Now that we know we’re moving to Mexico long term, it’s time to get prepared. With this in mind, I was suddenly curious about how I found it all last time, entering and adapting to a new culture, so I dug out my old diary that I wrote when I went to Mexico as a student in the year 2000. At first I was chuckling away at my own wit, rather enjoying this mini book full of copious detail I’d forgotten all about, because guess what, it was all about me!

Then…a Jumanji style moment where without warning the words came alive, the memories crashing upon me like a charging rhino, reawakened, and suddenly it was as though it all happened yesterday, not in 18 and a bit years ago. Smelling the smells, feeling the emotions, tasting the tastes. Was it really that long ago? Allow me to indulge in a little reminiscing …

I first arrived in Guadalajara, Mexico’s second city, in October 2000, as part of my third year of university, a language learning year. Guadalajara sits at quite high altitude and is clever, cultural and with a cool climate. Four other treasures from my uni in Swansea headed that way too: Sophie, Lisanne, Lindsey and Nathan, and although we didn’t know each other that well to start with, we soon became like a diverse but fiercely loyal little family. Lots of laughing, sharing, sticking together in the strangeness of it all. In the interests of full cultural immersion though I was keen not to live with other expats so I wrestled myself from the newly formed familial fold and branched out on my own, making sure to come back at regular intervals for parties, breakfasts and, naturally, tequila jelly shots.

The first few weeks on my own were a wasteland of loneliness. I realised soon enough that the Spanish I had learnt even at degree level was purely academic and I had none of the skills necessary to actually speak and understand people. The bottom of the learning curve is a humbling place to be…but at least the only way is up! Small encounters became huge issues, and my mood for the day rather hung on whether or not I managed to make myself understood at the bank, or embarrassed myself beyond measure when trying to buy food supplies. Life is pretty quiet when you can’t talk.

Even in the first strange weeks though, Mexico impressed me with its beauty. Trees, flowers, fountains, sculptures, twinkling lights, clear blue skies and warm sunshine…every roundabout had something beautiful on it amid the crazy traffic – it was all so pretty. Grand buildings, great cultural institutions, old traditions played out every day, bright colours, smart-suited Mariachi string bands, phenomenal food, a bustling market place full of produce I had never seen before – there was a lot to experience here.

During the day I and my uni pals studied at a language centre with other foreign students, but during many evenings I had the great privilege of becoming a volunteer at a shelter for street boys called Oasis En Gedi.

The Oasis team were mostly Mexicans with a few internationals, and what wonderful people they were. Through Oasis I met Jane, a British nurse who became an immediate ally, guide, language teacher and life coach. Finally someone could explain to me all the incomprehensible things! It was quite hard to befriend Mexican girls, there was either a shortage in the right age group or perhaps they were shy…but instead I met a couple of lads from the Bible college next door to the shelter who had come to Guadalajara from Los Mochis in the northern part of Mexico, and who volunteered at Oasis too. They were Ignacio and Emmanuel, nicknamed Nacho and Chino respectively, and their friendship and fun revolutionised my experience of Mexico. Thanks in large measure to their patience with the stumbling conversation of the English girl, I slowly learned some real Mexican Spanish – and to this day certain phrases come bouncing out of my memory in their voices, with the memory of their twinkling eyes firmly attached. Ya llegamos Mami? Sale y vale!

And the street boys. Oh the street boys.

They were brown skinned, scruffy, smelly, exceptionally street-wise, and despite being aged generally between about 8 and 14, often came across like bitter old men, but still at other times so clearly just children. Children turned out on their own to take on a brutal adult world. They were wily, cheeky, rude, easily enraged, always jostling for position, always dirty and always hungry. They were infuriating but it was impossible not to love them fiercely. Occasionally when no-one was looking they would sneak onto your lap for a cuddle or be totally enthralled by a simple craft activity and their childish innocence showed through. They were utterly captivating and utterly heartbreaking.

Sometimes they came to our door carrying weapons and had to reluctantly surrender them to be locked away until they left. Sometimes they were high on solvents and ready for a fight. Sometimes they approached, but refused to come inside when they realised they had to entrust their paltry possessions to us, albeit temporarily, or that they had to go a whole evening without solvents. Even the requirement of broadly civilised behaviour (eg. no fighting, stealing, bullying – maybe sit on the chairs instead of throwing them around) sometimes put them off. On the streets they were their own boss, no-one told them how to behave. It was so very sad when they walked away defiantly despite their obvious longing – and need – to come in. Free will hurts.

When homeless boys (girls were generally catered for by other agencies) didn’t arrive at the door, we would take it in turns to go out on the streets in our minibus looking for them and bring them back to the shelter for a shower, games, food and clothes washing, and a life-giving message. When I was on washing duty I would stand on the enclosed flat roof of the building, prodding revolting clothes into the machine with a stick and I would sing for joy as I looked out over the rooftops that I got to be part of this amazing work.

Going out onto the streets was a heart twisting reminder of what poverty is really like. The boys, even the ones who knew us, were restless and anxious on the streets. They never stayed around long and were unpredictable in their behaviour. They slept on roundabouts, in holes in walls, and under trees and they were in constant danger. Nights were cold and unkind. Alcohol, solvents, violence and fear dominated their lives. It wasn’t just boys on the streets either – I remember we chatted to an older man, Cesar, one night who described how his life had been ravaged by alcoholism, and how he had lost his home, his wife, his children, and he wept and wept as Nacho laid a concerned, friendly hand on his shoulder to pray for him.

It was disorientating at times living this strange double life – student fun, parties and learning opportunities some days vs gritty life realities among desperate poverty on others. I remember being with my Uni friends the day after going out on the streets, the memory of Cesar’s sorrow at his alcohol-wasted life fresh in my mind. Suddenly those tequila jelly shots seemed a bit less appealing.

I remember Alex Torres, a tall shy lad with a shock of black hair who had come to Oasis quite a few times and seemed to relax and enjoy it. He gave me a ring fashioned out of tiny chains once – a reminder to me of the invisible chains the street boys lived with. We had hope for him breaking free of the destructive cycles of street living, it was within reach. One night we went out and found him but he wouldn’t get into the van with us and come back to the shelter. We had a sense that he was in danger, that there weren’t many more chances for him to get out of that awful place before it destroyed him. He was caught, torn between the perilous freedoms and addictions of life on the streets, and a desperate desire for home, for stability, safety and love.

He was sleeping with several others in a ruined building, a dark den of drugs and unimaginable horror for a homeless 12 year old. We pleaded with him to no avail. He shook his head and walked away from us towards the cavernous black mouth that was the entrance to the ruins. Then, for a moment, he hesitated and looked back while we held our breath. Regret and resignation was written all over his pale face, before he finally stepped away and the darkness swallowed him. I wasn’t a mother then but oh, how my mother heart ached for him that night, for Alex. I never saw him at Oasis again.

I remember praying almost angrily: ‘Do you see this God? What are you doing about it?! What are you doing about this awful situation?!’

Soon after that I went out one night with Gail, who founded and ran Oasis. She came across a couple of boys, brothers she had spent time with a while before with their mother. In the couple of weeks that had passed since she had last seen them, their mother had been killed in a road accident, and the boys were orphaned, living on the roundabout next to the road where she had died. As Gail cried with them, hugged them, listened to them and organised what she could to help those brothers, I felt God gave me my answer. ‘This is what I’m doing. I am sending people like Gail. What about you?’

Through Jane, Nacho and Chino, I found a vibrant celebratory church quite near the house I moved into as a lodger with Lety, a mum with three kids and a permanently absent pilot husband. The church, Fuente de Vida was such a wonderfully warm family and a great window on Mexican life. People were kind and welcoming and the teaching input was invaluable. Things were definitely looking up.

My diary reminds me about lots of happy hours at Oasis, lots and LOTS of delicious food – usually at street stalls, lots of getting on the wrong bus, walking for miles on end (often at midnight, sorry Mum!), lots of phone calls home, Fuente meetings, stresses over school work, lovely trips out sight-seeing, weekends at the seaside, lots of special times and sleepy chats with my uni pals, lots of wandering and chatting with Jane, Nacho and Chino, lots of running out of money, lots of self-admonishment for over-sleeping and lots of being late. I was so happy and content to be there, soaking it all up, loving life.

I found people in general so warm, expressive, affectionate, tactile, open with their emotions – at times in my British-ness I didn’t know how to respond, but I definitely preferred it to the cynicism and sarcasm of uni culture, and when I got back home I found the UK really rather cold – and not just because of the weather.

Then there were the unprecedented levels of male attention. Whilst on the whole rather enjoying the flattery (not so much from the creepy older guys who just wouldn’t take no for an answer) I also found it rather sad that Mexican men seemed to highly prize what isn’t Mexican, and overlook what is. Most Mexican women have dark eyes and dark hair, and are totally gorgeous, but their rightful suitors often bypassed them in the dogged pursuit of blonde hair and blue eyes – the foreign novelty. It was bewildering.

I wrote myself firm reminders not to fall for the attention just because it made a nice change – ‘today – really must remember NOT to fall in love’…I was maybe about 80% successful, which isn’t bad considering the constant barrage against my prim British reserve!

By the end I think I was a bit in love with everyone – with the cosy grandmother figure who taught me how to cook delicious Mexican dishes (te amamos, she said, we love you), with all my hilarious friends and their ridiculous banter that occasionally paused long enough to reveal tender hearts underneath the laughter, with Lety and the kids I lived with (no te vayas Carolina, don’t leave us), with the warm loving church family and its bouncy pastor who mocked me mercilessly….with the mystery, diversity and vibrant richness of this amazing country. Mexico swept me off my feet.

I cried for two weeks straight after I left, which wasn’t the best introduction to my new destination, Brazil. Unfairly, I rather resented Brazil for not being Mexico, and desperately missed my friends, my church, and speaking Spanish. I was so sad the good times had to end, sad that I couldn’t just continue on so wonderfully surrounded by it all.

Despite this though seemingly I didn’t question my plan – I had a student schedule to follow and more of the world to see, I was moving on, and not expecting to return. I wasn’t ready to give my heart to one country, I had already lived in and loved Zimbabwe, and I knew there was much more of the world to see.

Wonderfully for me, I did go back, for Nacho’s wedding a couple of years later to a delightful American girl called Esther, and again a few years after that when travelling with my own new hubby, where we saw Nacho and Esther again and their new baby Justus. Happy bonus times.

I don’t think I realised at the time quite how significant and special those 6 months in Mexico were. I felt the pain and disorientation of being in a totally new country and culture, and with the help of all the wonderful people around me, I eventually thoroughly conquered it. I had meaningful relationships entirely in Spanish with all kinds of people. I lived like a local, and I loved it. So many things I learnt then are now firmly part of my thinking, my skill set, my perspective, my cookbook and my ‘favourite things’ list. Mexico remained a dearly beloved of mine for many years to come, but I thought it was just to be a happy memory. I never suspected I would be back for good, not even when the bouncy church leader told me he thought God would bring me back to Mexico one day.

Until now. How wonderful that Mexico opens its arms to us again.

It is a very different Mexico we’re going to now though. The Yucatan is a very different part of the country to the state of Jalisco, where Guadalajara proudly reigns. The culture is different, the food is different, even the Spanish is different. And unbelievably 18 years has passed since my Guadalajara days – I am different, and even the part of Mexico I knew is different now too. It has moved on. I do wonder sometimes, what would have happened if I had stayed, not moved on to Brazil and gone back to Uni?

Then I look up from the diary, and look around me. No. Even if it were possible to go back and stay this time, of course I wouldn’t, because I would lose all this – the continued journey, the last 18 years of life, maturing, love, mistakes, learning, miracles, and keeping on keeping on. My people now, my family.

I close the book. I have been incredibly privileged to see so much of the world, to live in and travel through so many different nations but inevitably there has been a huge amount of moving on, of loving and leaving. I think I’ve had enough of that. I’m ready to settle now. To leave and cleave and live happily ever after at least largely based in just one place.

Ready for a fresh start. Ready to fall in love with Mexico all over again, in today’s world and through real life interactions, not half-remembered nostalgia.

The Lonely Planet guide to Mexico cautions the intrepid traveller that if they are looking for the authentic genuine Mexico, they should expect several different conclusions.
I’m excited to encounter another conclusion, different to what I have already known, to get to know a different Mexico in a different way, to extend my horizons and understanding of this incredible country. I’m ready to go in humility as a learner, not an out of date know-it-all, to rock up at the bottom of that learning curve again. It’s time to move on one final time, and after that, to stay for good.

So Guadalajara, gracias for everything and adios. Sale y vale!

Puerto Morelos, over to you.