The beat-up old motor revs up the hill next to my apartment, the dogs wrestle each other across the street, the children in the next block over shriek in youthful abandonment, and the Soni gas truck emits its catchy jingle as it makes its daily calls through town.
All the while, the grinding of drills, jackhammers and God knows what other construction gear sound out relentlessly from 8am … early, considering it’s Mexico.
However, I no longer have to contend with the crowing roosters at 5am since I moved neighbourhoods a year ago. This is something. Its cacophony of daily beats could sum up Mexico.
I arrived in Sayulita on the Mexican Pacific coast in April 2017. It was meant to be a three-month stint. It has now stretched to eight years, temporary residency status (upgrading to permanent next year) and adult-defining purchases such as a washing machine and an air fryer.
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I’m hunkering down, blooming where I planted myself. I’m becoming more equipped to deal with Mexican time, the water shortages in a town whose infrastructure struggles to keep up with its pace of growth. This once small fishing village now entices surfers with their loyal groupies from all over. The laid-back way of living keeps them here. And the developers are trying to cash in on the beachy-surf-lifestyle-cool and matcha lattes.
I’m also coming to terms with the fact that no matter how many times I try, I can’t seem to bake a decent batch of scones. Is it the lack of Odlums or the dodgy oven? I’ll struggle on.
I’m far from home, but the similarities between Ireland and Mexico are many.
A strong sense of family values and warm hospitality came through on my first Christmas here. It was harder because Christmas in the sun goes against everything I stand for.
I was invited to my neighbour’s Christmas Eve dinner. It came complete with the local parish priest presiding over the head of the table.
Conversation was limited given the language barrier, but smiles were genuine, and the laughter loud. Large helpings of pozole – a hearty type of stew made with large corn kernels and either pork or chicken – were consumed.
Corn in Mexico is what potato is to Ireland – sacred, shape-shifting and 100 per cent indispensable. One of my favourite street snacks has fast become elotes, which is basically a bag of crisps topped with corn, crema and queso.
But no party here is complete without mariachi music, usually live with band members in traditional dress and played at a decibel higher than is comfortable.
While I greatly appreciate Irish dancing, I’m endlessly impressed by the moves of the locals here with their quick, light, precise steps and effortless rhythm. Try as I dare, I’ll never master the art of the Mexican hip swing.
What has taken me most by surprise is how warmly the Mexicans themselves claim kinship with us. Two great nations forged by adversary and song, a deep sense of pride and even deeper sense of humour.
One story of our shared history which makes my heart swell is that of Los San Patricios. This group of Irish soldiers abandoned the US army to fight with the Mexicans during the Mexican-American War (1846-1848). Religious solidarity and the promise of more pay were the unifying reasons.
As of 2023 Mexico City now even boasts its own GAA club in the form of their Los San Patricios team.
So while I carve out a life here with the sun feeding my soul and upping my freckle count and the humidity making my skin “glisten” beyond control, I am made aware of the distance in miles I am from home.
I can’t hug my nephew or niece as often as I’d like or catch up with friends at a gig or walk into any Spar/Centra for a breakfast roll and pack of Tayto.
I can, however, take delight in chats with the guys at the local tienda, the non-judgy support at my karaoke attempts on a random Thursday night, the satisfaction of being able to distinguish between the different taco stands and the shared love and appreciation for a good street party.
Whether it’s Los Muertos or St Patrick we celebrate, there’s no denying the euphoric thrill of a big, colourful and never OTT parade.
Orlagh McCarron grew up on the north coast of Donegal, which could very well explain her constant draw to the sea. When not working as a steward aboard yachts, she can be found taking in the sights, sounds and wonders of Mexico. Every year, she still dreams of an Irish Christmas.
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