Category: Mexican Daily Life

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Old Guys Rule!

 

Many of you wrote asking if Neto won the surfing competition in La Ticla last week. I want to start with the good news:

Neto came in fourth in the senior’s competition on Friday. Because he was in the top six, he is eligible to compete again today in Mazatlán.

But Neto’s big win came last Saturday afternoon, when he placed second  in the over-all competition. Second in a contest of more than fifty surfers of all ages! Second place for an old guy who hasn’t trained for competition in forty years. He won a new rash guard, some board wax and a set of fins for his board. Most importantly, he scored more than 800 points for the day.  “It was a wonderful day!” Neto proclaimed, as he told me about his big win.

I was wrong last week when I said this was the Mexican National Surf Competition. Actually, it was a preliminary qualifying tournament. The Big Tournament will be held sometime next winter. Meanwhile, Neto will surf again today. He wants to win. He wants to keep earning points.

Neto talked constantly about surfing when I first met him. He watched endless, back-to-back surfing videos until I thought I’d lose my mind. I had never seen actual surfers until I moved to Mexico. My house was two blocks from Olas Altas, one of the many surfing beaches in Mazatlán. I watched scores of teenagers ride their boards over the waves until they inevitably lost their balance and plunged into the sea. At the end of the day, they staggered out of the water, looking beat up as they headed for home.

When I finally was able to see Neto surf, I knew he was no ordinary surfer. He was graceful and sure-footed. He rode wave after wave, gently steering his board away from rocks and swimmers. The bigger the wave, the better! He occasionally turned his board backwards so he could catch the same wave twice. People on the beach stopped what they were doing to watch him. When he came out of the water, some of the younger surfers shook his hand. They seemed to recognize Neto. I was just getting to know him. 

Neto learned to surf when he was thirteen-years-old. It is his passion. It is what feeds his soul. He needs to live near water, and preferably near high waves, in order to feel fully alive.

Now the Not-So-Good-News: While Neto was competing in his age category, someone stole his backpack. ¡Carumba! It was in a pile of backpacks that all looked pretty much alike. They were all black, dirty, well-worn packs heaped into a pile. Surfers take excellent care of their boards but trust that their backpacks will be safe wherever they land. 

At first Neto thought that someone picked up his backpack by mistake and surely would return it. That’s what he would have done. But, oh no! The thief looked inside and found an envelope of money along with Neto’s bank card and some clothes. The pendajo decided to keep both Neto’s backpack and his own. Luckily, Neto left his phone and his charger back in the motel.

With his money stolen, Neto had no way to get home. His Mazatlán buddies left without him on the bus. A lot of surfers came to the tournament with only their surfboard and very little cash. They were busy pan-handling money for their return home.

Neto found a sport-fishing company and offered to scout for tourists who wanted to fish for tuna, marlin and diablo in return for a “finder’s fee.” When he still didn’t have enough money, he called his boss in Mazatlán. His boss sent him some money to go to Toluca (near Mexico City) so that  Neto could pick up an auto part for him there. Neto took a bus to Toluca, stayed with friends, and eventually made it home. 

Now The whole episode is behind him. He can’t wait to compete again today in Mazatlán. It’s all he can think of. Buena Suerte, Neto.

Good luck! Ride like the wind! 

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Goodbye Mamacita

If ever a woman was a force to be reckoned with it was Zelmira Rodriguez. Born in 1928, in the rural village of Hacienda del Tamarindo, she was the only girl in a family of five boys. She was tiny, with wild, black curly hair and flashing obsidian eyes. Her mother died in childbirth when she was seven years old. From then on, Zelmira and her brothers were raised by their Aunt Petra, another woman of force. 

Petra was the only sister of Zelmira’s father, Ignacio Rodriguez, an exceedingly stubborn, selfish man. When his wife, Zelmira’s mother, was dying the doctor told him, “I can save your wife or the baby. What do you want me to do?” 

“Save the boy,” Ignacio answered. Soon after he came home with a new wife, already pregnant. From that day forward, Ignacio was not allowed inside the house. Gerardo, Zelmira’s older brother, told his father, “You stepped all over our mother when she was alive. You will never step inside her home again.” It was a lesson Zelmira never forgot.

I don’t know if Petra raised Zelmira in her image, or if Zelmira was just born tough. I know that she rode horses and fed cattle, just like her brothers. I suspect that both Zelmira and Petra wore trousers, at a time when most girls were still in long skirts. She was a girl with grit. She worked hard and took risks. She probably didn’t go to school past the fifth grade but she was smart and well informed. She knew what she wanted in life and went after it, until it was hers. She was a woman who took charge of her destiny.

Zelmira loved to laugh. She loved being with family and friends. She had boundless energy and a stubborn persistence. She was determined all seven of her children would go to school and study hard. When Neto became more interested in surfing than in studying, she threw his surfboard in the trash and watched as the garbage man drove away with it.

When her oldest son needed money to go to college, Zelmira started selling fruits and vegetables out of their living room. She traveled by city bus to the big market every morning at 5:00 and came home in a taxi, with bags of food, ready to open her store.

When that money wasn’t enough, she added a small breakfast cafe on the back patio. When she realized she could make even more money by going to the U.S. to buy second-hand clothes to bring back to Mazatlán, she closed her store and moved to California, taking her youngest daughter with her. She left the two youngest boys at home with their father, with strict instructions that they needed to stay in school. She returned home four times a year, to make sure they did.

In the 1980’s, Zelmira traveled to Europe twice ~ once to Rome to see the Pope and then to Fatima, Portugal to visit the shrine of the Virgin Mary. She saw the Pope twice more, once in Los Angeles and again in Mexico City. 

Can you imagine such a life? For a little girl born in 1928 in Hacienda del Tamarindo? 

Zelmira’s life, was also full of heartbreak. Her beloved husband, Jesús, died in 1993. She lost two sons, as well as four of her brothers and, of course, her dear Aunt Petra. She outlived some of her nieces and nephews, and most of her friends. 

Zelmira, herself, died peacefully this week at home, at the age of 93. Padre Lalo came every Sunday, to give her the last sacraments. We all knew that Zelmira would die when she was ready.

She will be buried next week in the family cemetery in Hacienda del Tamarindo, in the town she loved, next to the people who made her who she was. 

Vaya con Dios, Mamacita. Go with God. We will never forget you. Your feisty spirit will live in us forever. 

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Not All Sun and Fun

After two years of telling you all the wonderful things about living in Mazatlan, I need to tell you about a truly horrible experience. A nightmare. A lesson for all of us.

The year was 2009. I decided to sell my home in Mazatlan, but I wanted to come back to Colorado for the summer. I thought I could live in Mexico all year, and quickly learned that the heat was more than I could bear. Even me ~ who can tolerate more heat than most people and who is known to never sweat ~ had to come home to the deliciously cool Colorado air.

But first, I needed someone to watch my house for the summer. Neto was out of the running because the previous summer was a disaster. His sister, Alma, moved in. So did a whole downtown full of party-goers. And four harpies from Finland. In 2008, I returned to Mazatlan, fresh from a horrific cancer treatment, to find my house dirty and torn apart.

In April I told Neto the news. I was going to find a different house-sitter. Someone who would sweep up mountains of mango leaves from the patio every morning. Someone who would make sure I returned to a clean house with no scandal. I should have known better. 

Two previous guests recommended someone they met at church. A pious, elderly man about seven years older than me. who needed a place to stay. Because this man is still alive, I will call him by his initials ~ M.W.  

I felt there was something fishy about M.W. from the beginning. He never picked up a broom. He had a tantrum when I told him that the private wing of the house was off-limits, including my office with the only telephone. However, he was all I had. I met with him in early May and turned over the keys.

By the end of May I was getting emails from friends with reports of behavior much worse than a few wild parties and dirty bathrooms. The courtyard was knee deep in mango leaves. M.W. was seen urinating on the front door one night, after getting out of a cab. My neighbor had seen him walking around the courtyard naked. The neighbor’s grandchildren had seen him, too.

I called Neto. I told him I was flying to Mazatlán the first week in June. Neto agreed we needed to evict M.W. immediately. But first Neto reminded me that I should have allowed him be the house-sitter and not taken a chance on someone I didn’t know. He was right. Neto is almost always right.

M.W. was not home when we opened the door. The first thing I noticed, besides the pile of dead leaves, was that the door to my private living quarters was open. M.W. arrived a little later and was horrified to see us. 

I told him he had to leave. He refused. When my back was turned, he followed me into my office, screaming like a banshee. He snatched the telephone from the wall. Suddenly he whirled around and threw the telephone at me, leaving a huge bruise on my arm.

Neto’s nickname is “Chanfles” because of the wickedly fast left kick he perfected as a soccer player. He reacted immediately. Bam! Neto’s left foot pounded M.W.’s testicles. M.W. was on the ground, grabbing his crotch and screaming like a baby. He limped back to his room. I knew getting rid of him wasn’t going to be easy. 

“We’re going to need an attorney to call the police,” Neto declared.

M.W. stayed home while we went to find an attorney who knew Neto and worked with Neto’s brother. The man had a terrible reputation but I wasn’t about to be choosy. The attorney called the police and told his assistant to meet us back at the house.

We arrived home accompanied by a squad car, driven by a heavy-set policeman, and six young policemen with assault weapons riding in the back of a truck. The policemen told M.W. they were taking him to see a judge, and ordered him into the squad car. 

Neto and I followed in our own vehicle. When we arrived at the courthouse, M.W. sat in a chair in the corner, playing the “wounded old man” card, whimpering about his sore testicles. The judge pointed at Neto and assumed he was the guilty party.

“What has this man done?” the judge asked, pointing at Neto.

“Nothing. The crazy old white man in the corner is the criminal.”  

The judge ordered M.W. to leave my house immediately. We all went back home ~ M.W. in the police car, the attorney in a fancy black SUV, Neto and I in our vehicle, and the truck full of policemen and their AK-47s. 

It took M.W. two hours to pack up his meager belongings, while we all waited in the courtyard. Finally, the attorney and the police agreed it was time to usher him out. The policeman put him in the squad car, while Neto and I went to check the room. There we found every sharp knife from the kitchen, hidden in a desk drawer. A set of lock-picks was on the window sill. 

One young policeman stayed back to ask me if he and his girlfriend could move into my house for the summer. They said they would take good care of it.

“No, I’m sorry,” I told him. “Neto is coming back. He’s staying here now. He’s my house sitter.”

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Independence Day

Dia de Independencia (Independence Day) was my introduction to over-the-top holiday celebrations in Mexico. I had just moved to Mazatlán and my furniture hadn’t arrived yet. I brought a sauce pan, a frying pan and a few plastic dishes in my luggage. I bought a small bed, a tiny outdoor table and two plastic chairs at Sam’s Club. I went to the used appliance store and bought a stove and a refrigerator. I had enough to survive but I wanted my stuff.

My moving truck was stalled at the border because the inspector found a package of new sheets in one of my 250 boxes. Because I couldn’t prove that I paid tax for the sheets in the U.S., I had to pay the inspector $100.00 to approve my move. 

I know it was a bribe. I know the bribe cost more than the sheets were worth. I was lucky. He didn’t open the box that contained the digital grand piano. That didn’t have a receipt either. 

Truly, I felt trapped that day ~ September 16, 2005 ~ as I watched Neto and his friends install a fountain in my courtyard. There was nothing I could do until the moving truck arrived. And then I heard the parade. The most wonderful parade I’d ever seen.

To the beat of drums and music blaring from huge speakers on top of cars, little children came walking down my street, holding hands, dressed as guerrilla warriors from 1810. Preschool boys and girls, with bullet belts and long skirts, walking with their teachers. Unbelievably cute! 

That’s when I knew I had made the right decision. My home was right on the parade route. For the next five years, I watched every parade, (and there are a lot of them!) from my plastic chair placed right in front of my door.

Día de la Independencia marks the moment when Father Miguel Hidalgo, a Catholic priest, made his cry for independence. His chant, ¡Viva Mexico! and ¡Viva Independencia¡ encouraged rebellion. He called for an end to Spanish rule in Mexico.

The Spanish regime was largely unprepared for the suddenness, size, and violence of the rebellion. From a small gathering at Father Hidalgo’s church in Delores, the army swelled to include workers on local estates, prisoners liberated from jail, and a few soldiers who revolted from the Spanish army. Farmers used agricultural tools to fight. Rebel soldiers had guns and bullets. Indians, armed with bows and arrow, joined the cause. The revolution rapidly moved beyond the village of Dolores to towns throughout Mexico.

Father Hidalgo was captured and executed on July 30, 1811. Father José Maria Morelos, a seminary student of Father Hidalgo, took charge. The movement’s banner with image of the Virgin of Guadalupe was symbolically important. She was seen as a protector and liberator  of dark-skinned Mexicans. Many men in Hidalgo’s forces went into battle wearing the image of the Virgin of Guadalupe on their hats. The War of Independence was finally won on September 27, 1821.

Much like the Fourth of July in the U.S., Mexicans celebrate their country’s Independence Day with fireworks, parties, food, dance and music. Flags, flowers and decorations in the colors of the Mexican flag – red, white and green – are seen everywhere in cities and towns throughout Mexico.

Whistles and horns are blown and confetti is thrown to celebrate this festive occasion. Chants of “Viva Mexico” are shouted throughout the crowds. And school children, dressed in Mexican themes, march through the streets of their neighborhood. 

The following day, on September 17,  a moving truck with all of the belongings pulled up in front of my house. Out jumped six handsome Mexican men, ready to unload everything. Boxes containing everything I thought I would need and some things, like Christmas decorations and recipe books, I wasn’t yet ready to part with. And my piano! 

¡Viva Mexico!

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Rain, Rain Go Away

While I was watching Hurricane Ida, I was also in touch with Ernesto, who was dealing with a major tropical storm in Mazatlán. His boss told him not to come to work because it looked like the storm would be serious. Neto didn’t need to man the guard shack. All of the residents were hunkered down in their houses, waiting out the storm.

The next day, Neto described the destruction throughout his neighborhood. Gutters were clogged and overflowing, flooding the streets. He was awake most of the night, sweeping water out the door. Shutters and doors were banging in the wind, allowing even more water to come inside.

Because Neto spent a lot of time this summer waterproofing his roof, his was one of the few homes that didn’t have water pouring down inside. Now he’s getting phone calls from friends and neighbors, asking him to help them deal with the aftermath of the storm. But it’s too late. Everything is too wet. Paint is peeling off the walls and the ceilings are dripping water, leaking from the roofs.

When Neto told me of the destruction from this tropical storm, I was reminded of my first week in Mazatlán. As we listened to news of Hurricane Katrina, Neto pointed to my roof.

“Your roof is a mess. A serious mess. See this paint bubbling off the walls? That’s proof.”

“Can you fix it?”

“Yes, but not until October 15th.”

“Why October 15th?”

“Because that’s the day the rain stops.”

When I told my new friends about this conversation, they laughed. They said that Neto was making up a date because he didn’t want to work. They said that no one could predict the date of the last rain of the season.

On October 12th, there was a huge thunderstorm in Mazatlan. The flat roof on one wing of my new home leaked black water into every bedroom. Lightning and thunder crashed all around us. Water bubbled up out of the sewer. Tile blew off the roof of the hospital across the street. 

“Why is this water black?” I wanted to know.

“Because the pendejos who lived here before tried to fix the roof with tar paper. That black stuff is tar. That’s why we need to fix the roof.”

On October 15th, Neto arrived at 8:00 a.m. with his crew: Publio and Pepe, the same guys who helped him build the fountain in my courtyard. The weather was hot and steamy. The rainy season was over and they were ready to get to work.

First, Neto set up the ladder, of sorts. It consisted of a scaffold with a long board attached diagonally on one side. Small sections of 2×4’s  were hammered onto the board, to create crude steps up the slope.

The men ran up and down the board, as agile as cats. The wood bounced with every step they took. It was terrifying to watch.

Then he asked if he could use my big beach umbrella, the one that looked like a giant watermelon. He took it to the top of the roof, along with a bucket a sand Next he asked if he could borrow my CD player. He plopped the umbrella in the bucket of sand, so the guys could work under the shade of the umbrella, turned the music up loud, and they got to work.  

For a week the guys were on their knees, scraping old disgusting, wet tarpaper off the roof, using metal spatulas. I’m sure it was toxic. They didn’t wear masks. 

They scraped without taking a break. They piled the rubble into buckets, attached to a pulley system and lowered the trash to the ground. Full buckets were emptied into the bed of a borrowed short-bed truck and returned to the top of the roof. 

At the end of the day, Neto drove the truck to dump the trash, and came back to collect everyone’s wages. As the boss of the job, Neto paid everyone $20/day and they gladly tipped $2.00 back to him, to show him they were grateful to have a job.

Pretty soon two more guys showed up: Francisco and Vera Cruz. They heard there was work going on at my house.

“Do you need two more men?” they asked Neto.

“Only if you do what I tell you. It’s hard work, but you get paid every day. The boss gives us lunch.”

That’s right. I provided lunch for my workers every day. As a special reward for showing up on Mondays, I took orders and bought tortas from Tortas Kuwait, the sandwich shop down the street. The rest of the week I cooked. I bought a Mexican cookbook and worked my way through the pages. Tortilla soup, flautas, tacos, quesadillas, rice and beans, Kraft macaroni and cheese with marlin, whatever I could dream up. The only worker who was fussy was my housekeeper,  Christina, who told me early on that people in Mazatlan never eat black beans. “That’s for the poor people from the South.”

Most days work continued until 6:00. After a week, all the old tarpaper was gone and the original concrete roof was shiny and clean. The next week the guys carefully applied a mixture of white cement and sealer to the roof and let the sun bake it in.

Voila!! Problem solved. Five men. Countless buckets of debris. A watermelon umbrella in a bucket of sand. And music turned up loud. I had arrived in Mexico.

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An Orphanage Volunteer

I wanted to feel useful. To volunteer my time for a worthy cause. To have something meaningful to do one afternoon a week, while I lived in Mazatlán. A friend was volunteering at the local orphanage and I asked her if I could tag along. She said, “Ok. But it’s harder than you think it’s going to be.” She was right. 

I still remember the names of some of the children at the orphanage. The babies were Diego and Daniella. Two of the older girls were Mariam and Lupita. There was one darling little boy who was angry and hateful. He captured my heart but I don’t remember his name. For this blog, I’ll call him Diablito. 

The woman who ran the orphanage was a beautiful, kind Mexican woman. She operated on a small budget and very little training. The children slept in dormitories, girls in one room and boys in another. Each child had his or her own bed and an orange crate on which to display pictures and shiny objects. Some children had pictures of the parents who had abandoned them, hoping that some day they would return to celebrate their birthday and take them home.

There were other volunteers. Church groups donated clothes and toys at Christmas. A Rotary Club donated money to put a tall swing in the dirt yard “playground.” But no one donated enough love to heal the children’s hearts.

The babies were fat and darling. They would be adopted before the year was out, by American families willing to pay a crooked attorney a lot of money in order to take them home. 

The older children seemed sad. They knew they would not be adopted. They went to school but didn’t have much energy for learning. My friend was a yoga teacher who led the girls in a yoga class every week. The girls loved her. They would have gladly stood on their heads for hours, just to see her smile. 

I participated in the yoga class and other activities that the yoga teacher arranged. Otherwise, I was pretty useless. I often positioned myself in the playroom and helped Diablito build tall block towers. One day, when he left the room to use the bathroom, the girls walked over to our tower and kicked it to pieces. Diablito came back to the room, screamed and burst into tears. I wanted to do the same.

I tried to hug Diablito. He tried to bite me. When I told the director what happened, she shrugged her shoulders and said it happened every time Diablito built towers. She suggested that if Diablito would stop building towers, the girls would stop kicking them over. I walked out the door, caught the bus, and went home. 

I volunteered at the orphanage for six months, from November until May. The next year I volunteered at the library. Other American women volunteered at the orphanage and were more creative and successful than I was.

One day I ran into the Orphanage Director at the bank. She had happy news. Diablito found a home with a family who wanted him. Diego and Daniella had been adopted, too. But the girls, Mariam and Lupita and the tower-kicking girls, were still waiting. 

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Feliz Cumpleaños, Mamacita!

Neto’s Mamacita, Zelmira Flores Aguilar, turned 94 last week. It’s a very long time for a woman to live in Mexico. Last year, when she turned 93, no one expected her to live another year. It’s not that Zelmira is sick or in pain. She is simply very old.

Zelmira lives in her house on Papagayo Street with Neto, his daughter, Vannya, and Vannya’s children, Danya and Emanuel. Neto isn’t sure how old the children are. He thinks that Danya is four and Emanuel is two. But he thought the same thing last year. I’m sure Vannya knows, but age just isn’t something that Neto thinks about unless he has to. 

Zelmira has had a long and interesting life. She raised seven children and provided for them by turning her living room into a neighborhood grocery store and breakfast cafe. Later, she followed Neto to California, worked as a housekeeper for a Cuban family in Echo Park, and ran an illegal business on the side, transporting clothes from California to Mazatlán.

Zelmira is no longer the terror she was when she threw Neto’s surfboard in the trash when he was fourteen. She’s no longer the young woman who made trips to the Vatican to see the Pope and to Portugal, to see the famous shrine to the Virgin of Fatima. Or the woman who went to Mexico City for the blessing of the Basilica. Or the woman who cried when JFK was assassinated. 

Zelmira is no longer the feisty woman I knew when I moved to Mazatlán. Back then, Zelmira would come by city bus, uninvited, to my house nearly every day. She rang the doorbell promptly at 7:45 and announce she had come to sweep my courtyard, even though I told her over and over, that I didn’t want her to sweep my courtyard. In fact, I paid someone else to sweep the courtyard. In fact, I was just waking up. I was happy to have Zelmira come in for a cup of coffee and a piece of bread, but only if she put down the broom. Sometimes that worked. Usually it didn’t. Zelmira was a woman who was always the boss.

Now, Zelmira is no longer in charge. Her husband died in 1993. Two sons and one grandson have died. All of her brothers are gone, except Uncle Mon, and almost all of her friends have died. At this point, Zelmira doesn’t know who is alive and who is not. She often mistakes Neto for her husband and wonders where her friends are. 

Neto’s father was right when he told Zelmira long ago, “Don’t hassle Neto. He’s the one who will take care of you when you are old.” Zelmira is not able to get out of bed and Neto and Vannya provide around the clock nursing care, including changing her diapers, washing her and getting her dressed every day.

As an old woman, Zelmira’s world is closing in around her. Her son, Franco, is not allowed inside the house, because he sold his mother’s cemetery plot to buy cocaine. Her daughter, Rosa, was recently asked to leave town after repeatedly screaming at Neto and Zelmira and then faking a seizure. 

Always a tiny woman, Zelmira is physically shrinking away, according to Neto. She weighs less than seventy pounds and sleeps most of the time. Once in a while Neto puts her in a wheelchair and takes her for a walk around the block. Sometimes he takes her to church, where the neighbors are delighted to see that she is still alive.

Zelmira likes the taste of food but her diet is extremely limited because she has no teeth. She lost her false teeth five years ago, when she visited Rosa. No one knew what happened to the teeth and there was no money available to replace them. Now Zelmira eats tiny amounts of watermelon and feeds herself watery oatmeal with slivers of bananas every morning. Neto makes her chicken broth with fideos (tiny noddles), but he has to be careful she doesn’t pour the broth on herself when she tries to lift the bowl to slurp the last few drops. 

Last week Neto bought his mother a small cake from Panama Bakery. Zelmira forgot it was her birthday.

“Who is this cake for?” she asked. 

Her eyes lit up when Neto said, “It is for you, Mamacita. Feliz Cumpleaños!”

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Playa Bruja on a Sunday Afternoon

 

Playa Bruja, or Witch Beach, is at the north end of the bus line out of Mazatlán. It takes forty-five minutes to get there from downtown on the bus and it is worth every hair-raising, bumpy minute. Playa Bruja is in the area known as Cerritos, a neighborhood known for drug wars and shoot-outs with the police. I don’t know when those things happen, but it’s certainly not on lazy Sunday afternoons.

Playa Bruja is a Sunday destination for lots of people, but mostly for large Mexican families who go for the great food at Mr. Leones’ restaurant. At least once a month, Neto and I went there to relax, enjoy the food, listen to the music, and watch the surfers. We were never disappointed.

Mr. Leones’ food is excellent Mexican food: Fresh fish, homemade tortillas, burritos and enchiladas, smothered in salsa. Occasionally I would go there with ex-pats from the US, who ordered a hamburger and fries to go with their beer and margaritas. I just rolled my eyes. 

There is always music in the restaurant. Small groups of musicians, or sometimes a single guitar player, go from table to table, taking requests and playing for a couple of dollars per song. I always requested my favorite, Cuando Calienta el Sol, one of the most beautiful songs ever sung in Spanish. It was re-written in English as Love Me With All of Your Heart. Trust me, the melody is the same, but it loses a lot in translation.

At three o’clock, the big band starts playing and that’s when the party gets started. Mexican couples get up and dance. Old men dance with their wives. Children dance with their parents. Young lovers dance with each other. It’s wonderful to watch.

The restaurant overlooks the beach, where surfers perform when the waves are high enough. Neto either brings his board, or borrows one from a friend. After we’ve eaten, he goes to the beach and paddles out to catch the waves. Unlike Olas Altas beach, where Neto first learned to surf, Playa Bruja is a beach for experts. That’s where I first realized how good Neto truly is. The waves are fast and strong “five footers” ~ five feet in the back, (the shoulder) and eight feet tall in front (on the face.) Often the waves are higher.

Neto catches wave after wave. He doesn’t hesitate. Somehow he knows, without turning around, when the perfect wave is behind him. He is on his feet and glides his board from side to side until he reaches the shore. I can tell it is Neto by his style. Younger surfers jerk their boards as they travel back and forth into the waves. Neto’s style is smooth. He is a natural.

Often, as Neto comes out of the water, younger surfers want to shake his hand.  They know that he is one of the surfing pioneers in Mazatlan. He discovered the sport when he was fourteen years old and has surfed all his life. He loves the water. This is where he is meant to be.

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Welcome to Stone Island

No trip to Mazatlan is complete without a trip to Stone Island. A Gilligan’s Island sort of place with predictable characters, happy catchy music playing in the background, and an underlying premise that people with different personalities and backgrounds need to get along with each other in order to survive.

The first time I met Ernesto, he was selling tours to Stone Island for somewhere between $30 and $80. The price seemed ridiculously negotiable, but I wasn’t interested in going somewhere I’d never heard of, at any price. I told him that I didn’t need a tour. I needed a fountain. And the rest is history.

Shortly after I hired Ernesto to be my handyman, he asked me if I wanted to go to Stone Island with him and Publio the following Sunday.

“Oh, no,” I told him. “That will cost too much money.”

“It won’t cost much at all. We’ll take a panga across to the island. It only costs $1.50 for each of us.”

“What’s a panga?”

“A fishing boat that ferries people across the channel. We can walk to Playa Sur, where they sell the tickets. You’ll like it. It will be fun.”

“What about the cruises you were selling on the beach?”

“Oh, those are only for tourists. You aren’t a tourist any more. You live here. We’ll take a panga across.”

Pangas leave the mainland every five minutes, or so. The boats speed across the channel and arrive in less than ten minutes. People pile in and out of the boats with everything they need to spend a day at the beach. Neto and Publio brought their surfboards. Other people brought beach chairs and coolers of food and drinks. One family even brought a large plastic children’s swimming pool, even though we would be right next to the water. I  just brought my fanny pack with sunscreen and pesos.

Sundays at Stone Island are truly a magical experience, with restaurants serving fresh fish and traditional drinks. (Think lemonade, beer and margaritas.) Neto’s friend, Rudy, worked in a restaurant owned by his sister-in-law, so we always went there. Other ex-pats were loyal followers of other nearby restaurants. Rudy had comfortable chairs and hammocks. His English was perfect and his manner was unfailingly charming. His Mexican lunch of fish with rice and beans was delicious.

One of my favorite parts of a day at Stone Island was talking to the beach vendors, who travel up and down the beach, selling jewelry, clothes, rosaries, and wooden sculptures of palm trees and turtles.

Women pay to get their hair braided, and henna tattoos on their arms and legs Children scream and chase each other across the sand. Some tourists haggle with the beach sellers. I never did. I liked talking to them and usually bought something that caught my eye.

One time, I actually paid to take the cruise to Stone Island. We were in a catamaran, a Mazatlán party boat, filled with tourists from the cruise ships. We circled the rocks where a colony of seals barked at us. The crew was jovial and started pouring beer before we even put on our life jackets. When we disembarked, trucks drove us to the far end of island, where we were served fish with rice and beans that wasn’t nearly as good as Rudy’s.

Victor Hugo (his real name!) traveled between tables, trying to entice people to sign up for time-share presentations. By the time we got back in the truck, and then back on the catamaran, a lot of people were suffering from too much beer and tequila, too much sun, and too little good judgement. Once was enough. From then on, I happily took a panga with Neto, and spent the day with Rudy.

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No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

I met Marisol Segundo in La Cruz de Huanacastle in 2010.  She had a taco stand with four tables on a corner near our condo. Her tacos were heavenly! Originally from Mexico City, Marisol had the prettiest smile I’d ever seen. Neto and I went to see her every day for lunch.

The following year, when we were back in La Cruz again, Marisol confided that her dream was to create a small restaurant in that same space, a corner owned by her father. We wished her well.

In 2012, Neto and I were staying in Bucerias, but took a bus one day to check on Marisol and her restaurant. The restaurant was only halfway finished and Marisol was still serving lunch on the patio. All the city workers had discovered, like we did, that Marisol’s cooking was fantastic. She served comida corrida, a daily special with a main course, rice and beans. Her specialties were chicken enchiladas, marlin burritos and tortas cubanas. The cost was usually $3.50 (U.S.)

Before we left the restaurant, Marisol asked if she could talk to me. She explained that the restaurant was costing her more than she had counted on. She needed to apply for additional “permits” (bribes) and didn’t have enough money to finish the bathroom. Marisol wanted to know if I would lend her some money and assured me that she would pay me back.

I agreed to lend Marisol the money to finish her restaurant. I came back a week later and told Marisol that she didn’t need to replay me. The money was un regalo, a gift. I felt like Oprah, except that Oprah gives away cars and I gave away a toilet.

That was the beginning of a lovely friendship. Marisol opened her restaurant, The Little Hot Grill, and got great reviews on Trip Advisor. For the next few years, whenever Neto and I vacationed in La Cruz, we hired Marisol to be our personal chef. I gave her an envelope of cash at the beginning of the week and she cooked for us. 

I was proud of Marisol. As an unmarried woman, she worked hard and learned to speak English. She provided for her entire family with the money she earned. She hired her niece to help her in the kitchen. But I could see that, while Marisol was still the best cook in La Cruz, she wasn’t happy. She was working too many hours. Her family was always asking for more money. She couldn’t find anyone to help her run the restaurant.

One day, Marisol called me in Denver. 

“I have good news,” she told me. “I’m getting married.”

“Who is he?” I asked. 

“An older man who lives near the restaurant. He wants me to move in with him, but I can’t do that unless we are married.”

“How long have you known him?” I wanted to know.

“Just a couple of months. But he says he has a lot of money and he will take good care of me.”

Marisol asked me to come to La Cruz in the middle of July for her wedding. She wanted me to be her madrina ~ the godmother. I told Marisol that I was sorry, but I couldn’t come to Mexico in the middle of July. The weather in July is simply too hot. 

I also told Marisol that couldn’t be her madrina. It’s considered an honor to be asked to be a madrina. As a Mexican friend told me, “People are chosen to be the madrina because they are the wealthiest person in the neighborhood.” 

I’ve been asked to be madrina in other situations and I’ve always said no. It’s a custom that doesn’t translate well for me. Madrinas are expected to buy big fancy cakes. Madrinas are suppose to pay for a dinner for 100 people. 

I told Marisol that I appreciated being asked. “I understand that it’s an honor, but I’m not a wealthy woman.” I said.

I tried to explain that I was happy to help her with her restaurant, but I couldn’t pay for a wedding. I certainly couldn’t pay for a wedding to a man I never met. A man who I wasn’t sure would be a good husband. 

Marisol got married without me. When Neto and I went back to La Cruz the following November, we once again gave her an envelope of money and asked her to be our personal chef.  She agreed and, once again, we often ate at the Little Hot Grill. 

But Marisol didn’t seem happy. I noticed that while we were eating, an older man stood in the doorway, watching Neto and I eat. 

When Neto stepped outside to smoke a cigarette I asked Marisol, “Who is that man?”

“That’s my husband. He’s jealous of my customers. He wants to make sure I’m not flirting with any of the men.”

Neto and I didn’t go to the restaurant very often after that. The day before we were scheduled to leave, Neto went alone to pick up our dinner. He told Marisol that I would come by in the morning to say goodby. 

As Neto was leaving with our food, Marisol stopped him and said, “Aren’t you going to pay for your dinner?” 

Neto was embarrassed. His Mexican pride was hurt. He didn’t bring extra money with him because we had  already paid for more than a week’s worth of food when we arrived.

When Neto came home and told me what happened, I gave him additional money to take back to the restaurant. We decided that we’d helped Marisol as much as we could.

Marisol called me in Denver after Christmas. She wanted to know if I could send her some money because she didn’t have very many customers. I told her no. 

I will always think of Marisol with great fondness. But I know I won’t eat at the Little Hot Grill again.