A literary tradition in a folkloric idiom, from the Icelandic Saga to the Basque contest-poetry of bertsolaritza has many key differences from a written one. These stories, passed down from generation to generation and often with some degree of improvisation create a literature in constant evolution. It is also a literature which, apart from a very few respected storytellers, does not elevate the author to the revered position that he occupies in modern written literature — in fact, there is no real concept of author in a story told for so many years that it simply becomes ‘a story’ rather than ‘a story by x’. It is a literature which applauds deviating from the original, improvising, improving, forgetting and remembering. It is a literature which thrives on constant innovation. Even in the act of transcribing Sagas and other primarily oral traditions we are irrevocably altering the dynamic of a literature which previously existed in a state of constant evolution and flux. It is also a literature in which any evolution is gradual, there are few paradigm shifts, since the basic stories stay more or less the same for decades if not centuries.

There is no solution to this problem. Oral storytelling and tradition (and by this I more specifically I mean the skill of remembering and telling stories that are never written down) is all but dead in first-world western culture. In written stories, and even in recordings of stories being told we are creating a subtle but crucial change in how these stories are transmitted: we are giving the listener the ability to re-read, re-listen, and therefore learn much more closely the stories being told. That is to say, the re-teller of a story no longer has to gloss over or make up the parts of the story that he doesn’t remember. However, it seems ridiculous not to record a tradition that is so obviously on the decline. These opposing points of view are equally valid, and I find it almost impossible not to agree, however hypocritically, with both statements. I cannot deny that the written word, and in most cases modern media, is supremely beneficial to society: it allows the development and retention of complex ideas and fantastic levels of creativity through development and revision; it allows us to learn and transmit knowledge in a way that is all but impossible within a society with no knowledge of the written word; it allows the dissemination of this knowledge to previously unthinkable numbers of people.

But part of me really misses being told a good story.

Related posts:

1. Structuralism, Post-Structuralism and The Death of the Author
2. Subversion / Reversion: The deconstruction and reconstruction of the Western cultural narrative through a Native American idiom in Thomas King’s Green Grass, Running Water

I’m off to Tecoman next weekend, I hope, if TPA pull their fingers out and return my calls. Mexican organisation is one thing that I won’t miss, although sometimes it’s good to be that laid back. The other thing I won’t miss is cockroaches, which are starting to appear at this time of year. They also seem to hang out around our toothbrushes, which isn’t that nice. Anyway, nothing that exciting has really happened, so until next time, tara.

Related posts:

1. Turtles and Exhibitions
2. La Playa
3. Maruata II

It started at ten, typically late. As an Englishman, I had never seen a “Castillo” before this one, and I didn’t know what to expect. Before the “Castillo”, there was the “torito” – something which would be completely illegal in england – and this surprised me more than anything else. In my country, you have to be several metres from the fireworks, and at public displays, more and more frequently behind a barrier. It’s fantastic that there are still countries where, contrary to mine, living and having fun is considered more important than the elimination of the tiny risks that make life exciting.

After this show of fire and light, and a corn on the cob with a salsa so hot that it nearly killed me, the main course began. Without making a fuss and without ceremony, someone touched the fuse with his cigarette, and the street exploded into a blaze of light. The crowd cheered, and the light turned into an array of colours. The children ran between the sparks, daring each other to run ever closer.

At this moment, I have to point out that my English friends were horrified that the children were allowed to play so close to the fireworks. As I have said, in my country there is a great preoccupation with safety, and it seems very strange to British people that people can do something that we would consider so dangerous.

The fireworks continued, from the toes to the head of the “Castillo”, each stage more sensational than the last, more noisy, more full of colour. The fireworks span faster and faster, until the last stages, a flaming effigy of San José, with the words “Bendito Seas” [Bless you] underneath it, and finally the crown, shooting off into the sky, its red flames leaving a trail of smoke in its wake.

The crown crashed to the ground, and the crowd dispersed. After a day of festivities, the square was left almost empty; only the stalls and their owners remained. My friends and I said goodbye and left. Walking back to my house, I thought about what I had seen. Whilst it had lacked many of the safety measures that I am used to, the people enjoyed themselves much more than in England; it’s obvious that when the government doesn’t mollycoddle its citizens, the quality of life is far superior.

Related posts:

1. Sayulita
2. Semana Santa

We go away almost every weekend, usually (so far) to beach. That said, I haven’t been here long enough to comment on what ‘the norm’ is in terms of excursions. All I know is that so far I’ve been to the beach at Manzanillo and to Tequila on the Tequila Express (no really, there is a train specifically for getting hammered on). I’m still loving the country and the people I’m with, and I’m still going out ridiculously frequently, and unlike my house-mate, I’ve got used to the punishing 6-nights-out-a-week schedule.

Teaching is a new and exciting experience for me. There is the occasional very dedicated and serious student, but mostly they just like to take my photo, ask if I have a girlfriend (girls) or like football (boys), and occasionally throw things at me when my back is turned. Someone even stole my pen while I was writing on the board, which I was wholly unimpressed by. It’s also become apparent that I’m sxpected to be able to handle a class of 60 screaming murderous teenagers on my todd, so I’m working on having authority, but so far rather unsuccessfully. The level of English that the students manage to speak here seems to be either surprisingly high or alarmingly low, with not much in between.

I’ve taken up  a few things here, and even managed to drop some of them already. For example, whilst I still go to the gym three or four times a week, and usually to yoga on thursdays, it only took me one Salsa lesson to be convinced that a) I can’t, and may never be able to dance, and b) More important that your ability to dance is the ability of the girl you’re dancing with. That is to say, you need to be good at it to lead someone who doesn’t know what they’re doing, but if they do then it really doesn’t matter so much. Thankfully, all Mexicans and most of the other volunteers can dance. They’ve been here longer than me anyway, I have a (weak) excuse.

I’m almost completely settled in here now (I’ve even got used to the spicy food), and I managed it, much to everyone’s surprise, without being ill. The fabled ‘turista’ (getting ill just because everything is completely different to your home country) didn’t get me at all. In fact, considering how much I’ve been going out and how little sleep I’ve been getting sometimes, I’m pretty surprised that I haven’t been ill. Along with the other bits of settling in, such as being able to actually find where I live, and learning that you can get anywhere in a cab for half of what they first demand, my Spanish is improving hugely, which is a relief. I had a horrible image of getting here and speaking English so much that my Spanish never got a chance. My French, on the other hand, seems to have almost entirely disappeared; I suppose that’s just the way it goes.

I’m going to try and post once a week from now on, so hopefully you’ll all be a bit more up to date with it all, but if nobody starts leaving me comments, I might have to give up. Come on, stop being so boring!

Related posts:

1. Dancing in Mexico

Mexican dancing is much more sensual than dancing in England. That’s not to say that it’s downright dirty dancing – it’s much more restrained than what our nation’s club-goers indulge in – but it’s so much more charged. There’s an amazing energy in a room full of people dancing salsa or banda that transcends all boundaries of race and age, which makes the dancing more sensual than anything else. Whilst this sensuality pervades most Mexican dancing (and most of Mexican culture), the act of dancing is far less sexually significant . You can dance with lots of different people — being ‘guero’ (fair skinned) means an Englishman or woman can usually have their pick – and enjoy yourself without sending any particular message.
Nobody is shy about dancing in Mexico (it helps that they can all dance). At school discos there’s no shuffling around the edge of the room, plucking up courage to ask one of the less pretty girls to dance with you. At a Mexican party, you get to dance with the attractive girls if you ask. There’s little danger of rejection, and that’s only if the less pretty girls haven’t already grabbed you for themselves – something of which I have personal experience.

There is one slight hitch: I can’t do it. Not for want of trying; I take every opportunity to flaunt my willing inability to dance. It just so happens that I find moving my backside – which isn’t big enough for that kind of shaking anyway – in such a flowing manner is impossible. How will I ever get myself out there and be a part of this amazing culture?

Fortunately, there’s one more part of this dancing culture I’d like to applaud: The only thing Mexicans seem to love more than the act of dancing is teaching other people to dance. And so, once again playing the “guero” card, I am able to get myself a hands-on lesson with most pretty young señoritas. It’s true that for an Englishman, I’m a bit of an odd case; most of us absolutely loathe dancing. I have many friends here who would never ask a girl to teach them salsa, or the much more Mexican, but infinitely less sexy, Banda – a type of dance that involves putting your leg in someone’s crotch and bouncing back and forth a few steps at a time.

Luckily for them, again being foreign, they are usually grabbed by people without having asked, and when you’re grabbed by a Mexican, you will dance. It’s not that they’re domineering, it’s just that they have no concept of not wanting to dance – and if a pretty girl grabbed you by the hand, why wouldn’t you?

Related posts:

1. El Maestro
2. Mexico D.F. : Xochimilco
3. Hotel – El Tajin – Puebla Mexico D.F