Category: Mexican Daily Life

Posted on

Clean-Up Week At Punta Burros

Selling my home in Mazatlán allowed Neto and me to explore other parts of Mexico ~ Ensanada, Cuernavaca, Guadalajara, Puerto Vallarta, and my favorite place, La Cruz de Huanacastle, a beautiful, small fishing village known for its friendly local residents and marina full of fancy yachts belonging to rich tourists.

In March, 2010, we rented an elegant apartment in the La Jolla condominiums. The cost was so reasonable, we stayed there for six weeks, often walking to the marina to buy fresh fish or to the shore at night to breathe fresh, salt-water air. We went to yoga class in the morning and swam every day in a gorgeous on-site swimming pool, built with an island of palm trees in the middle. We felt like movie stars!

Neto met me at the airport in Puerto Vallarta in his truck ~ a bright blue Ford Ranger with big tires ~ that he drove from Mazatlán. One of the first things Neto wanted to do was to find a nearby surfing spot, Punta Burros, known for its high waves and secluded access. I went along to check it out.

We parked the truck near the entrance to the Grand Palladium Resort, on the highway to Punta Mita. From there, we walked through the jungle until we reached Punta Burros. Neto walked, carrying his board, as sure-footed as a cat. I lurched and stumbled over fallen trees and muddy streams. The hike took twenty minutes. It felt like an hour. 

The beach was indeed deserted. We set up our blanket and towels by a pile of rocks, away from the shore. Only a few other surfers and paddle-boarders were in the water. The waves were enormous. Neto was in heaven. Again, he was the best surfer in the water. He took ride after ride, for about thirty minutes, before coming in to rest.

That was the first time Neto saw what I had seen from the beginning. The beach was disgusting! The water was pristine. The beach was horribly polluted from years of neglect. A beaten-up trash barrel was tipped on its side, spilling its contents on the sand. Bottles and cans, food and wrappers, dirty diapers and abandoned clothes were everywhere, as far as we could see. Seagulls screeched overhead, dove to the sand and gleefully picked through the garbage. 

Neto turned to me and said, “We’ve got to do something about this.” He was right. He loves the ocean. It is his home. It’s where he belongs. 

On the way back to La Jolla in the blue truck, Neto noticed a jeep trail going toward the ocean. We followed it and found a private entrance to Punta Burros. We made a pact to come back the next day and begin the clean-up.

And that’s what we did. We came back the next day, and every day for a week. We brought big canvas bags, the kind made for hauling discarded chunks of cement, and garden gloves. We filled bags, about four bags each day, tied them shut, and loaded them into the truck. At night we surreptitiously put the bags out in the street, where the trash man would find them and haul them away.

By day three, the beach was beginning to look more like a beach and less like the city dump. Other surfers jumped in. A few guests from the Grand Palladium hiked along the shore from their hotel and joined the efforts. By the end of the week, we had hauled away twenty large bags of garbage. The shore was beautiful. This is the way it was supposed to look ~ like someone’s home. 

Posted on

Neto ~ A Mexican Champion

Neto was fourteen years old, the first time he saw someone surfing. 

Walking along the beach one afternoon with his girlfriend, Luci, three boys glided across the ocean in front of  them, standing on something that looked like a long, flat ironing board. The boys, not much older than Neto, resembled giant birds, flapping their arms as they stood on top of the water. The ocean was alive with huge swells from an incoming storm. Neto was transfixed with the magic of people dancing on water. 

Neto and Luci had been fighting.  She thought that if  Neto was her boyfriend, he should want to hold her hand all the time. He told Luci that if she would let him kiss her, then he would hold her hand.  Finally, Neto turned to her and said, “See those guys in the ocean? I’m going to do that. And if I like it, I’m going to do it forever.” 

“I knew she didn’t believe me. I wondered if she loved me, even though she said she did,” Neto told me. “If you don’t love me, then leave me. I will join those guys and love the ocean instead.”  

Neto walked Luci home, but he couldn’t stop thinking about the boys he saw riding the waves.

“I pictured myself, flying on top of the ocean, my feet planted on the board beneath me, arms stretched out, holding me steady against the wind.”

 Finally, Neto turned to Luci one more time and said, “If I am going to leave you for something, it will be for riding waves in the ocean.”

That was the beginning of Neto’s love affair with surfing. He was one of the first surfers in Mazatlán. He’s still riding the waves today.

When Neto was twenty-two years old, he hitchhiked to Guerrero, Mexico, to compete in the Mexican National Surfing Competition in Pentacalco. He was the only surfer from Mazatlán, competing against men from Alapulco and Iztapa-Zihautanejo in El Libre, a free-style event for surfers of all ages and all levels.

Neto remembers that the waves that weekend were “perfect” ~ fifteen feet tall in the front and eight feet in the back, “with lots of barrels” to ride through. He came in sixth place, overall, and was eager to compete again the following year.

For the next ten months, Neto stayed in Guerrero, training for the next competition. He bought a bigger board and surfed every afternoon. He worked as a deep-sea fisherman at night. 

“We caught swordfish, marlin and sharks in huge nets. We were in small. motorized fishing boats called pangas, not the big sport-fishing boats that tourists rent today.” Some of the fish were forty-feet long, and weighed between 500-1000 pounds. 

“How were you able to get those fish back to shore in your small boats?” I asked.

“Oh, we beheaded them so they would fit inside our boat. We threw the bloody heads back in the water.”

“That seems like an awful mess,” I commented.

“Oh, yes. When the Great White sharks smelled the blood, they came looking for us. We’d leave them to feast on the fish heads, while we headed for shore to the congelador (freezer) for processing. The next night, we’d do it all over again.”

“So, what happened in the surf competition the next year?”

“It was cancelled. The waves weren’t high enough. I still wonder if I might have won first place, but it was time for me to go back home.”

Neto still surfs every day when the waves are high enough. One of the oldest surfers on Mazatlán’s beaches, young surfers often come up to him and want to shake his hand. They affectionately call him “Ruco.” (Old Man) They tell him that he’s the “godfather of surfing” in Mazatlán. The ocean is where he belongs.

Posted on

When Zelmira Ran The Store

Neto’s mother, Zelmira Esther Aguillar Rodriguez, grew up forty miles south of Mazatlan, in La Hacienda del Tamarindo, a small land-grant village new Rosario. She was the only girl in a family of all boys. 

Zelmira’s mother, Maria Aguillar, died in childbirth when Zelmira was seven years old. According to family legend, the doctor told her father, Ignacio Rodriguez, “I can save your wife or your son. I can’t save both. What should I do?”

“Save the boy,” Ignacio answered. Zelmira’s youngest brother, Antonio, lived but all six of the children were left without a mother. Ignacio remarried soon after his wife died, which infuriated his older sons. 

Soon after his wife died, Ignacio showed up with his new wife who was already pregnant. Gerardo, his oldest son, was fuming. He hated his father and refused to let him in the door.

“This house isn’t yours any more. It is our house and it belongs to our mother. You stepped on her when she was alive. You’ll never step on her again.” From that day forward, Ignacio was never allowed inside the house. 

Zelmira was raised by Ignacio’s sister, her Aunt Petra. She grew up to be fiercely independent. With blazing black eyes and a wild head of black curly hair, she was known as “the commander.” It was a role that suited Zelmira when she was young and later, when she married sweet Jesús Flores, who grew up the only boy in a family of three sisters.

Once they were married, Jesús allowed Zelmira be in charge. She was a shrewd businesswoman with high expectations for her children, most of which spiraled downward into disappointment.

Neto was twelve years old, working nights cleaning a downtown bakery, when Zelmira began selling groceries out of their house to earn extra money. It started when Neto’s boss, a good-hearted man named Memo, asked him,  “How would you like to take some bread home for your mother to sell? I can give it to you for half price.” 

Zelmira liked the idea right away. Nothing was better then a piece of bread from the bakery to go with her morning coffee. Pretty soon she was happily selling delicious, day-old bread to her neighbors along with tomatoes, avocados, bananas and fresh mangoes from the neighborhood market.

Soon there was no stopping her. Zelmira greeted Neto at 5:00 a.m each morning, as he walked in the door after work. She was in a hurry, on her way to the big Pino Suaréz market downtown. The market opened early to accommodate retailers and restaurants. She rode the bus to the Pino Suarez market and came home in a taxi loaded with pineapples, apples and guavas, celery and carrots, onions and garlic and chiles, rice, potatoes, beans, milk, cheese, and eggs. Dozens and dozens of eggs.

Zelmira continued to buy day-old bread from Memo and enlarged the store in what was once the family’s living room. She started taking orders from her neighbors, adding meat and poultry delivery to them for an extra charge. 

Soon she was also cooking, making tortas, molletes and juices to sell for breakfast. The house became a neighborhood grocery store and small restaurant. Zelmira was the store-keeper and the cook. Jesús didn’t like what Zelmira was doing but she was a woman with a mission and she was the boss.

Not content with running the store, in 1975 Zelmira started crossing the border into the United States to buy boxes of clothes to sell out of her house. Four times a year Zelmira transported two huge boxes home on the bus. Neto remembers that “some of the boxes were as big as a baby’s crib.” Boxes full of footwear and clothing. Zelmira sold half the clothes and saved the other half for Neto and his six brothers and sisters to wear. 

Zelmira’s biggest trip to the U.S. was always the trip before Christmas. She obtained a valid visa and bribed officials when she needed to, in order to meet the demand for American-made goods. 

“I put something for your little girl in the pocket of the red coat on top,” she would tell the guard at the border. He checked the pocket of the red coat, pulled out a $20 bill, and let her pass.

Posted on

A Saga of Shrimp Salad

I moved to Mexico on a whim. I was bored and looking for adventure. The next four years were a whirlwind of new experiences, new people, and enough adventure to last a lifetime.

Neto was the first person I met in Mazatlán. It was April, 2005, the same day I bought my house. He was selling seafood on the beach and I was thinking, OMG ~ what have I done?

Neto was friendly and charming. He asked me why I looked so sad. I told him that I had just made a big mistake. I bought a house that needed a lot of work and I didn’t know what to do next.

Neto smiled. “Don’t worry. I can do whatever you need. I can fix your house just the way you want it.”

I returned to Colorado to sell my house, pack up my belongings, and move to my new home.

Christina was the first person I met after I moved. She knocked on my door and asked me if I needed a housekeeper. I hired her on the spot. By this time it was September.

I arrived before the moving van, to a huge house that was run-down and dirty. I bought a bed, a small outdoor table and two chairs at Sam’s Club. The kitchen had a lot of potential but no stove. Christina came on Tuesdays and Fridays to help me clean and sweep up dead cockroaches. It was that bad.

Neto spoke perfect English. Christina’s English was worse than my Spanish. While I knew a few beginning phrases in Spanish, Christina refused to even say, “Good morning.” But we got along by smiling and pointing. In a pinch, I pulled out my Spanish-English dictionary.

In addition to cleaning, Christina told me she could teach me to cook “real Mexican food.” One day I told her that I wanted to make shrimp salad. Mazatlán is famous for its world-class shrimp fleet. I heard from a neighbor that fresh shrimp was available on a street corner next to the downtown market. What I wonderful new experience for me! I thought.

Back then, everything was wonderful and new. I learned that the changeras are a small group of women who sell shrimp out of large, plastic washtubs on a corner of Aquilles Serdan Avenue. They are named for the chango nets that are used on the shrimp boats to measure the amount of shrimp in the water. They sell shrimp fresh from the boats, the rivers, and the estuaries from September until April. In the warm summer months, the shrimp is frozen but just as tasty.

Christina and I set off to buy shrimp. She told me she would take charge. That was fine with me. She bought 1.5 kilos (about three pounds) of medium size shrimp for 200 pesos (about $20.00.) The changera put them in a plastic bag. 

We didn’t go more than a few steps before Christina turned to me and said, “I forgot. You don’t have a stove.” 

“Is that a problem?”

“Yes. We can’t eat these raw. They have to be cooked first.”

Christina had a solution. She said we could take them to one of the restaurants on top of the market and they would cook the shrimp for us.

That’s what we did. That’s when the real adventure began. 

The restaurant was willing to cook the shrimp. Christina didn’t ask what the price would be. Just like she didn’t ask me if I had enough money to buy the shrimp in the first place. She assumed that because I was an American, I was rich. After buying the shrimp, I had 20 pesos (about $2.00) left in my purse. Christina had no money at all. 

The restaurant owner cooked the shrimp, then turned to me and said the charge would be 50 pesos. She, too, assumed that I was rich. Ordinarily she would have charged much less. 

I looked at Christina and said, “I don’t have the much. I only have twenty pesos left.” 

Christina looked at me and the restaurant owner and promptly walked out of the restaurant. She left me standing there!

I was paralyzed. I didn’t know what to do. I showed the owner how much money I had and she just shook her head as she stood there holding the bag of steaming hot shrimp. Neither of us knew what to do. I had no idea where Christina was. I was on my own. 

Luckily there was an American couple eating in the restaurant who stepped in to help. They told the owner in Spanish that I was honest. They assure her that I would return that afternoon with the rest of the money I owed. 

I walked out of the restaurant with my bag of hot, cooked shrimp and saw Christina waiting for me at the end of the row of restaurants, hiding behind a wooden column at the top of the stairs. She took the steaming bag out of my hands and we walked home.

That was the beginning of many lessons in cultural shock. And the importance of learning a new language. It wasn’t the last.

Posted on

The Pino Suárez Downtown Market

The Pino Suárez open market was one of the first blow-my-mind experiences I had when I first moved to Mexico. It is a spacious, 19th-century market, filled with reasonably-priced food, crafts and souvenirs. After a while, it was a place I always brought my guests, knowing they would either love it or hate it.

Love it ~ for its “real Mexico” experience. It is an entire block of open air stalls selling everything you can imagine. Food is sold in one corner. Clothing, crafts, and souvenirs are in the middle-section. Statues and rosaries, tarot cards and even “spells” are sold in one far-off corner of this huge building teeming with people.

Hate it  ~ because it smells of fish and freshly butchered meat. People push and shove their way down the aisles. Vendors accost you at every turn, insisting on bargaining with you rather than letting you move on. The noise can be deafening.

I had mixed feelings about the market. In the beginning, I was lost in the maze of aisles and the crush of people going every direction. After a while, I realized the market’s charm. I discovered my favorite souvenir venders and was eager to introduce them to my guests. Often it was easier to walk to the market for a few items, rather than ride the bus forty-five minutes to shop at Walmart. But I never got used to some of the exotic meat and poultry items, or the smell of blood on the floor.

Fresh fish, chicken feet, lots of intestines, pig’s skins and hog’s heads are all available in the market’s meat section. These were all things I’d never seen before. Some of them are actually scary to look at.

One day a friend asked me if I would walk to the market with her. She wanted to make pozole. According to her cooking teacher, she needed to buy a bag of hominy and a whole pig’s head. We located the items with no problem. The problem was we had no idea how much a whole pig’s head weighed. A lot! Especially if you have to carry it home, along with a five pound bag of hominy. 

The pig’s head weighed at least fifteen pounds. It took two of us to get it home and we stopped many times along the way. Because our Spanish was so elementary, we could only imagine what the Mexican people said to each other as they saw two old white women, walking a mile home from the market, taking turns cradling the head wrapped in plastic as if it were a baby. We were gringas locas (crazy women) for sure.

My friend’s cook showed us how to make pozole in a huge soup kettle. I helped cut up vegetables and we shared this wonderful soup with our friends. It was probably the best pozole I’ve ever eaten, thanks to the pig’s head we carried home in our arms.

Posted on

Make Way For Bananas

Ah, January! It is such a beautiful month in Mazatlán.  Although the nights are chilly, daytime temperatures are often in the mid-70’s ~ warm enough for shorts and t-shirts.  Just south of the  tropic of Cancer, Mazatlan enjoys sunshine in January from 7:00 a.m. until 6:00 p.m. Watching the sunset over the ocean, wearing only a light jacket, and then taking a walk through town before going home to cook dinner is only one of the things I miss on these cold, dark Denver days.

When my home was full of guests, January mornings were delightful. I loved sitting outside enjoying a cup of coffee with Eunice and Gordon, our guests from Saskatchewan. They joined us from every year for three months, from early January until late March. By December we couldn’t wait until they were back with us again, sitting at our outside glass table, laughing and talking about what we planned to do that day.

A small pack of other January snowbirds also stumbled out of their rooms to greet us every morning. Students from Finland and Australia waved goodbye and hurried off to their Spanish classes. Others, in no hurry, poured themselves a cup of coffee and joined us as small birds sang and showered in our fountain. 

Queen Mary, who once gave Neto a “gift” of a dead cockroach in a matchbox, was quick to pull up a chair at our table. Dr. Imposter, who wore a diaper on his head as a make-shift turban, listened intently to Neto’s stories of growing up in Mazatlán and moving to the United States. When the sun began to rise in the sky, it was time to start our day.

January brought interesting guests to our home. It also brought gorgeous tropical flowers. Hibiscus, bougainvillea and plumeria blossomed in our courtyard. Our mango trees, overwhelmed with blossoms, promised a huge fruit crop in the spring.

Yet, nothing gave me more joy than seeing our banana trees wake up in January and produce the most incredible flower I’ve ever seen. The first time I saw the banana tree flower outside my office window, I didn’t know what it was ~ a big, reddish-purple bulb that looked like a womb. And that’s exactly what it was ~ a womb full of baby bananas. The flower grew larger and larger until it finally peeled open, revealing an enormous bunch of tiny, green bananas.

I sang the silly Chiquita Banana Song to myself as we waited for the bananas to ripen:

I’m Chiquita banana and I’ve come to say

Bananas have to ripen in a certain way.

When they are fleck’d with brown and have a golden hue 

Bananas taste the best and are best for you.

Finally after months of waiting, it was time for Neto to cut down the bananas with his machete. His friend, Publio, stood nearby, ready to help catch the heavy bunch so it wouldn’t fall on the ground. 

Make way for bananas! A bunch of fifty bananas, or more, spread out on the patio table. Fifty fragile bananas that needed to be given away before the house filled with flies. 

For the next two weeks, I made banana muffins and cakes, banana pancakes and pie. I gave bananas away to anyone who would take them. My neighbor insisted that I should sell them on the street corner, but I preferred to give them to the nuns across the street. 

Now, when I go to the store and see small bunches of four or six, long perfect bananas, I remember the tree in my backyard and my short, fat, sweet bananas. And I wish I were there.

Posted on

Ramon ~ The Deer Whisperer

Ernesto’s mother, Zelmira Rodriguez, grew up in Hacienda del Tamarindo, as the only girl in a family of five brothers. Her mother, Maria Aguillar, died in childbirth  when Zelmira was seven, and her younger brother, Ramón, was three years old.

The doctor told Neto’s grandfather, Ignacio Rodriguez, “I can save your wife or your son. I can’t save both. What should I do?”

“Save the boy,” was Ignacio’s answer. Zelmira’s youngest brother, Antonio, lived but all the children were left without a mother.

Ignacio was banished from the house by Gero, the oldest brother. He was furious when his father showed up with a new, pregnant wife, soon after Maria died. The youngest children were raised by their older brothers and their Aunt Petra.  Zelmira turned out to be feisty and self-reliant. Ramón is one of the kindest, most-gentle men I’ve ever met. 

I met Ramón in Hacienda Del Tamarindo in December, 2009, when Ernesto and I were there to celebrate his birthday. The night we arrived, Ramón rode to the party on his bicycle. A quiet, small-built man with light skin, he looks a lot like Neto with the same easy smile and deep brown eyes. But while Neto is exuberant and outgoing, Ramón is reserved and shy. He pulled Neto aside and told him, “Come to my house tomorrow. I have something to show you.”

The next day, we walked to Ramón’s house right after breakfast. His modest home is typical of the other small cinder-block homes in La Hacienda. His beautiful brown horse was roaming, untethered, in the front yard. Laundry hung on the clothesline to dry. A donkey, fenced in the spacious corral, watched us as we knocked on the door. 

Ramón answered the door, wearing the tall white cowboy hat that is the trademark of all the Rodriguez men.

“I want you to see what I have in the bodega. I found her when I was riding through the forest.”

Ramón led us to his shed, where he keeps his tools. There in the corner was the tiniest baby deer I’ve ever seen.

“I call her Bambi. She’s an orphan. I’m raising her until I can take her back to the forest.”

Ramón took off his hat, pulled a baby bottle of milk out of his pocket, and sat down quietly on the steps. Bambi walked over to him and nuzzled his shirt. We watched as the fawn guzzled the whole bottle of milk.

Ramón told us how he found Bambi, lost and alone, when he was out riding the trail behind his house.

“Something must have happened to her mother, because I couldn’t find a trace of her. Maybe someone shot her. Or maybe a wild cat got her.”

“How did you get her home?” I wanted to know.

“I got down from my horse. Bambi had a wound on her leg and I knew I had to save her. I put her in my arms, and climbed back up on my horse. I could feel her heart beating fast against my chest.”

“Wasn’t she scared, riding on top of a horse?”

“I just kept holding her, and talking to her. I clicked my tongue and told the horse to walk slow and take us home.”

Ramón was raised to be a butcher, a job that certainly didn’t suit his sweet, compassionate personality. 

“I was born to be on a horse,” he told me. “I quit butchering and became a vaquero ( a Mexican cowboy) instead. 

“Ramon is also a jockey.” Neto told me. “People pay him to race their horses because he almost always wins.”

If Ramon lived in the U.S., he would surely be a veterinarian. He’s known throughout La Hacienda as an animal whisperer and healer. He rescues animals from the forest and tames even the wildest horses. 

Two years ago, at the age of 85, Tio Ramón was still riding as a charro in the local rodeo. Neto and I saw him on You Tube. We knew it was Ramón right away. He was sitting on his big brown horse, wearing the Rodriguez tall white cowboys hat.

Posted on

A Birthday in La Hacienda

The year was 2009.  I asked Neto how he would like to spend his birthday.

“I’d like to go to Hacienda del Tamarindo, and see Tio Gero and Tia Valvina. I would like to be there for my birthday and the Virgin’s novena.”

I had never been to Hacienda del Tamarindo, the small town near Rosario where Neto’s mother grew up. Neto’s great-grandfather was one of three men who founded the town in the early 1900’s. The family home, where Gero and Valvina raised thirteen children, is on the main street, directly across from the Catholic church. 

“Do we need to call and let them know we are coming?” I asked.

“Oh, no. Everyone is welcome. It’s the beginning of December. People will be coming from all over.”

“Where will we stay?”

“Tia will want us to stay with her in their big house.”

Neto was right. It was mid-afternoon when we walked in the front door and the living room was full of people. Most of Gero and Valvina’s children moved to the United States, but still came back every year for Christmas. Those who weren’t already there, were on their way. 

Valvina was in the kitchen, preparing food. Fruit and sweetbread was spread out on the big table, alongside pitchers of lemonade and jamaica. A grill was set up outside, coals already burning, for carne asada later in the day.

Uncle Gero met us at the door. A tall, distinguished man in his mid-90’s, he was almost totally blind as a result of diabetes. Neto introduced me to his uncle, and Gero’s charm came out in full Rodriguez style. He took my hand and led me around the living room, introducing me to everyone seated there. He insisted that I sit next to him and never let go of my hand.

Aunt Valvina, was equally charming. She hugged us both. Neto waited outside while she showed me around her home. I saw the laundry room in the back courtyard and her sewing room, where she sews linens for all the bedrooms and curtains for the windows.

Valvina proudly showed me the “barracho room,” a large dormitory on one side the patio, where the men sleep who are too drunk to come in the house. It was obvious the house had been enlarged many times to accommodate her big family. It was an old home with modern appliances, but no hot water.

Valvina called her neighbors to announce, “Neto is here with his friend, Lynda. Come for dinner.”

Soon the courtyard and the back patio were filled with people, most of whom looked like Neto with their thick black hair, flashing brown eyes and quick smiles

I was happy that Neto wanted to come to La Hacienda, but I noticed he didn’t mention his birthday. He told everyone he’d come for the Virgin’s novena. Only after most people had gone home after dinner, when he and I were left sitting around the table with Gero and Valvina, did he open up.

“There’s another reason I wanted to be here today,” he said shyly. “It’s my cumpleaños.”

Oh, my! Uncle Gero and Aunt Valvina both jumped up at once. Gero reached Neto first, and shook his hand. Valvina grabbed him and squeezed him tight. “Feliz Cumpleaños, Mijo.” They had tears in their eyes. So did I.

The next day, before sunrise, church bells rang. Portable cannons boomed in the streets. 

“What is that?” I wanted to know.

“It’s the beginning the novena.”

People came out of every home for a procession that happens every day for nine days leading up to the feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe. Men in identical white cowboy hats joined the ceremony. Some came walking, some on horseback. 

A few men went inside the church to bring the statue of Mary outside and lift it onto the back of a truck. The procession began its slow walk through town. First the truck with the statue and then the parish priest. And then the townspeople, repeating the rosary together as they walked along the cobblestone streets, some carrying flashlights and some with candles to light their way. 

I stayed inside. It was still dark and cold outside. It didn’t feel right for me to join the procession. The prayers were in Spanish. It was a private moment for Neto, his family, his neighbors and his friends.

When Neto returned, he showed me how to take a shower, by rinsing myself with cold water from a bucket in the bathroom. It was so cold it took my breath away. I dressed quickly and joined Neto and his family in the kitchen for breakfast. 

That afternoon, when it was time to leave, Neto’s cousins came to say goodbye.

“We really like Lynda. How can we get you to bring her back again?”

“It would help if you had some hot water,” he answered.

They all laughed the same hearty Rodriguez laugh.

Posted on

Neto, The Peanut Vender

I love the beach sellers! The men and women who sell beautiful things on the beach ~ turtles carved out of wood, silver bracelets and earrings, lovely scarves and Mexican blankets. I know most tourists do not share my love. They think the beach sellers are a nuisance. They avoid eye contact, and wave them away.

But I admire the beach sellers’ determination. They have to pay a fee to the government to sell to the tourists. Every day they trudge through the sand, often carrying heavy objects and awkward sacks, hoping to make enough money to feed their families. I enjoy talking to them, looking at what they have to sell, and buying something if I can. Or, I tell them that what they have is “muy bonita, pero no hoy.” (Very beautiful but not today.) I smile and wish them good luck.

My favorite sellers, the ones I can never ignore, are the children who sell in the plazas and restaurants. The little boys and girls with tiny toys and Chiclets for sale. The beautiful girls, who go from table to table selling roses.

Ernesto was a beach seller when he was ten years old. One of my favorite chapters in his story tells of the summer he sold peanuts on the beach and learned to speak English. Here is part of that story:

The summer before sixth grade, I walked to the beach every day on my travels around the neighborhood. One day I saw a grown man selling salty peanuts and sweet bubble gum. He looked tired and sad. His back was stiff as he bent over his tray of peanuts that no one was buying. 

“What are you doing?” I asked. “You look tired. Do you need some help?”

The man looked up and saw a boy standing in front of him. “You are right. I am tired and I am old. I’m going to be here all day. Would you like to help me sell some peanuts?”

“I can do that” I smiled. “I am Ernesto. What should I do?”  

“Thank you, Ernesto. I will fill these little cups with warm peanuts and put them on a tray for you. Each bag is five pesos. When the tray is empty, come back for more. At the end of the day, I will pay you for being my helper.”

The vendor and I made a good team that summer. He toasted the peanuts on his grill and poured them into tiny paper cups. Twenty cups on my tray. He gave me a quick lesson on how to sell peanuts and how to speak English. I was happy to be a beach seller. It was my first paying job. It was a good job for a boy who was ten years old.

At first the only English phrase I knew was “Peanuts! Peanuts! I have peanuts for you!” Gradually I learned more words that I practiced until they became part of me. 

Every morning I set up my tray on a stand under a palm tree and watched for people to flag me down from the beach. Then I would pick up my tray and run across the sand. Most days I earned fifty cents. Once in a while, Señor would give me an American silver dollar to take home to my mother. I was happy to help my family. But mostly, I was happy to work with my new friend, the peanut vendor.

I liked being around the tourists. They were kind and generous. Their happy, healthy faces were a reflection of the ocean to me. They liked to tease me and make me smile. They treated me with tenderness that I had never felt before. The women, especially the American women, said they liked my dark brown, curly hair and soft hazel eyes. They called me comico y lindo ~ funny and cute. Sometimes they called me Honey. They said they wanted to adopt me and take me back home with them. They loved my hustle and my sassy smile. 

If you are lucky enough to be on a beach in Mexico, remember Ernesto and smile at the sellers. You don’t have to buy anything, if you don’t want to. Kindness goes a long way.

Posted on

Los Tres Amigos

It was the rainy season and the roof was leaking. Water poured into the bedrooms.

“When can we fix these leaks?” I asked, as we emptied buckets of water into the courtyard.

“When the rainy season is over,” Neto insisted.

“When will that be?’

“October 15th.” 

I’d never experienced rain like this before. Certainly not in Colorado. From June until October, rain flooded the streets. Palm trees bent in the wind until they were nearly horizontal. Dogs and cats hid under abandoned cars. The humidity was stifling. 

October 15th, Neto showed up with heavy-duty metal spatulas to scrape decades of tar and styrofoam off the roof. Publio and Pepé, his best friends, were with him. They assembled a scaffold and built a makeshift ladder from 2×4’s

Laborers in Mexico earn very little money. A skilled tile-layer or carpenter earns 200 pesos for a ten hour day. When I first moved to Mexico, that amounted to $20/day (U.S.). Now, under the current exchange rate, that amounts to $10/day. It is a shockingly stingy amount of money. Food costs roughly the same in Mexico and the U.S.. Clothing actually costs more. Housing is the only commodity that costs less.    

I rewarded my workers by providing lunch for them every day. As a special treat for showing up on Mondays, I ordered 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, macaroni and cheese with marlin, whatever sounded good as I flipped through the pages. The only worker who was fussy was Christina. She told me during the first week that people in Mazatlan never eat black beans. “That’s for the poor people from the South.”

The roof project took more than three weeks.

Day 1. No rain. Neto set up the ladder. It consisted of a scaffold with a long board attached diagonally to one side. Small sections of 2×4’s  were hammered onto the board, to create footholds up the slope. Neto, Publio, and Pepé ran up the ladder and started working at 9:00. By 10:00 the sun was beating down on them and sweat was pouring off their faces. They drank gallons of water and kept working.

Day 2. Still no rain. Neto hauled a big bucket of sand up the ladder, along with a beach umbrella that looked like a giant watermelon. He plopped the umbrella in the bucket of sand and now they had shade. 

Day 3. Still no rain. I was beginning to believe the rainy season was over. Neto asked if he could borrow my boom box to take to the roof, along with the watermelon umbrella and the bucket of sand. Now the guys had shade and music. They sang and laughed as they continued to scrape layers of mold and crud from the old roof. 

Day 4. Neto brought a new worker, a young guy from Vera Cruz, to help load the old, stinky roof into buckets to take to the dump. Everyone called him “Vera Cruz.” I never knew his real name. Halfway through the morning, Vera Cruz fell off the ladder and needed to be rushed to the local Red Cross. He fell on his skinny hip and was hurt badly when he bounced hard on the cement. By afternoon, Vera Cruz was back on the job.

“How can he keep working? Isn’t he in a lot of pain?” I asked Neto.

“The doctor gave him a shot of Ibuprofen in his hip. He’s feeling better now. He wants to keep working.”

And that’s the way it went for the next three weeks. After the roof was scraped clean, the men laid a fresh coat of cement before spreading buckets of waterproofing across the roof. 

My house would never have been ready for guests without Los Tres Amigos. They arrived every day with a smile. They tried to understand my English and struggled to teach me Spanish. They thanked me every day for allowing them to work and for giving them lunch. They became my good friends, as well as Neto’s.

Publio is still one of Neto’s best friends. His family became my family, too. Sadly, Pepe died two years ago, from complications of a motorcycle accident and horrible medical care. Seeing Publio again last winter was a joy. But I will always have a hole in my heart, where Pepé used to live.