Author: Lynda Jones

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Wheels

This week we bought a car for $3400. I’m ok traveling around town by bus. Occasionally a musician will come on the bus through the front door and pay the driver a small fee to play for the passengers. This week a musician strummed a ukulele and belted out a beautiful Mexican ballad. When he finished, he went up and down the aisles, collecting coins for his performance. That doesn’t happen often enough.

Neto has needed a car for a long time. It takes him hours to get around the city on foot and by bicycle. And then, two months ago, his bicycle was stolen. He used to have a beautiful blue 1996 Ford truck but that was impounded when his mechanic left town to live in Brazil. The mechanic’s family had been killed by gangsters and he needed to get out of town in a hurry.  All of the vehicles he’d been working on were locked up behind a chainlink fence and that’s where they still are, unattended and turning to rust. 

I wanted a car to take day-trips out of Mazatlan to some of my favorite places ~ Brujas Beach, El Quelite, Teacapan, and maybe even Las Hacienda, the town where Neto’s mother was born. 

On Wednesday, Neto found a good car ~ a bright lime green 2007 Nissan Tiide. Those models are work horses. They can go long distances and are easy to fix. The car came without a radio (stolen the previous night when it was left outside), gas in the gas tank, a spare tire or a jack. And, of course, it needed insurance and license plates, a lock for the gas tank and one for the steering wheel. 

Driving in Mazatlán is not like driving in Denver. There are potholes and speed bumps on nearly every street and very few stop signs. Drivers cut in front of one another. They dart in and out of traffic. They make U-turns wherever they want and don’t watch for pedestrians. It reminds me of a giant bullfight. Sometimes you are a toreador and sometimes you are the bull. 

Neto’s driving ability has improved with age. It’s a good thing. One time, while taking his mother to La Hacienda in his blue truck, he hit a cow. He claims he didn’t see the cow because it was nighttime and the cow was a dark brown color. She was grazing on the side of the road when BAM! he hit her. Mamacita started screaming and the farmer came cursing out of his house. The cow was not killed but was badly injured. The same was true for the truck.

“You hit my cow, cabrone!” yelled the farmer.

“Your cow is going to be ok. I didn’t kill her.” argued Neto.

“No, but you have to pay me for hitting my cow.”

“How much is it going to cost?”

“6500 pesos.” (About $400.)

“No way. I could buy you a new cow for that much money.”

“Ok. Pay me 6500 pesos, I will sell you this cow.”

“What am I going to do with this crippled cow if I buy it from you?”

“You can take her with you in your truck or you can leave her here with me. I’ll take care of her for you.”

So that’s what Neto did. He bought the cow for 6500 pesos. He named her Prieta (dark girl.)

He continued his trip to La Hacienda. When he returned, he visited Prieta. She was fine.

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Bienvenido a México

 

 

Welcome to Mexico! I’m delighted to be here. But why is traveling always so much more difficult than I think it is going to be? 

To start with ~ ten years ago, flying to Mazatlán from Denver was an easy, direct flight, taking just under 3 hours. We were given blankets if we were cold, food if we were hungry and refills on whatever we were drinking. We were spoiled. Now the flight stops in Phoenix, takes 7 hours total and costs twice as much. No blankets. No food. A cup of coffee, water, or soda. One cup. No refills. Expensive, tasteless food in cardboard boxes is available from the crew and can be paid for only by credit cards. Every fifteen minutes flight attendants come on the loud-speaker and try to interest us in signing up for the company Mastercard. I believe they earn a commission. I think it is considered their retirement fund.

Neto met me at the airport with his nephew, Joshua, driving an Uber car. We loaded my forty-three pound suitcase and my backpack into the trunk and rode the rest of the way in silence. Neto was tired and immediately fell asleep in spite of cars honking all around us and people dodging traffic. Joshua goes to the Mazatlán Nautical Academy and knows a lot about driving cars and boats but not much about speaking English. After a long day, the silence was golden.

Often I am my own worst travel nightmare. Those of you who know me, know that I worry too easily. I worried that our condo would be a dump. No way! It is simply beautiful. Very upscale in a fancy European sort of way with huge ceramic tile on the floors and bathroom walls. Rooms are painted light grey, dark blue and mauve. The kitchen is gorgeous, well-equipped and has plenty of hot water. Poly, our Airbnb host, is gracious, thoughtful and kind. We are two lucky travelers, indeed.

So far Neto has done all the cooking because he’s the best cook. We eat simple Mexican food ~ beans, tortillas and tortas ~ ham sandwiches on bolillos (buns) with avocado, tomatoes and queso fresco cheese. The first night Neto found a taco stand in the neighborhood and brought back a delicious soup made of potatoes and cheese in a spicy tomato broth. After a long day of traveling, it tasted heavenly. I wash the dishes. 

Day two: We unpacked and then walked to a large grocery store about a mile away, where we bought all the things we’d need for the next week ~ cans of tuna, loaves of french bread, ham and cheese, cereal and milk, tortilla chips and sweet pastry. Fresh tomatoes, avocados, bananas, onions, apples, and two kinds of chiles. Jars of salsa and cans of charro beans. Instant coffee, sugar and cream. We took a taxi home, put the food in the cupboards and we were set. Worn-out and hungry, but all set.

Day three: We walked to the ocean (about a mile) and caught a bus downtown. Neto had business to do for his mother and I came along for the ride. The city is getting ready for its world-famous Carnival celebration. Manigotes, huge statues representing the Carnival theme, are being erected along the parade route and in the main plaza. We stopped for lunch at a familiar outdoor restaurant, Tortas Kuwait, that has not changed in the ten years since I lived here. Five thousand steps later, we arrived home, exhausted and happy to be back in our lovely condo. 

The best part about being here is that it is warm. About 80 degrees in the daytime and 68 degrees at night. I can’t even remember what it felt like to be so cold back in Colorado.

I don’t think I have anything left to worry about. 

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Mazatlán ~ Here I Come!

On Tuesday I board the plane from Denver to Mazatlán. Ernesto and I will spend two months in a beautiful Airbnb condo, about a mile from the beach. Mazatlán is the city where I first met Neto. The city where I bought a big house and remodeled it into a hostel for guests from around the world. A city I have not visited for the past nine years. Two months in Mexico! It sounds like heaven on a cold night in Colorado. I can’t wait to get there.

What am I looking forward to in Mazatlán? I’m mostly looking forward to seeing Neto again and having time to write his story, A Citizen of the World. I’m also looking forward to:

  • Eating fresh, warm corn tortillas, homemade ceviche and eggs that were laid that very morning. Drinking homemade limeade and jamaica, a semi-tart drink made from hibiscus flowers.
  • Watching beautiful sunsets. Seeing geckos climb nearby walls. Hugging old friends as we meet again.
  • Listening to mariachis on the beach. Hearing Mexican music fill the air from open windows. Trying to understand Spanish words and phrases that I hear in stores and on the street.

But mostly, I’m looking forward to watching Neto surf the waves of Mazatlán. He is a smooth, graceful surfer who catches waves that most people shy away from. When he comes out of the water, people on the beach are eager to shake his hand. They call him, Ruco, which means “old man” or even “old fart.” In his case, it is a sign of respect that a man his age can outperform all the younger surfers in the water.

But first I need to get through Security and Mexican Customs. I pray that I don’t have to open my backpack in Denver or my suitcase in Mazatlán. I typically don’t take many clothes and I only have the shoes on my feet. I need suitcase room for more essential items.

What, you ask, is more essential than shoes and clothes? I bring a sharp cooking knife and measuring cups and spoons. Nightlights and flashlights. My own dishtowels and dishrags, because Mexican hosts never provide them. I’m bringing a big container of homemade chai latte mix, plus a coffee grinder and special spices in case I need to make more. Oh, and I’m bringing a lot of socks for Neto to wear.

Although these items may seem odd, they are not as strange as some things I’ve carried across the border in the past. I once tried to bring a big sealed jar of Skippy Peanut Butter in my backpack. It was confiscated by Security, who claimed it was a liquid and could be used to make a bomb.

Another time I carried a water pump for a Ford truck in my backpack. I knew I would be stopped for that one. The security guard was very nice when I explained I was bringing it for a friend who couldn’t find one in Mexico. 

He smiled and said, “You must be a very good friend.” 

“Thank you,” I answered. “I think you are probably someone’s very good friend, too.” And I’m sure he is.

Finally, the item that almost didn’t make it through Mexican customs was a roll of fifty yards of fiberglass, used for making and patching surfboards. Because I didn’t bring a receipt showing I purchased it legally from a supplier in California, I had to have an extended interview with a top official. She told me I must to pay a “sales tax” of $25.00 to bring it into the country. I gladly paid the tax and she let me go.

Ah, life in Mexico! I can’t wait to get there.

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Dia de Los Reyes

Oh, no! Not another Mexican fiesta!

Oh, yes! January 6, is Three Kings Day. Like most holidays that mirror Catholic feast days, Dia de Los Reyes was introduced by priests from Spain as early as 1521. It is a day that honors the legend of the Three Wise Men, who followed a star to Bethlehem and presented gifts to the Baby Jesus. 

Children in rural areas traditionally receive gifts on Three Kings Day ~ often candy, clothing and school supplies. They write letters to the Three Kings and place the letters in their shoes, next to a small dish of straw for the kings’ camels. It is an endearing tradition that is celebrated in homes and businesses and is marked by a Rosca de Reyes, a King’s Cake. 

The King’s Cake is baked in the shape of a crown and has a small doll inside, which represents the infant Jesus hidden from King Herod’s troops. The cakes are decorated with candied fruit to look like a crown’s jewels. Tradition says that the person who gets the slice of cake with the doll inside must provide tamales for Día de la Candelaria in February.

Children return to school every year on January 7th. They are happy to see their classmates, to talk about the gifts they received and tell how they celebrated the holidays.

Public schools in Mexico are very different from schools in the United States. All children wear uniforms. Some teachers are well-trained but others inherit their positions from family members in government sanctioned nepotism. Children go to school only four hours/day, either in the morning or the afternoon. They don’t go to public libraries or have books to read at home. A favorite activity for girls is coloring, while boys prefer to play outside. Children often fail grades and it is not unusual for students to be thirteen years old and still in elementary school. By the time these students are ready for middle school, the girls are well-developed and gorgeous. They boys have broad shoulders and facial hair.

When I worked in Colorado public schools, niños like Neto were considered “hard and fast” little boys. Although he was bright and loved to learn, Neto was expelled from kindergarten after just one day and sent to a military school in Tepic, a busy city five hours away. 

Neto tells the story of, Mudo, a classmate he met when he returned to Mazatlán at the end of fourth grade. By that time Neto was a hard-working, well-disciplined student who had been in a military classroom eight hours/day for the past three years. He surely was the most advanced student in his class.

Mudo was given his nickname (mute) because he never spoke. Their teacher, Enrique, maintained discipline by walking around the classroom with a ruler, hitting boys who were not paying attention or were causing a disturbance. Enrique was a small man, smaller than either Mudo or his friend, Bebe, who were clearly much older than Neto. 

One day, Mudo had enough. Just as Enrique raised his arm to hit Bebe with his ruler, Mudo stood up at his seat, walked over to the teacher, silently took the ruler out of his hand and punched him hard in the jaw. School was dismissed for the day and Mudo left school to go to work with his father. It was a dramatic end to his school career.

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Day of the Innocents

Fiesta season never ends! Today, December 28, is Día de los Santos Inocentes, Day of the Holy Innocents. It is a day for all kinds of practical jokes. And beware of lending money! Tradition says money borrowed today doesn’t have to be paid back.  A person who falls for tricks on December 28th is referred to as an Inocente Palomita ~ “an innocent dove who lets himself be deceived.”

Day of the Innocents is based on a tragic biblical story and probably goes back to the Middle Ages. According to the Gospel of St. Matthew, when King Herod was warned of the birth of the “new king of the Jews” (the baby Jesus) he went into a jealous rage and sent soldiers to kill all boys under the age of two. The children killed during the rampage are known as the “Holy Innocents.” Jesus escaped death because his parents were warned by an angel and fled Bethlehem. King Herod was tricked trying to maintain control of his kingdom and the tradition of trickery continues to this day.

Neto remembers Dia de los Inocentes, 2003, as an example of  the truly diabolical Mexican sense of humor. He still laughs when he tells the story. A strong tidal wave hit the west coast of Mexico the previous October. On Day of the Innocents, the Mazatlán newspaper republished the story as if it were happening that very day. People panicked. They fled the city in huge numbers, carrying little but the clothes on their backs. They stayed hidden away until the newspaper published a retraction days later. But the newspaper never apologized. It was considered good fun to fool so many “innocent doves.”

As an American, living in Mexico, most of the tricks played on me were tricks of language. I was an Inocente Palomita. I was easily fooled! One morning as I went to breakfast with friends, someone told  me that if I wanted to order eggs, I should say, “Tiene huevones?” Because huevos means eggs, I believed I was ordering two fried eggs. The waiter stared at me with wide-open eyes. My friends at the table started to giggle, then broke out in raucous laughter. I used a slang expression that compares eggs to male anatomy. I didn’t order a two-egg breakfast. I asked the waiter, “Do you have big balls?” 

Because I don’t have any pictures of practical jokes, I am including a picture I took in Puerto Vallarta on December 28, 2014. I believe the girl on the left is giving me an obscene gesture. Maybe it is her idea of a practical joke?

These children, who spend all day selling trinkets on the street for a few pesos, are my idea of Los Santos Inocentes. They are the beautiful children of Mexico. It is a modern-day story of a baby born in poverty.

As we approach a new year, a new decade, please remember the innocent children around the world. Protect them as if they were your own. Because they are.

Feliz Año Nuevo. Happy New Year!

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Las Posadas

Las Posadas is a lovely Christmas tradition in Mexico. For nine days, from December 16-24, communities hold posadas, traditional religious plays, that commemorate Mary and Joseph’s search for a place to stay in Bethlehem before Jesus was born.

Neto is invited to multiple posadas every year. There will be posadas in his neighborhood and one at Los Colores, the Catholic meeting he attends every Wednesday night. Posadas are usually held after dark. Guests play the part of pilgrims, carrying candles to help them light their way as they go from house to house, knocking on doors asking for shelter.

One year Neto and I were in Bucerias, a small town north of Puerto Vallarta, for Christmas. We attended a posada at Los Arroyos Verdes, a beautiful ecological retreat located in a tropical rainforest on the outskirts of town. Children from the local orphanage played the main parts ~ Mary and Joseph, angels and shepherds. Mary was blind and sat on a real donkey. Those of us in the audience were divided in two parts ~ the innkeepers and the pilgrims.

There is a song that is sung at every posada, back and forth between the innkeepers and the pilgrims. The ceremony begins as Mary, Joseph and the pilgrims ask for lodging, or “posada.” The innkeepers reject the pilgrims and tell them to go away. Finally, after listening to the pleas of the pilgrims multiple times, the innkeepers sing, “Wait! It is you, Joseph, and your wife, Mary! Please come in. I did not recognize you!”

To this, the pilgrims sing, “God will repay you for your charity and fill you with blessings in heaven.” 

And then the party begins! There is a special piñata for the children ~ a seven-pointed star that represents the seven-deadly sins. Children whack away at the piñata with a stick until it is broken, representing God’s victory over the devil. Candy and trinkets fall on the ground and the children run to gather up as much as they can, scooping their loot into their outstretched hands and pants pockets.

Of course, there is plenty of food and drink. At our party, the food was pot luck. Typical Mexican foods are tamales, pozole and buñuelos, deep fried dough drizzled in syrup and rolled in cinnamon sugar. Drinks include Mexican hot chocolate, atole (a hot drink made from corn flour),  beer and shots of tequila. Neighbors often hire a band and the party lasts until early morning when it is finally time to go home.

I love the symbolism of La Posada. At Christmas, a time for candles to light our way during these dark winter nights, I am reminded of these words from the song, Light One Candle by Peter Yarrow:

“Light one candle for the strength that we need to never become our own foe.

And light one candle for those who are suffering. Pain we learned so long ago.

Light one candle for all we believe in. That anger not tear us apart.

And light one candle to find us together with peace as the song in our heart.”

¡Feliz Navidad!

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Ernesto, Huesos and the Police

When I lived in Mazatlan and Ernesto was my handyman, he often asked his friend, Huesos, to help him on jobs that required a strong back and an extra set of hands. Huesos means “bones” in Spanish. That’s his nickname because, although he is strong, he is exceptionally skinny.

Huesos comes from a wealthy family. His father paid for him to go to private schools in Mazatlán and to dental school in the U.S. But Huesos wasn’t cut out to be a dentist. He would have preferred to be a veterinarian. Or a gardener. Or anything other than a dentist.

The whole time I knew him, Huesos lived with an odd assortment of wild dogs in a homemade shelter on the hill behind my house. When he needed money, he rang my doorbell to see if I had work for him. I often hired him to sweep the courtyard and Neto looked for him whenever he needed a helper who was willing and good-natured. Huesos was both.

One day Neto and Huesos were nearly arrested taking chunks of concrete to the dump. It happened at the end of a long day, after they loaded more than a ton of concrete pieces into the back of Neto’s brother’s pickup truck. Back and forth they went, from my house to the dump, carrying load after load of heavy concrete.

On the last trip to the dump, Neto spotted a man who had a huge hole in his front yard. He stopped the truck and made a deal with the man. Instead of going all the way to the dump, Neto would give him the broken pieces of concrete to fill the hole and the man would be happy.

They started to unload concrete into the hole when the police arrived. The policeman told Neto that someone made an “environmental complaint” against him for dumping concrete. The policeman was going to take both Neto and Huesos to jail and impound the truck. Neto was not eager to go to jail and he was especially unhappy about the truck, since it wasn’t his.

Neto told the policeman he had 100 pesos (about $10.00 U.S. at the time) in his pocket and asked if he could just pay the fine right there. The policeman said that since there were two policemen on duty, the fine would be 200 pesos. If the workers didn’t have the money, they would have to go to jail.

Neto then remembered that he did, indeed, have 200 pesos in his pocket. So he paid the policeman, dumped the concrete in the man’s front yard and everyone was happy.

Sometimes it is Life’s unexpected moments of good fortune that lead to the most happiness.

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Our Lady of Guadalupe

I’ve always believed that Mexican prayers have super powers ~ especially prayers to Our Lady of Guadalupe. Mexican prayers need to be strong because Mexican luck is basically so bad. 

The festival of Our Lady of Guadalupe, December 12, is the most important religious holiday in Mexico. It is particularly important in rural areas where people have a special love of La Virgin. 

I witnessed the Our Lady of Guadalupe festival twice. Ernesto and I were in Puerto Vallarta in 2013 as thousands of peasants from the small towns and ranches marched for days to arrive at the Basilica in time for Mass. There were traditional Aztec dancers mixed with mariachi bands. Parents and grandparents carried tired children in their arms. People slept in fields and bought food along the way. By the time they arrived, they were exhausted but ecstatic. It was a Mexican celebration of hope and joy, like nothing I’ve ever seen before or since.

I was also with Ernesto in the village of Hacienda del Tamarindo in 2010 for the days leading up to the festival. Neto’s mother was born in La Hacienda and many of his relatives still live there. Those who live in the United States return every year for the feast day. We arrived on Neto’s birthday, December 5. The novena, nine days of prayer said  at the same time every day, began the day before, on December 4. At 4:30, the morning of December 6, we heard the loud boom of portable cannons, telling everyone to wake up and meet at the local church to walk through the streets and pray the rosary together before going to Mass at 5:30. The entire town was there. 

I loved meeting Neto’s family, especially his uncles Gero and Ramon, and his Aunt Valvina. Always a gentleman, Uncle Gero jumped up when I entered the room. Although he was almost completely blind, Gero held my hand as we circled the room and he introduced me to everyone there. Uncle Ramon invited us to come to his house to see an injured baby deer he rescued while he was out riding his horse. Ramon showed us how he carried the deer home in his arms. He explained that he would feed it with a bottle until it was old enough to take back to the woods where it belonged. Aunt Valvina proudly showed me her home. I saw the sewing room where she makes all her own quilts, curtains and tablecloths. I was fascinated as she demonstrated the barracho room ~ a special bedroom off the courtyard filled with bunks for people who are too drunk to be allowed into the house. The barrachos sleep together, away from rest of the family, until they stumble into the kitchen the next morning looking for fresh rolls and hot coffee.

Like most homes in rural Mexico, Valvina and Gero’s home has no heat and no hot water. It was my first experience taking a shower using only a bucket a cold water. 

Neto’s family is wonderful  to be around. Not only are they breathtakingly handsome, they are charming and full of joy. They tell the same stories and laugh every time they hear them again. When it was time to leave, Neto’s cousins wished us a safe trip home. They told Neto “We like Lynda a lot. How can we get you to bring her back here again.” Neto answered, “Hot water would help!”

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Thanksgiving ~ 2019

This week I learned that I cannot post anything on this blog that will eventually be part of my book, A Citizen of the World. Oops!! It has to do with publishing rights, something I know nothing about. Here goes another trek up the learning curve. Where are the sherpas when I need them?

So I need to broaden the scope of this blog. I will still tell you stories about Ernesto’s life and my adventures living in Mexico, but I will also include entries about whatever is on my mind for the current week.

This being Thanksgiving weekend, I’m especially thankful for some of the whacky and wonderful things that make me laugh in this season of cold, dark days. 

I’m thankful for the Canadian geese that have overtaken Denver by the thousands. I know they poop everywhere. That’s not cool. But they also make me laugh out loud. They stroll through the parks. They stop traffic as they cross the street. They sit down on the golf courses causing the golfers to play around them. Honking at them and chasing them does no good. They are an organized, if somewhat inept, bunch ~ following their leader no matter where he takes them. (I could digress into political analogies, but I won’t this time.) 

I’m thankful for all the birds that sit on the telephone wires. They, too, make me laugh. They sit there for hours, not making a sound. They don’t sing or squawk. They just sit there, quietly observing traffic, meditating and thinking their bird-thoughts as we frantically hurry to our next destination.

I’m thankful for Elf on the Shelf. Last Sunday my grandsons came to decorate my house for Christmas for the 8th year in a row. It is my favorite holiday tradition. The boys (now young men) have Christmas decorating down to a science. The whole house is done in about 20 minutes. At this rate, they could hire themselves out. It’s a lot easier than shoveling snow. 

This year, during the decorating bonanza, I asked if Elf on the Shelf was going to appear again. Max told me “No, that guy is creepy!” I don’t agree. I find Elf to be a charming spy. I like the way he changes clothes and shows up in different places around the house. I remember one year when Max was younger, he worried because Elf on the Shelf sat on their kitchen counter all year. Max figured he could be a good boy from Thanksgiving until Christmas, but expecting him to behave for an entire year was too much. No wonder he considers Elf a little creepy. 

And speaking of shoveling show, I am thankful for the day laborers, all of them from Mexico, who shovel snow throughout my HOA community. Last week, after a huge snowstorm, the men shoveled all day ~ from early morning until well past sunset. They laughed and talked to each other in Spanish until all the steps and sidewalks were cleared. They were unstoppable. I am grateful for them. They, too, make me smile. 

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Banda de Guerra

November 20th, Mexican Revolution Day, celebrates the beginning of the ten-year war to bring democracy to Mexico. School children dress like revolutionary heroes and bandas de guerras (bands of war) keep time as students parade through the city in long, jubilant lines.

Colegio Sinaloense, the middle school around the corner from my house, marched in the parade every year. The school band practiced in the park behind my house from early September until mid-November, getting ready for the big event.

Band members, about fifteen students in all, played either drums or bugles. None of them, as far as I could tell, had any previous experience on their instrument. What they lacked in talent and technique, they more than made up for in enthusiasm and volume. The noise was deafening.

Practice began every day at 5:00 with drummers beating out a rough cadence as they walked across the street toward my house. At 5:30 the buglers arrived and spent the next hour warming up. They were elephants on a rampage. They competed with each other to see who could play the loudest and highest notes. They played the same four measures over and over, but not in unison. Every once in a while they hit the right note.

At 7:00 the band master showed up. By that time, the buglers had no chops left and the drummers were exhausted, as well. Only the girls remained standing. The boys played sitting on the curb. They practiced like that for the next hour. The director tried to make them all play the same notes at the same time but since it was dark outside no one could see him. 

The students were proud as they marched in the Revolution Day parade. I loved the parade, too, but I was mostly happy that band practice was over for another year. Viva la Revolución!