The buns here look so great and there are so many different kinds but the temptations of the exterior evaporate so rapidly upon eating, leaving behind only the disappointment of their taste and texture. In fact, the bland monotony of their insides is the absolute negation of the exciting multiplicities of their exteriors.

We move to Xalapa today and I get my shoes shined in a square. The seat is very high, upholstered in peeling faux leather and is padded like it belongs in a racing car. The shoeshiner applies some kind of black liquid with a paint brush. It bears an uneasy resemblance to ink and when it dries it creates diffraction patterns like pooled petrol in a gutter. I watch the whole process intently with curiousity and not without some nervousness and feel no need to distract myself with the Playboy magazines in the armrest.

Shoes now blackened, all I need to complete my wedding outfit is a guayabera. I find a plain white cotton one and it’s made by a brand called Kyke. Perfect.

In the evening, by way of Adam’s final parade as a stag, Sam and Eric have planned a trip to see some Lucha Libre. There’s a queue round the corner which ends at a small grilled window behind which two people sit with a seating plan, the unavailable ones crossed out with a marker pen.

We get fifth row seats in a vast dark room. Bass pumps deep and you can feel your trousers vibrating. Above the ring hang a modest collection of tungsten bulbs and the blue mat below glows a warm yellow. The faces that line the caged balconies above also glow yellow. In a corner, beef and chicken and chorizo are being fried for tacos and men with ice-buckets of beer and soft-drinks circulate.

When the wrestling begins, six men enter one-by-one (three per team) accompanied to a muffled announcement and then either boos or cheers from the crowd. Everyone seems to already know who’s good and who's bad, and when the fighting begins, the distinction becomes totally obvious. There are the bad guys who use chairs and sneak in disallowed punches when the ref’s not looking. And then there are good guys, the victims, who are faster and more agile and do backflips off the top ropes.

Many wear leather masks decorated with spikes and flames and laced tight at the back like a corset. Some masks even obscure the eyes with a finely perforated material allowing the fighter to form a pointillist composite of the scene. Those who do not wear a mask obscure themselves by other means. Drag, for example. The crowd have a fondness for these mincing wrestlers in make up but like to be outraged when they wield their special moves of kissing and butt-bumping (for which their rivals punish them harshly with dropkicks and slams to the mat).

We leave before the last fight so that the next day’s groom doesn’t get to bed too late. The score, as we left it, was 5-1 to the bad guys. A surprising outcome I thought. What conclusions might we draw from this about the spirit of the nation?

Today was the day with the wedding.

It began with the vows. Then many signatures on a large certificate. Then the bride and groom’s thumb prints. Then they were married.

When the ceremony was over over a long queue formed in front of the matrimonial gazebo so that everyone could get their photograph with the new couple. And then there was some dancing.

The principal pair began on their own for a brief while. Then the bride’s parents cut in forming two dancing pairs (mother with groom, father with bride). They were soon replaced by the groom’s parents, and then the rest of us: stepping our steps, offering our congratulations, and moving on.

Speeches. Then eating.

There was a buffet that started with tortillas, led to stews, and finished with salsas and frijoles. The Mexican guests took their tortillas, one for each stew, and laid them out open across their plates, slightly overlapping. They then ladled some stew into each tortilla, folding it over neatly and moving it to one side. This was repeated for each of the stews. At the end, they applied the accompaniments, sat down and ate their neatly wrapped wraps.

In contrast, us British guests folded up our tortillas and placed them out of the way on the side of our plates. We then ladled the stews onto out plates forming intersecting puddles. At the last stew station a member of the waiting staff would note the chaotic state of our meal, smile warmly, and reach behind the counter to retrieve a hidden fork to our relief. In trying to make our wraps post hoc we failed entirely.

After the food there were some more rituals. First, the bride and groom stood on chairs: bride in front, both facing forward, with the groom holding her veil to form a bridge between them. Then all the female guests formed a chain and ran around them in a figure-of-eight, apparently trying to knock them over. When they gave up doing this they gathered in a huddle behind the bride and awaited the throwing of the bouquet. It was thrown, there was commotion, it was caught.

Next, the bride sat down on one of the chairs while the groom danced in front of her to Stayin’ Alive by the Bee Gees. Still moving to the beat, the groom began to reach under his new wife’s wedding dress, finally coming out triumphant with her garter in hand. This achieved, they ascended to the chairs once more but this time with the groom in front and wearing the veil. All the men linked up, did the figure-of-eight again and still failed to knock anyone over. They too then gathered up behind the couple and waited for the groom to throw the garter, although this time they’re meant to avoid catching it; as before, success here foretells imminent marriage.

Perhaps as revenge, a bunch of men now pick up the groom and carry him round the room to the accompaniment of a funeral march. They take off his shoes and socks and throw him up in the air several times. Throw and catch, throw and catch (the ceiling fans were turned off during this ritual). Finally he’s put down, sits down, and his wife does a dance in front of him, moving smooth, gliding, putting back on his socks and shoes.

From here on in there’s dancing. Serious dancing. From everyone (apart from us British guests). I look on with envy and incredulity as a whole party full of people dance with such profound skill and joy.

The dancing is interrupted briefly by Mariachi band who arrive with tight pendant-studded trousers and large bow ties. They sing sad songs of love and for a while no one’s dancing. But very soon they start playing more joyous songs of love and people return to the dance with untempered vigour. Without any warning the Mariachi leave, walking out the way the way came, serenading themselves until they're out of earshot.

The dancing continues of course but the ceremonies and rituals have come to end. Gradually the dance floor clears. Cars fill up and drive off. Only close family remain.

Darkness falls and the cicadas replace the beat. The venue owner’s dog at last gets let out and she barks with boredom at the strangers waiting in the potholed car park. Twenty minutes pass and we learn that the taxis aren’t coming. More taxis are ordered and the wait begins again.

The movement, sound, and ceremony are completely vanished by now and the wilderness of the world has reclaimed all. The night is chilly and damp and for a long fifteen minutes we all stand alone in the dark, half hearing the half-real echoes of the day just gone. Two taxis pull up slowly, grinding lightly over the gravel. What a sight through the headlights we must have been; suits and dresses, shivering and vulnerable, huddled alone in an extinct jungle.