Mexico & Me

When I was eighteen, I went to Mexico by myself for two months.

Yes, it was part of my 'gap yah,' but in my defence I had spent four months working full time at Tesco, taking as many shifts as I could, including Christmas, to afford the trip.

I had taken Spanish as a foreign language in secondary school up to A Level and I wanted to put this to the test. I had been to Spain and I love it there, but I knew that if I started to struggle speaking Spanish, someone would jump in to help in English. I was right to think that Mexico would test me.

I flew in to Mexico City and it was truly overwhelming: 20 million people, a bustling metropolis surrounded by endless neighbourhoods; many exciting and vibrant and some dangerous. I loved it.

I spent my first few days seeing as many of the beautiful buildings, galleries and museums as I could. I was absolutely amazed by the National Museum of Anthropology and it was there that my fascination with the Mayan civilisation began. The sheer scale of the stonework and the intricate designs within them were deeply impressive.

I knew it was the right decision to travel on my own, as I had complete freedom, and I could be treated almost as a new person by the people that I met. I didn't have to be the insecure teenager.

However, it was a struggle at times; I had talked to a few people in the hostel but I hadn't made any friends, and I was really struggling to speak in Spanish at all times. I realised that my brain was thinking in English, switching it to crude Spanish and then trying to speak it. By that point the conversation had often moved on. On top of this, the dialects of Mexico were very different to the Castellano I learned in school.

I travelled on to Oaxaca and started to relax more: I made friends in the hostel there, as it was bigger with a large central courtyard, where people could talk in the shade; Jules, Martha and I stayed friends throughout the rest of my time in Mexico

I tried Oaxacan chocolate, cheese, and went to see the Mayan pyramids at Monte Alban. There was also a teachers' strike in the centre of town, which was exciting in its own way.

After this, Jules, Martha and I made a long trip by coach to Palenque. The humidity was incredible coming off of the coach and I knew I was somewhere very different. The three of us stayed in a rented hut in the tourist camp and on the first day I lay underneath the ceiling fan, trying to get used to the heat and humidity.

The pyramids in Palenque were incredible; the site is huge and sits in the middle of a clearing in dense woods. The size and range of pyramids is difficult to describe, but it turned my fascination with the Maya into an obsession. Ancient, broken steps lead up to chambers with extraordinary carvings and intricate designs, made thousands of years ago. Some of the pyramids were high and a little frightening, but the views were incredible.

Something else happened in Palenque too. I stopped thinking in English and started thinking in Spanish: I became near fluent. I felt like I had been given a wonderful gift.

After Palenque, the three of us went to a small town called San Cristobal de las Casas, as I had to start making my way back to Mexico City for my flight and my two friends were happy to come along. I felt more confident in myself now that I could speak Spanish (Mexican) and I was a lot more outgoing.

I enjoy dancing, but I couldn't Salsa. Nevertheless, we went out to the local Salsa club and I gave it my best shot. At one point in the evening, three Mexicans students, two women and a man, came up and asked if I wanted a Salsa lesson. Of course I agreed.

At the end of the night, they invited me back to their house. I ended up staying with them for a week; during the day we would watch terrible tv, eat great food and they would teach me Salsa. Each night I would go to the club and try out what I had learned. By the end of the week I was much better!

With a heavy heart, I left the three students, travelled back to Mexico City, and flew home. I knew I had to commemorate this journey somehow and I knew that a tattoo would be a permanent reminder.

I looked at this image for seven years, from the age of eighteen to twenty five. After seven years, I knew I would love this tattoo forever. By this time, I also knew an excellent tattoo artist.

I had the tattoo done on my right shoulder blade; it was even more painful than I expected! But I love my tattoo; every time I catch a glimpse of it in the mirror it brings me back to the journey that transformed me.