YOU KNOW WHAT HAPPENED HERE?'

This seems to be the gist of the message on plaques outside museums and sites of historical interest in this area. 2010 is the bi-centenary of Mexican independence. It's raised for us the issue of how history is recorded, whose history it is and how it is used.
Yesterday, we took a bus to Santiago de Queretaro. En route we watched a DVD of Vinnie Jones in a Spanish version of the vicious film, 'The Condemned'.
From the bus terminal we took a local bus across the sprawling industrial and business sectors of this large bustling city set against the gentle hills of the Sierra Gorda. The city is a UNESCO World Heritage Site. The tourist information leaflet describes it as 'an exceptional example of a colonial town whose layout symbolizes its multi-ethnic population...also renowned for its outstanding buildings...'  So we headed for the historic area. It was here, in a meeting under the guise of the Literary Association, that the Independence conspirators laid their earliest plans. Later in the century, The Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo was signed here. This ended the Mexican-American War by handing over almost half of Mexico's territory-Texas, New Mexico, California and more to the US. In 1867, Emperor Maximilian made his last stand. He was defeated, tried by the court and finally condemned by firing squad on the 'Hill of Bells' nearby.
This was also an Aztec town and many Otomi still live here. In the tourist information there is lots about the churches, the plazas, the museums, the Viceroyalty houses, which we strolled by, entered, admired and enjoyed. But, there's nothing in the leaflet about the Otomi people. In walking around the little alleys full of craft stalls we came on a beautiful sculpture of an Aztec Indian. At that moment, ironically, my camera's battery gave out so we couldn't even get a digital image to remind us of their history. It may not be the intention of the local tourist agency but we couldn't help thinking that the Otomi of Santiago de Queretaro have been condemned to near invisibility. Or perhaps we just picked up the wrong leaflet?
All this activity made us hungry as usual so we searched out a kind of workmen's cafe over a shop that did a three course special lunch with a drink of lemonade for 40pesos, about £2.30. It wasn't the best meal we've ever eaten but it beat the showy tourist restaurants for local authenticity. We like to think that the friendly owners were Otomi. Who knows?

CACTUS & TRUST ISSUES

Today, we met Larry for brunch at the Cafe Parroquia next to the bookshop La Tecolote that sells English books.  Rhys and I enjoyed cactus omelettes with a side dish of beans.
Larry seemed somewhat subdued but was still as friendly as he's been since we arrived. While sipping margaritas and lounging on his expensive leather couch we've speculated and talked to each other at length about his life. It was easy to imagine all sorts of nasty reasons why he'd give over his palace to a couple of older foreigners while he was off in Equador, but for the past fortnight Larry's been house-sitting a friend's house, five minutes drive from here, overseeing the installation of a new sewerage system. The noise from the pile drivers means he tries to stay out most days. It has meant he's not been able to shower and because there's no purification system, he's had to buy bottled water. He still comes to the gym at the bottom of the road here most days.
On our first night he said it would be like a vacation and that he needs to stick around because he thinks he has a prospective buyer for another house he's recently built and wants to sell to a Mexican (rather than an ex-pat, I guess). He's called on the phone a couple of times and on Wednesday Rhys helped him clean his tall windows and prune his banana trees. Ofcourse we're watering his plants twice a week (although it's rained a little the last couple of nights). The maid comes in once a week and cleans. He has an alarm system. To our minds he doesn't really need us to be here. He could alternate nights here and at his friend's house. So, why does he allow complete strangers to stay in his luxurious pad full of precious objets d'art?  Why hasn't he suggested we do a bit of travelling so he can reclaim his home for himself? In effect, he's giving us a free holiday. In theory, we could all be in this situation for another two weeks.
'Do you miss your home?' I asked Larry at lunch
'No,' he said.
Is he being polite or has it been our enormous good fortune to meet an extremely generous-hearted human being with sound values, who has no trust issues? We may not know the answer until we leave, or ever, but for now it's made us think and talk alot about our own issues of trust and not just with complete strangers either.
 It's made us wonder what it would be like to be a Gringo permanently living here. We've seen mostly older people, mainly American retirees we think, at the Biblioteca, in the supermarkets, at The Institute. We Gringos really stand out. The men are tall and fair and some women look so thin, perhaps anorexic. One such woman power walks each day in and out of town in the mid-day sun. Her face is bronzed, wrinkled and in the kind of pain that comes from enforcing hard regimes on the body and the psyche.
What do Mexicans really think of the wealthy white ex-pats?  To what extent is there integration here in San Miguel de Allende? Clearly, many are making a contribution to the community and language will be a big factor in developing relationships. We wondered if some Mexican people speak Spanish to foreigners as a political statement even though they can speak English, rather like some Welsh speakers do at home. I have no problem with that, but in just visiting for a short time as a tourist, we feel the weight of colonial history on generations of lives. Should we carry the sins of our European ancestors on our shoulders like El Pipilo-the war hero, immortalised on the roundabout by Mega, carrying a huge stone slab on his back ready to fight for his beliefs? Guilt doesn't feel a healthy emotion here unless it's a trigger for change. It's made us think about how we can establish trust between people and nations focusing on the present and the future rather than our past?
We haven't told Larry yet, but we've decided to accept an invitation to visit a voluntary organisation down in San Cristobel de las Casas at the end of the month. It will mean leaving a week earlier than agreed. So much for being trustworthy,eh?

GRUTA, GUITAR & GRINGOS

Yesterday we went on another little day trip by bus from here. On the way passengers watched a DVD of 'Slumdog Millionnaire' with Spanish sub-titles. I love that film! On the way back Robert de Niro and Al Pacino spoke Spanish to us in a film that seemed familiar.
Our outing was to the hot springs at Gruta about half an hour away.  Set in beautiful shady gardens full of pots of yellow and purple pansies, the springs spill out into connecting pools. We thought the waters would be therapeutic and  full of older people with arthritic conditions taking the waters-yes, people like me. But families with inflateables played in the pools and laughing children lined up for a cold shower under a bamboo pipe. In one there were seats positioned just under the water line and people sat chatting in the hot water. From this pool you can swim or wade through a long white-washed tunnel with a peep of light at the end. After a few minutes you reach a circular pool with a bee-hive shaped ceiling constructed of individual rocks. Holes in the roof shaft sunlight at the water at odd angles like electric spots. The atmosphere's magical but the water so hot I could only stay a few minutes. 
All that exercise gave us an appetite so we ordered beers, and along with them came free nachos with a little bowl of spicy sauce and a wooden spoon for us to pour over them. Lunch was avocado stuffed with tuna salad and a chicken salad for Rhys. All freshly prepared from local produce at a cost of around a fiver each. Delicious!
Tonight, we went to another classical guitar concert. This time a young man of 18, Enrique Hernandez-Ruiz, gave a virtuoso solo performance at the Biblioteca Publica. The audience was made up of mainly Gringos. A number seemed to have health problems: one woman wore a sling, another looked like she's had a stroke and was in a wheelchair, another looked like she was dying of some terminal disease, and then there were those of us leaning on sticks and the arms of our partners.  Enrique seemed to be having an intimate conversation with his guitar, made faces at it like a mother might do to her baby coaxing it to smile. At times he seemed in such ecstacy at his own playing it was difficult to concentrate on the beauty of the music and not giggle at his 'mugging'. After an hour the small crippled audience left clearly uplifted. This was soul therapy.
Out into the central plaza  and a old man was MCing a street dance from the band stand. Couples of all ages and sizes were swaying their hips and turning to Latin American beats and tempos. More therapy.
Then, from the other side of the square in front of the pink Parroquia, the Cathedral, we heard a brass band and spied above the crowd two huge papier-mache characters: a dancing bride and groom. We thought at first that this was another execution by fireworks, like the Judas dolls on Easter Sunday. But no, beneath these caricatures were a real bride and groom and a whole Gringo wedding party, suited and booted with seven bridesmaids dressed in jade. Members of the brass band wore white Mexican cowboy outfits, sombrero hats and trousers embroidered down the seams in blue. They formed a procession around the plaza, the brass band competing with the stereo of the street dancers
A little later as we sat on the bus, listening to an elderly busker at the back playing the mouth organ for his supper, we glimpsed the wedding party in the Institute Allende, sipping champagne.
It just goes to show that having therapy doesn't always turn out the way you think it will.

OCTOPUS ICE-CREAM, PARROQUIA PERFUME & CONFLUENCIA

We've had the best day so far.
We went by bus to Dolores Hidalgo, a town about fifty kilometres from here. The bus was very comfortable,  large seats that go back, air conditioned, showing a modern DVD and only cost £2 each way. Bit like being at the cinema.  Mexican public transport is subsidised but it beats our system hands down. My father was a bus inspector. He'd have been impressed with the 'inspection' of tickets. Some might find it bureaucratic, but there's no getting away with a free ride here. However, each bus we've got on has had a different system. On the bus here from the airport, we bought our tickets from an office.  We were given a little bag of goodies: a sandwich, biscuit and drink as we got on the vehicle. We refused it first of all because we thought we'd have to pay. Then saw every other traveller gobbling and supping away so went back and claimed our booty. OK, we were also frisked and videoed, but at least the police are serious about potential free riders. . . and other crime. ' Can't imagine First Great Western, where I worked for a while as a staff counsellor, offering freebies of any sort nowadays.On the local bus you buy your ticket from the bus driver. Today, it was from the driver and then we were checked out by the bus conductor and the inspector. On the bus we hopped on at Queretaro to San Miguel de Allende, the driver waved us in. We thought some drug addict was trying on a scam when a blood-shot eyed young man tried to get money out of us. Our Mexican neighbour kindly intervened and explained it was just the bus conductor trying to take our fare. No tickets issued on this one. Duh!
We passed through beautiful countryside,cactus plants and tamarisk trees lining the road, rolling hills in the distance, a few cows competing for the shade by the road, en route to this historic town, which is also famous for its ceramics. We saw shops full of froggie plant pots and other pottery knick-knacks celebrating the Bi-Centenary of Mexican Independence.
The town is especially famous because it is where a priest, Dolores Hidalgo, fought the Spanish with the help of Allende, Jimenez and other committed revolutionaries in the War of Independence in 1810. There is a great museum charting the road to national independence, walls painted with metaphoric murals showing the atrocities suffered by local people, particularly the Indians and the oppressive influence of the colonial powers. In one painting there is a wounded man lying in obvious pain and on top of him sit a number of eagles,wings spread wide. Our guide told us they represent Britain, France, Spain. The one sitting, watching closely and waiting is the USA.  I guess as a socialist this Soviet- realist style, laden with metaphor, color and strength appeals to my romantic vision of revolutionary struggle. It's inspiring and captures the imagination, like stories of Che Guevara and Castro. Emotionally rewarding tourism but intellectually challenging. Our guide, green-eyed with good English, told us he couldn't stand the hypocracy of the Catholic Church and had lost his faith sometime ago.
'When do priests do what they tell us we should do?' he said.
 I wonder if there are the same stories about child abuse by priests in Mexico like there are currently running at home, in Ireland and the USA?
After all that excitement we headed for the local ice cream stall on the main square opposite the Cathedral- another beautiful shady plaza, with magpies screching from the trees that we still fail to identify. You can have all the flavours Heston Blumenthal has been touting as original- avocado, beer, tequila and octopus- very salty and not to my taste. Rhys went for the beer-nothing surprising there. I stuck to the familiar- creamy vanilla with fruit and nuts. It still had a surprise factor-I found a prune at the bottom of my cup.
This evening we went into San Miguel and for the first time ventured into the main church-the Parroquia, pink stone like a fluted wedding cake. The overwhelming smell of lillies was breathtaking.  Huge vases of post Easter flowers sit on the ornate altar. You could smell their perfume outside on the plaza- sweet and musky.
Finally, this evening at the Biblioteca Public, we attended a wonderful live concert, part of a guitar festival, of a two man group, Daniel Torres and Jonathan Molines, called 'Confluencia'.  They had been studying guitar since they were less than 10 years old. They looked in their early twenties. Their classical jazz improvisations were technically amazing and I felt I'd been taken to heaven with their music. In my enthusiasm to communicate my enjoyment and find common ground with one of the artists afterwards, I tried to tell him how my husband had just started to learn the guitar, aged 67, but he didn't really understand. He just signed my programme,' Con mucho aprecio'.

A WALK INTO TOWN

 It's mid day and very hot, probably in the high 80s. We're at an altitude of about 6,000 ft and surrounded by hills. There's an old dog barking behind a grill, a black magpie screeching to its mate but no-one around on our street.
Let me take you for a walk.
Leaving Larry's we're taking a right down Calle Jakaranda. The huge tree is in full purple blossom, petals strewn over the cars and cobble stones beneath. We pass houses built in a grand colonial style, painted in shades of turquoise, terracota, cobalt, lime,ochre, yellow and tangerine. There's a few vacant spaces of wasteland.  In the background there are some shacks covered in plastic and bits of tarpaulin with a few jeeps parked alongside.  'Don't know if anyone lives there but we heard fireworks and music coming from that direction all week. Sounds like they know how to party.
We move on watching our steps in case we fall and in a few moments reach the highway. We take a left and pass a number of small garages doing repairs on the side walk, a kiosk selling newspapers and a restaurant that's supposed to serve good fish. The coffees are half the price of  in town-10pesos, about 60p, but we're not stopping.
 On our left is 'Mega' a large supermarket, where we're buying most of our provisions while we find more local stores. On the roundabout is a statue in the Soviet-realist style of a local hero carrying a massive stone slab on his back, which he used to protect himself while blasting a Spanish stronghold and winning ground in the War of Independence in the early 19th century. It looks like a metaphor for colonialism.
We'll cross the highway here. There are no traffic lights in San Miguel and pedestrians seem to have right of way, but we'd better run, or in my case limp quickly, just in case. Good! We made it!
Now, in front of us is the Mexican equivalent of a MacDonald's- 'Pollos Felix'-that sells chicken al carbon. We'll take a short cut round the back of the car park. God, what's that smell?  Look, at the publicity-Mr Chicken eating a banquet of his own children. Isn't that what leads to the equivalent of BSE back home? I feel sorry for the staff. They must be sweltering in those furry Easter chick outfits.  No, we won't eat here.
Anyway, let's take a right and we're on the main road into San Miguel de Allende. It's lined with bottle brush trees in red flower and crimson bouganvillea. What about taking a bus from here or we can carry on walking? It will take me about 40minutes as I'm slow these days, but it's only about 15minutes by bus and they're clean, frequent and cheap. The fare is 5 pesos (about 30p).
You'd rather stop for breakfast?  No problem. There's a little bar just a few metres along, up past the travelling circus. I know, don't look! the lions, leopards and tigers are in tiny cages and are paraded around town to drum up business. O.K. Maybe we won't stop here after all. Let's head on to the Institute. There's a great exhibition of contemporary Mexican art I'd like to show you. We can stop by the El Tecolote Bookshop. The staff are really friendly, there's a book on Frida Carlo I'd like to buy and we'll grab a drink in the cafe next door. Larry's recommended it.
  

THE SECRET MILLIONNAIRE IN ABERFAN

Tonight, courtesy of Sky we've been watching a Scottish millionnaire bring succour to the needy of Merthyr Tydfil and those doing good work in Aberfan.     I know, I should be learning Spanish.
It got me wondering if Larry could be a secret millionnaire who will reveal himself later on in our programme to the needy of Taffs Well. But, we're neither doing any good work or are particularly needy. From reading the bi-lingual weekly newspaper it would seem that giving to the poor and needy is something that people in San Miguel de Allende do a lot of. There is a population of around 100,000 and 10,000 are foreigners mainly Americans. The cultural institutes have a wide programme of events that are fundraisers and award grants to talented but poorer students so they can pursue their gifts in music, dance and the arts. I don't know yet if these are run by Mexicans or ex-pats wanting to put something back into the community. Or both perhaps? 
We've visited three of these institutes. They are large airy colonial buildings, walls painted with figurative & abstract murals and galleries of contemporary Mexican art and crafts; with workshops,a  theatre and outdoor class rooms, where students may be painting watercolour, sculpting stone or, learning Spanish.
Then, there are the bone idle tourists like us enjoying a beer and people watching in the luxuriant courtyard gardens.

EXTERMINATE ALL CHOPPER ANTS & GRASSHOPPERS!

This is our Sunday instruction. Seems a bit harsh on Easter Sunday particularly as the Head Gardener is a bit of a pacifist, but he's outside on their trail now.
'They can eat a tree in a day, so be on the look out and if you see just one, remember...' Larry told us.
Yes, kill! kill! kill!. It's what you might expect from the Chief Security Officer. It's my responsibility to make sure the alarm system is on, off, armed, disarmed, lights on the terrace are on at sunset, fountains are on, off, curtains closed in the afternoon so as not to damage the furniture. There's also an automatic system, which I mustn't tamper with. It's very tempting though, as I realise what an anxious person I've become as I've got older. I worry if the Head Gardener will lose the keys to the palace, if some burglar will slip into the garage while he's outside on the trail of the offending insects, if Larry's secretly filming us and that we're really on a reality TV programme that weirdos have paid to watch. Now, get a grip!
San Miguel de Allende, named by a Friar and later after a hero of the war of independence, is a beautiful, arty town, full of colour and history. It was declared a UNESCO City of Culture in 2008 and there's an army of small people with Indian faces in blue overalls brushing and cleaning the gutters and plazas so that they sparkle. It's also nicknamed, 'the city of fallen women', not because there's a higher proportion of  working girls but because so many of us manage to turn an ankle or slip on a hand -carved cobble that line the roads. I've taken to using my Nordic walking stick. I stood leaning on it,while watching a Good Friday procession of Christ on the cross followed by a posse of Roman soldiers and little girls dressed as brides of Christ. It didn't get me a seat though. Maybe people thought I was on a skiing trip. That is until Rhys asked me how my hip was and a kind Mexican woman who understood English squeezed up and let me sit down.
Today, we're off to town again to see the Easter celebrations-the dynamiting of larger than life-size papier-mache Judas dolls.  Kill! kill! kill!
Happy Easter!

HOUSE-SITTING COUPLE HELD FOR RANSOM BY MEXICAN DRUG CARTEL

April Fool!
Twenty eight hours from Taffs Well, two planes, three buses, a taxi and a car ride later and we arrived to a full moon shining over Larry's palace in San Miguel de Allende. We were a bit phased at Mexico City Airport when in getting on the bus to Queratero we were frisked for weapons and then videoed by a policeman with a camcorder. Nobody else seemed phased.
Today is our first day home alone. Larry's trip to Equador got cancelled and he's gone house-sitting for a friend up the road. So we're in a chain of house-sitters. Steffan is house-sitting for us, us for Larry, Larry for  a friend, Larry's friend for another friend and so on. Maybe one of us gets to own a house at the end. Who knows?  He said he'll be back on Wednesdays to check how we're doing. Our duties are going to be quite taxing. We have to water the plants twice a week.
It's Holy Week and the local people like to celebrate with fireworks and drums. On the first night I awoke hearing a raptor thumping it's tail as it ascended the spiral staircase. I awoke in a bed like an upside down table looking up at a brick curved ceiling like being in a bread oven tightly packed with terracota loaves.
I don't know what Larry put in that nightcap.
Today we walked into town and spent three hours looking for a gambio to change money. All the banks are closed for the holiday. We had the Mexican equivalent of about six pounds to last us four days. We never found one, but eventually found a hotel that was prepared to change our dollars.
Lesson. Next time we come to Mexico bring a debit card for the ATM.
No, we still haven't worked out why Larry would need anybody to come 8,000 miles to water his plants twice a week. In time, perhaps we will.

BLUE WOMAN HELPS IN SEARCH FOR ESTA

'Have you a visa?' 'I'll be in transit.'
'You need an ESTA number or you won't be able to transit in Houston.'
'But, . . .(panic)...but, (rising panic)...the plane leaves in ......'

'You looking for ESTA too?' a New Zealand voice asked us, pushing her overflowing trolley into what the staff at Terminal 4 in Heathrow call, 'an internet cafe'- three computers and a queue of panicked travellers asking each other panicked questions as they competed to complete their applications for the Electronic System for the Transportation of Aliens(or something like that).
I thought she'd said, 'ESKI'-a small fridge that Antipodeans take on picnics. I could have done with a cold beer at that point as I'd forgotten everything I'd ever learnt about using a computer.
Some of my companions had even forgotten where they were heading.
'Is Texas in North or South America'
'What's our flight number?'
Then it became more co-operative:
'Can you change a fiver?'
'Does anyone have a pen?'
and from the Kiwi about my IT skills,
'You're  worse than me! Quick, you're running out of time. Put another pound in the slot or you'll lose ESTA.'
It was then I realised I'd seen her before. In Rhys' painting, 'The Blue Woman'-hair of spiked cobalt.
I saw her blue mop again in the immigration queue at Houston where she was interrogated for being an alien in transit. And again, as we re-entered the country, went through customs, were frisked, had ourselves and our hand luggage re-searched and ended up exactly at the same point we started-back on the plane. 
'What a bloody waste of time that was,' she said. 'Haven't the Yanks heard of transit lounges?
Not for aliens, obviously.