Author: Lynda Jones

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Semana Santa

People in Mexico are beginning to understand the gravity of the Coronavirus outbreak.  Andrés Manuel López Obrador, Mexico’s president, has been reluctant to take a strong stand for fear it would hurt the country’s economy. This week he banned large events and non-essential government activities but didn’t provide details about what that would look like or how it would be enforced. 

Instead, AMLO launched a unique media campaign to motivate people to stay six-feet apart. The spokesperson, Susana Distancia, is a cartoon of a young, slim, white superhero wearing yellow tights and a pink blouse. She’s protected by a transparent bubble the width of her outstretched arms. Susana’s battle cry is “Quédate en casa,” or “stay home.” 

Susana has a lot of work ahead of her because next week is Semana Santa (Holy Week.)

Here is something nobody tells you: Semana Santa is a big deal. It is a bigger celebration than Carnavál. The population of Mazatlán doubles as people who live inland head to the coast.  Families come from far away to visit their relatives, party at the beach and fill every hotel room in the entire city.  This year Mazatlán’s mayor has ordered all hotels and beaches closed.

Stone Island, a peninsula across the bay from downtown Mazatlán, is an especially popular spot for visiting families. The beach stretches for miles. In past years, the beach was so crowded during Semana Santa that you couldn’t see the sand.

Although Semana Santa is the week before Easter, nothing about the week seems very holy. Only the old women are in church, earnestly praying for their wayward children. Their children, parents themselves now, are sitting in the sun, women in bikinis and men in shorts and tank tops, enjoying the beautiful warm weather.

I liked joining the Mexican families for the festivities. I liked watching the tourists ride the water taxies to Stone Island, carrying everything they might need for a day at the beach ~ mostly huge beach umbrellas to protect them from the sun and large coolers filled with Pacifico beer. One year I saw a father bring an plastic orange swimming pool so he could keep an eye on his water babies and not have to worry about them wandering into the ocean.

Beach vendors hustle to make money during Semana Santa. This man is selling balloons. All day long he walks up and down the beach, tempting children who are crazy with excitement. Along the way, he passes stands where people sell homemade candy, freshly gathered coconuts, gummy bears, pistachios, strawberries in whipped cream, cold sodas and fresh, hot tortillas. 

There are, of course, other beach vendors who walk the same route selling blouses and skirts, silver jewelry, carved wood statues, beautiful beaded rosaries, henna tattoos, hair-braiding, homemade doughnuts, and tiny turtles made from coconut shells. 

Semana Santa feels like the Minnesota State Fair, except there are almost no blond, blue-eyed people anywhere. Most of the Americans who live in Mazatlán stay home or leave town for the week. The beaches are too crowded for them. 

Maybe they are merely answering the prayers of the old women on their knees in church, praying that the gringos will stay away and let their families party in peace.

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Osprey

First, an update on the Conoravirus  situation in Mexico. Ernesto tells me that the virus outbreak is about two weeks behind the U.S.  Cases are  beginning to be reported as more and more people are tested. People are trying to keep their distance from each other, but it’s difficult. It’s not their nature to be alone.

Concerts, meetings and events have been cancelled. Hospitals are desperate for beds, medical equipment, testing kits, masks and gloves. The country, as whole, is not prepared for what is coming next. Neto, who is caring for his 92 year old mother, is asking people not to visit. His only exercise is walking to the beach to look at the ocean and watch the waves, and then going back home.

Meanwhile, the president of Mexico denies that there is a crisis. He has a reputation as a “people’s president” and continues to hug people and kiss babies on his frequent stops around the country. The governors, however, are more realistic. They have closed borders and beaches. American and Canadian airlines have stopped flights to Mexico and a few tourists are scrambling to get home.

It’s a tough time. That’s why I want to switch things up a bit. To give you a diversion from the everyday grim news. To give you a reason to smile and feel hopeful. 

I’m happy to report that the Boulder osprey pair are back on their nest, high in the sky. You should see them! They are wonderful, majestic birds. I’ve watched this couple for the past four years. Now I watch them every day. You can watch, too, at www.bouldercounty.org/open space/management/osprey-camera

I love the osprey, especially these two. They’ve been together since at least 2012. They meet back here every year, flying in from different migratory areas. We don’t know where they’ve been or what they’ve been up to. I like to think they go to Mexico ~ maybe one is in Mazatlán, and the other is in Cabo. Or maybe they stay in the U.S. ~ one of them in Alabama and the other in New Orleans. I believe they smile when they see each other again.

Every year suspense builds as we don’t know when, or even if, they will return. This week both osprey returned within 24 hours of each other and we all breathed a sigh of relief.

Next there will be mating. And more mating. And more mating. If your children are ready for the birds-and bees talk, this is a perfect opportunity. After weeks of getting reacquainted (Ahem!) at last the eggs are laid. That, too, is must-see-TV. Sometimes the mother lays as many as four eggs, or as few as two, over three or four days. 

And then, the long wait until the eggs hatch. The mother sits on the nest for a long time (about thirty-eight days) in all kinds of Colorado weather ~ often rain, snow and violent winds. Meanwhile, the father brings fish to keep her warm and satisfied. Occasionally he gives her a break. He sits on the eggs while she flies over Boulder Creek, stretching her wings and looking for trash to bring back to decorate the nest.

The season follows with lots of real-life drama. The chicks hatch. The parents feed live fish into their tiny mouth until they learn to feed themselves. They grow bigger every day and then they fly. Fly! For the first time! That moment takes my breath away every year. Finally, at the end of the summer, they fly away for the last time, to parts unknown. I whisper, “God-speed, little birds. I wish you a long life with abundant fish and clean, clear waters.”

During, this hard time, remember the birds and the other animals that make our world a beautiful place. Hopefully, we will be stronger when this is over, more caring for each other and for our planet. Let’s practice kindness and compassion. Like the osprey, let’s make our homes a refuge, a place to re-connect. A place that makes us smile.

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Primavera

¡Primavera! The first day of spring. Of course the holiday is celebrated with a parade. Everything in Mazatlán is celebrated with a parade. And because my home was on a busy main street, every parade went right past my front door.

Some of the parades, I must admit, began to have a sameness about them. Gorgeous girls with long dark hair and beautiful black eyes wearing tight sequined dresses and sparkling tiaras. Military bands and dancing horses. Music booming from speakers the size of my kitchen stove.

But the Primavera parade is something special. Held on the first day of spring, it is a day for preschoolers and kindergartners to dress like flowers, butterflies and baby animals. Mothers walk alongside their children or push them in fancy strollers along the parade route. Teachers walk with their entire classroom of preschool children, all of them holding hands. Often, to my horror, tiny boys and girls were perched on the hoods and even the roofs of cars and trucks decorated with balloons in every possible spring color combination.

The parade would never be allowed in the United States. It is certainly too dangerous to allow babies to ride on top of moving vehicles. And yet, the smiles on the faces of the children and their proud parents made this my favorite parade of the year.

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Crime in México

I’m often asked if I feel safe living in México. My answer is an emphatic YES! In fact, there are many reasons to feel safe, starting with the fact that the crime rate Aurora is much higher than in Mazatlán.

I take precautions in México. I don’t wear sparkly jewelry. Other than a pair of cheap silver earrings, I don’t wear jewelry at all. I always travel with Neto and we only go to places that he knows are safe. 

Neto has certainly seen more crime in his lifetime than I have in mine. When he was eight years old, he saw a judge executed in the street by gang members. He was mugged by three men in broad daylight one morning, coming off a bus to go to work for me. Most recently, he had his bicycle stolen when he went inside a convenience store to buy Coca Cola.

I believe that most crimes in México are crimes of opportunity. If you provide the opportunity, eventually someone will commit the crime.

That occurred often when I lived in México. The crime was dog-napping and it happened with alarming frequency.

There is a big difference between the way Méxican people view animals and the attention the ex-pats lavish on their pets. I would venture to say, Méxican people are generally more fond of the iguanas in their courtyard than they are of the guard dogs on their roofs. They don’t walk either one and iguanas make less mess. 

Méxican people are often amused by the love and devotion that Americans show to their pets ~ especially their love of small white, fluffy dogs. Therein lies the opportunity for crime. 

Little white, fluffy dogs are accustomed to being walked outside. They wiggle their cute little butts with happiness at all the wonderful smells out on the street. They learn to smile and make friends wherever they go. They welcome being petted by strangers. Occasionally, when doors are not secure, they escape and go for walks down the street without their owners. This is not a safe situation. In fact, in a city in which the average worker earns 200 pesos/day (about $12.00 U.S.) doing hard labor, it is an opportunity for a crime.

Fluffy is easily scooped up by men, women and/or children who want to earn extra money. The upset owners are willing to do anything to get their dog back. They put up reward posters featuring a cute picture of Fluffy, with her shiny white hair and beguiling black eyes. Often the reward is $200.00 (U.S.) It lists the local telephone number for Fluffy’s owner, who now spends every moment waiting for a call.

The call comes soon enough. Of course the caller isn’t a dog-napper. It’s someone who “found” Fluffy walking down the street and took her home to insure her safety. Fluffy’s owner is over-joyed. The reunion is full of happy tears. The Prodigal Pet has returned! The reward is paid. Often hugs are exchanged. Everyone is happy.

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Adios, México!

The countdown has begun. From the number of weeks, to the number of days, and soon to the number of hours before I leave México for my home in Aurora, CO.

Ernesto and I have a ritual in the final days before saying goodbye. We list our best memories of our time together. We had a lot of fun in the past eight weeks. Here are my five best moments, in order.

1. Drinking coffee and chai on the balcony every morning with the sun on my face. 

I was cold for two months before coming to Mazatlán. So cold, I thought I would never get warm. And then I landed in México. Every morning, as I sat on the patio of our beautiful apartment wearing only shorts and a tee-shirt, I was grateful to be where the sun is warm, the sky is blue, and birds sit on the telephone wires, singing Buenos Dias to anyone lucky enough to live here even for a short time.

2. Discovering a new favorite restaurant.

We had a few disappointing meals in highly-rated restaurants before we stumbled upon La Parilla Express, a lovely restaurant in a remodeled old home on a side street near our apartment. We got lost the first time we tried to find it. We walked about a mile out of our way in the dark, stopping to ask for directions from people who had no idea where it was but were happy to give us directions anyway. I’m glad we didn’t give up. The meal was so extraordinary, we went back for Valentine’s Day and returned again this week to say goodbye. 

3. Laughing every time I discovered a new monigote on display for Carnival.

Neto and I skipped most of the Carnival events this year. A combination of poor planning and lack of interest on our parts. But I never got tired of looking at the monigotes, the twenty-five foot tall statues along the main street in front of the ocean. This year there are 16 statues representing the Spanish speaking countries of Central and South America.They are a quirky reminder of the fun-loving spirit of the Mexican people.

4. Seeing a couple get engaged on the beach.

People get engaged all the time on Mexican beaches but this ceremony was truly over the top. We happened to be eating dinner in a nearby restaurant when we noticed huge letters, spelling out “Marry Me”  lighting up the sky in front of us. As the Mexican couple, dressed all in white, approached the beach, someone presented the young woman with a bouquet of five dozen long-stemmed red roses. Under spotlights, in full view of family and friends, the young man got down on one knee and asked his girlfriend to marry him. Of course, she said yes. Then a long kiss as they were surrounded by ten Mariachis in formal dress, playing quiet songs for dancing. AND THEN FIREWORKS!. A full ten minutes of fireworks on the beach.

Neither of these two young lovers were glamorous, or even gorgeous in the way I’ve come to expect Mexican faces to be. No, they were in their mid-thirties, a little plain, a little pudgy, but obviously in love. 

5. Meeting our dear friends, Eunice and Gordon, for dinner.

Eunice and Gordon, from Saskatchewan, stayed with me many times when I lived in Mazatlán. Often they were the only thing that kept me sane. Eunice loves Mexico more than anyone I know. She missed being here last year because she was sick. Terribly sick. So sick, I was afraid I would never see her again.

Seeing Eunice and Gordon walk toward me, as I sat waiting in the Papas Locas restaurant, brought tears to my eyes. It was the highlight of this trip for me. Adios, my dear friends. Vaya con Dios! Until we meet again.

¡Viva México!

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Cooper

Cooper was Neto’s mother’s dog. He came from a long line of stray dogs she adopted, all of them named Gary Cooper. Although Zelmira liked her dogs, she loved the real Gary Cooper the best.

The Cooper before this one shared the same Golden Retriever face and body. The previous Cooper, a guard dog who lived on top of the roof, was awarded special treats not shared by most rooftop dogs ~ a tent for shelter from the sun and the rain, and bowls of water and food refilled every day. But for the previous Cooper, that was not enough. One night, he jumped off the roof, ran down the street at full gallup and was never seen again.

When the new Cooper showed up, Zelmira welcomed him in. She told him he didn’t need to live on the roof. She let him stay on the patio and occasionally come in the house. One day, however, Neto arrived at our house leading Cooper on a rope.

“Where did this dog come from?” I asked.

“He’s my mother’s dog but she got in a fight with him. I rescued him just in time.”

“What do you mean they got in a fight?”

“Well you know how my mother can’t stand things to be out of order and this dog made a mess of things. He took one of her shoes and ripped it with his teeth.”

“And then?”

“My mother started yelling at him and hitting him with the broom. I decided to give them both a break and bring him here.”

Neto always wanted a dog he could go surfing with. He’d seen dogs on surfboards in the ocean, smiling and looking like they enjoyed the ride. He’d seen dogs playing in the water, chasing waves and running back and forth to the shore. That afternoon he took Cooper to the beach. But the dog was not an ocean dog. He cowered and shook. He whimpered and cried. He simply didn’t want to go near the water. 

Not to be deterred, the next day Neto took Cooper in a small boat across the bay to Stone Island, a surfing village filled with hammocks and small restaurants. Neto figured that Cooper wouldn’t jump out of the boat into the water. Maybe a change of scenery was what the dog needed to learn to love the waves as much as he did.

Neto tied Cooper to a tree while he went surfing. He watched from a distance and Cooper seemed calm. Maybe even happy.

When it was time to go home, Neto came ashore, picked up his surfboard and untied Cooper’s leash. The dog took off! Neto is fast but Cooper was faster. He ran down the path into the jungle of palm trees. There was no stopping him. Neto was furious and then dejected. He had lost his mother’s dog. More importantly, he lost his chance of ever having a surfing dog.

But there is a happy ending to this story. Three month’s later to the very day, Neto was back at Stone Island with three of our guests ~ two boys from Finland and a girl from Australia. They were sitting at Rudy’s Restaurant, eating ceviche and drinking beer, when Rudy asked, “Where have you been? Your dog comes here almost every night, looking for you.”

“Are you sure he’s my dog?”

“Yah, I’m sure.”

“Do you feed him? Maybe he’s just some dog looking for food.”

“Neto ~ I know he is your dog. There he is now.”

As if hearing his name, Cooper came limping up the beach. He was skinny and beat up from being in a lot of fights but there was no doubt he was Gary Cooper.

The Finland boys helped carry Cooper to the ferry and take him home. We cleaned him up and gave him food and water. We stroked his back and told him we were happy he was home.

Cooper went back to live with Zelmira, no longer a frisky puppy. Instead, he was a tame old dog. He didn’t try to eat her sandals and she wouldn’t have hit him if he did. Zelmira loved Cooper and I think he loved her. They stayed together for a year before she decided to let him go to a cousin’s ranch, to live out his life chasing rabbits and avoiding waves . 

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Christina

Soon after I moved to Mexico in 2005, Christina knocked on my door and asked if she could be my housekeeper. That was a lucky day for me. Christina was the hardest-working woman I’ve ever met.

My house, a huge five-bedroom, six-bathroom historic hacienda, took up half a block. The large kitchen was designed for servants to prepare meals for the famous family who lived next door. A small woman with onyx black eyes, Christina wouldn’t go home until she cleaned every inch of my house, top to bottom, wall to wall, including the courtyard. 

Christina worked only on Tuesdays and Fridays. Neto was my handyman and worked every day. They got along like a cat and a dog.

“Buenos Dias,” Neto would sing to Christina as he came through the door in the morning. Christina wouldn’t answer. She glared at him. If she’d been a real cat, she would have hissed and swatted. Instead, she turned her back and kept sweeping the courtyard. 

And then, because Christina spoke only Spanish and my Spanish was even worse than it is now, I asked Neto to translate for me.

“Christina, I need you to be nice to Ernesto. You are very important to me. I couldn’t take care of this house without you. In fact, I would be lost without you. Please answer Ernesto when he talks to you.”

“Buenos Dias,” she would mumble and then go back to sweeping the massive amount of leaves that had fallen from the mango trees overnight.

My favorite time of day in Mexico has always been early morning. The weather is cool and the sun is low in the sky. Birds swoop and sing as the day is just getting started. Christina liked that time of the day, too. Our fountain bubbled with fresh, cold water inviting birds to come, to drink and to splash.

Evenings were meant for the mourning doves, with their beautiful Coo-oo-oo song. Such sweet, gentle birds! They perched on the rim of the fountain before bravely stepping into the water to shower. 

But Christina’s favorite birds were the shiny black cuervos, the crows who arrived like loud drunken guests early in the morning. She talked to them while she swept the courtyard. She swore that they talked back to her.

I asked her, “Christina, why do you talk to the cuervos and you won’t talk to Ernesto?”

“Because I like the cuervos better, “ she answered. “And besides, they are better looking  than he is.”

One day, I heard Christina having a loud, long conversation with one especially bold crow, sitting high in a tree.

“What is she saying?” I asked Neto.

“She’s asking the crow why he never brings her anything. She is telling the crow that if he wants to shower and drink from the fountain, he needs to bring her a present.”

“Does she believe he understands her?”

“I think she does.” Neto and I shook our heads. “She believes the cuervos are as smart as people.”

The next time Christina came to work, she started her day sweeping the courtyard and talking to the crows, as usual. I looked up as I heard her cry, “Ay! Carumba!” I walked over and saw her rubbing her head. Christina opened her hand to show me a ten peso coin that the crow had dropped on top of her. I never again doubted her ability to talk to birds.

I recently learned that my dear friend, Christina, died three weeks ago of kidney failure. Vaya con Dios, mi amiga. Go in peace. May all the birds in the sky watch over you and sing you home.

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Carnival 2020

There is a saying in Mazatlán, “Time is measured by Carnival.“ In this city of endless fiestas, Carnival is the biggest party of the year. This year’s theme is Somos América: Pasión, Alegria y Esperanza. We are America ~ Passion, Joy and Hope. The mangotes, giant statues representing the theme, are always impressive. This year they are spectacular.

Carnival starts next Thursday and ends on Tuesday, February 25. The following day, Ash Wednesday, marks the beginning of Lent. One of the largest Mardi Gras celebrations in the world, the Mazatlán Carnival, is everyone’s party.

My first Carnival was in 2006, not quite a year after I moved to Mazatlán. The main entrance to the party was half a block from my front door. A lot of Americans and Canadians chose to leave town. I stayed and loved it.

Music from multiple stages ~ a lot trumpets, drums, accordions and tubas ~ blasted non-stop along the beach for six straight days and nights. The parade, a spectacle of lights and girls in skimpy costumes, rode right past my house. Beautiful dancing horses, kings and queens, clowns and floats! I’d never seen anything like it. I couldn’t take pictures fast enough.

Neto warned me not to go alone along Olas Altas beach, the area most known for non-stop music, unruly drunken behavior, and extravagant fireworks. He tried to convince me, “There are lots of activities for tourists and families along the side streets ~ food and souvenir vendors ~ that you will like.”  But I wanted to go inside.

“Then let me take you to the fireworks on Saturday night. My daughter wants to go. We’ll stop by and get you. Don’t bring a purse.”

Neto showed up at my house at 7:30 with his ten-year-old daughter, Vannya, and her mother, Loca. I was surprise to see Loca. I was even more surprised to see her wearing a surgical mask over her face.  “To protect her from germs,” Neto explained. “It’s her birthday and I had to bring her. It’s the only way she’d let me bring Vannya.”

We found a restaurant with an empty table and three chairs in front of the ocean, something that still amazes me today. People usually reserve spaces months in advance. We grabbed the chairs, ordered french fries and drinks, and waited for the fireworks to begin. With a blast of color and gunpowder, fireworks lit up the sky just as Vannya put her head on the table, closed her eyes, and fell asleep. 

The Combate Naval, the most poplar of all Carnival events, is an over-the-top fireworks display that recalls a naval battle of 1864, when the French Navy attempted to seize the Mazatlán harbor and were met by cannon fire. More than 500,000 people come to watch the re-enactment every year.

Fireworks continued for nearly an hour. Beer and tequila flowed freely. The crowd became more boisterous with every blast. Vannya never woke up. When it was time to leave, the crowded surged toward the entrance. We were swept along in a mad rush of bodies. Neto picked up Vannya, put her over his shoulder and told Loca and me to follow him through the crowd. Loca grabbed him by his belt and I was left behind in a crush of bodies, almost all of them taller than me. 

I grabbed the shirt of a burly Mexican man in front of me. He turned around to see who was hugging his back, “Don’t worry,” he said. “Just hang on. I’ll get you out of here.” I peeled myself away from the crowd as we approached my front door. Neto was waiting for me there, Vannya still asleep on his shoulder. “Thank goodness you are ok,” he said. “I almost lost you.”

I went inside and continued to listen to beautiful mariachi music from a party next door. Neto hailed a pulmonia (golf carts that operate as taxis throughout the city) and took Vannya and Loca home before he returned to meet his friends at the beach.

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Publio Donates Blood

It’s been a quiet week in Mazatlán. So while we wait for the next holiday which is, predictably, right around the corner, I’m going to tell you a story about one of Ernesto’s friends

Publio is Neto’s friend and his best surfing buddy. Fifteen years younger than Neto, Publio is from a very musical family and plays a variety of instruments. He is currently a drummer in a band with his older brother, a flute player, when he isn’t at his job delivering furniture.

Publio’s mother, a hard-working woman from Mexico, recently retired as a gardener at the Holiday Inn. His father, from Ecuador, used to work for Cirque de Soleil in Las Vegas. He was the strong man at the bottom of  the human pyramid until he fell and broke his back, never able to work again.

Publio grew up in Mazatlán and did well in school. Due to generous support from his father, he graduated from high school and followed his brother to Mexico City to attend the university. Publio and Neto returned to Mazatlán about the same year. Neto was evicted from the U.S. by a Tucson judge who believed it was time for Neto to go back to surfing. Publio dropped out of college, left Mexico City to join a Reggae band, and eventually found his way back in Mazatlán. They met one day at the corner grocery store. Neto loved the music of Bob Marley and was fascinated by this young guy from the neighborhood with long deadlocks, a quick smile and a quiet voice.

Publio’s mother never forgave Neto for encouraging Publio’s interest in surfing and, in her mind, leading him astray. Alicia wouldn’t allow Neto into her house, so Publio spent a lot of time at our place. He was Neto’s right-hand man whenever a job needed a right-hand man. Lots of time he stayed for lunch. I’ve always liked Publio. He’s a quiet, gentle giant ~ a nice contrast to Neto’s sometimes exhausting exuberance and impulsivity. 

One day Publio came to our house to let us know that he needed to donate blood for his diabetic uncle, a local Mariachi musician. Why a seemingly healthy man with diabetes needed fresh blood was one of a long list of Mexican customs I never understood and learned not to question. Before he could donate blood, however, Publio had to have his blood tested to make sure it was “strong enough.” At the time, Publio was only thirty years old, practically a virgin, and one of the strongest men in Mexico. His blood, however, was found to be too weak to donate.

Not to be deterred, Publio drank a concoction that the blood center mixed up. Since Neto was with him and thought that maybe his blood needed a pick-me-up, he asked if he could have one, too. It took them about thirty minutes to swallow their highballs of celery, garlic, tomatoes, vinegar, olive oil and liver powder. Publio gagged every time he took another sip. Neto just asked for a little Tabasco to make it taste better.

The next day Publio donated blood but then felt too shaky to come to work. Neto felt fine but he didn’t come to work either, out of sympathy for his friend who didn’t feel well.

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Q and A: Week 3

This week I’m going to answer some of the questions I’ve received since I first posted from Mexico two weeks ago.

Q: What is your favorite part of being in Mexico?

A: Do you really want to know? The beautiful weather! We sit on the patio in the morning, drinking something hot (coffee for him. chai for me) and eating sweet bread. At 7:00 in the morning, I’m in my t-shirt and shorts. Can you imagine? At night, we go for a walk to the OXXO (think 7-11) for fresh tortillas or pastry for the next day. I’m going to miss this when it’s time to come back to Colorado.

Q: Is there anything that is frustrating or difficult?

A: Yes! This is not the all-inclusive life that most Americans experience. The nitty-gritty of daily life in Mexico is eye-opening and can be tremendously frustrating. For example, Neto spent an entire day getting car insurance because the computers were down at the insurance agency and didn’t resume operation for hours.

It took Neto most of last week to get his driver’s license renewed because he didn’t want to  bribe someone to speed up the process.. It is all part of being poor and dealing with a government bureaucracy that can be both cruel and stupid, in equal measures. 

Every day Neto returned to the DMV and was told he needed to produce more proof of his address ~ the house he’s lived in for more than 50 years. Having the address listed on his nearly acquired car insurance wasn’t enough. Finally, after four days of standing in line and meeting with different unhelpful clerks, he returned to the office with his old driver’s license and social security card, his brother’s birth certificate and driver’s license, and a copy of the electrical bill. Success! The photographer took his picture and he went on his way.

Q: How is the car?

A: The car needs work but is running well. We have questions about the previous owners, however. From the car’s documents, we know it was stolen in Mazatlán and recovered in Cabo San Lucas. The car used to be bright red before it was painted its current iridescent green. It has six gears plus reverse. The automatic windows are tinted dark black but they no longer work. It’s a car made for fast get-aways and who knows what else. We’re lucky to have found a mechanic who can get the windows working again.

Q: What happened to the cow?

A: As far as we know Prieta is alive and well. Neto’s uncle, Ramon Rodriguez, is the unofficial veterinarian of Hacienda del Tamarindo. He runs an animal rescue out of his tiny home and saves injured animals he finds in the forest. When he heard that Neto hit the neighbor’s cow, he went to the farmer’s house and offered to help. Tio Ramon fashioned a cast out of plaster so the cow could continue to wander and eat grass by the side of the road. When it was time for the cast to come off, Ramon made a brace to using sticks and a piece of leather to support the cow’s leg until it was completely healed.  Ramon is a living legend. A true animal whisperer.