Category: Mexican Daily Life

El Mirador, or Lookout Hill, is one of three very high hills that offer a magnificent view of Mazatlán below. The road up the hill began behind my house, wound back and forth until it reached the top, and then descended onto Olas Altas beach. 

The climb to the top of El Mirador and back down took forty-five minutes. It was a great work-out for my legs and my nalgas, which had never been in better shape.

I sometimes climbed the hill alone, early in the morning, huffing and puffing all the way. Later, in the evening, Neto and I walked the road together, reaching Olas Altas in time to see yet another beautiful Mazatlán sunset. We always ended our ritual with the Buddhist prayer for our friends and family: “May you be happy …May you be healthy …May you be free from worry.”

The road was peaceful and quiet in the mornings, with very little traffic to interrupt my solitude. Occasionally I would see other hikers or men riding to work on their bicycles. I was curious as I saw beautiful homes along the way. Homes that obviously once belonged to Mazatlán’s rich and famous. Homes that were now neglected and abandoned  by owners who had long since disappeared. Who were these people, who let the jungle take over their gorgeous homes and property? I wondered. 

There was more activity on El Mirador later in the day, as vendors set up stands at the top of the hill to sell hats, rosaries, and shiny wooden palm trees to tourists coming from the cruise ships below. In the evening, taxi drivers congregated to drink beer and tell stories, blaring loud music from their radios before going home to their families for dinner.

The view from the top of El Mirador is picture-perfect. It stretches for miles into the ocean. Caves in the hillside, once used by the Spanish to guard the harbor, and later used by Mazatlán soldiers to defend their port from the French, now provided shelter for homeless men and their pets.

 I took the picture at the top of this blog early one morning as I trudged up the hill.

The homeowner had just ushered seven cats out of her house and into the street to spend the day. Some of the cats hurried to get back inside before the door shut tight. But they were too late. They would have to spend the day being outdoor cats, lounging in the sun and picking up garbage from the street when they got hungry.  

The next time I walked past this house all seven cats were still there, along with six newborn kittens. Unlike the once beautiful houses along the route, these cats weren’t abandoned. They would be allowed back inside before dark.

On another walk, this time coming home from my Spanish lesson, I saw a cat procession. At the head of the parade was a female cat, obviously in heat, screeching  and waving her hips at the male cat, who followed close behind her with a grin on his face.

Walking behind both of them was a woman with a handful of rocks. Every time the female cate let out a scream, and the male cat licked his lips in happy anticipation, the woman yelled curses at both cats and pelted them with her rocks.

I don’t think La Señora hit either one of them but it wasn’t from lack of trying. Her method was not good kitty birth control but it obviously released some pent up frustration on her part.

There was always something interesting going on behind my home, along the path to El Mirador.

I was sixty-two years old, restless and bored.  Rabbits were attacking my garden and a fox jumped the fence at night to eat the rabbits. My water bill was $400/month just to keep the grass green for the rabbits to eat. 

I had been teaching piano lessons for seven years. I was good at it, and yet, none of my students ever prepared for their lessons. None of them!

I scheduled four recitals a year. At Halloween we preformed in costumes. At Christmas we came in our very best clothes. And still no one practiced. My fantasy was that one day I would be ninety years old, still sitting on that damn piano bench, saying, “Let’s try that section one more time, Honey.”

There was a fierce thunderstorm one afternoon while I was teaching. I sat at the piano, trying to be patient as yet another student stumbled from note to note. My mind wandered and I looked out the window to watch the storm. 

Suddenly CRASH!! Lightning hit a huge tree in my yard, slicing it right down the middle, taking out my neighbor’s fence and blowing bark halfway across the street. My lights went out and piano lessons were over for the day. I took it as a sign.

The next day I was having lunch with a friend.

“What’s new,” I asked.

“You won’t believe what I’m doing? I’ve probably lost my mind.”

“Tell me.”

“My husband and I are buying an old house in Mazatlán. We’re moving to Mexico at the end of the year.”

I wished her well, went home, and called her that same night.

“‘I’m going with you,” I announced.

“Where?”

“To Mexico.”

And just like that, I made up my mind. I had never been to Mexico. I didn’t know how to speak Spanish. I couldn’t find Mazatlán on a map. But I was ready for something new.

We flew to Mazatlán together two months later. My friend was closing the deal on her house and I was along for the trip. We stepped off the plane, greeted by hot, humid September weather. 

It was five days of pure magic. The food was delicious. The Mexican people, gracious and kind. We rode through the city in open-air pulmonias ~ golf-cart/taxis with music blaring in the streets. The ocean was exciting and beautiful. And the sunsets over the water every night? Simply breathtaking. I was hooked.

I asked a realtor to show me some property. We looked at a few small homes in the downtown section of the city. They were nice. They would have been ok.  “But do you have anything else?” I wanted to know..

“I have one more place. A large, single-story home that’s been empty for a while.”

 “It needs a lot of work,” he warned as he put his key in the lock.

The home was two blocks from the ocean. Built hacienda style, with rooms on three sides of the courtyard, the house took up half a block. The entire home was surrounded by a concrete wall that desperately needed paint and patching. A battered, wooden front door opened onto the street.

When the door creaked open, I gasped. I didn’t see a house that needed a lot of work. I saw two big mango trees on the side of a huge courtyard. And room for a fountain with water splashing and birds singing right in the middle of the patio. There were five bedrooms and six bathrooms and a kitchen that spanned the entire backside of the house. A banana tree on the back patio provided shade and fresh bananas. I was completely enchanted.

My home in Aurora ~ the one that the rabbits and fox fought over, with a tree split down the middle by lightning ~ was valued at $210K. This new home, close enough to the ocean to walk to sunset every night, was $130K. It was an easy decision.

My new life had begun.

Christina invited me to come to her son’s graduation from primaria (elementary school). Eduardo is the last of Christina and Antonio’s five sons. All their boys graduated from primaria and Eduardo did it in record time. He was only twelve years old and had not failed a single grade.

Christina had every reason to be proud. I saw some of Eduardo’s writing and art work and it was, indeed, exceptional. He was always a sweet boy, eager to help and especially protective of his mother. 

Eduardo would begin secondaria (middle school) in the fall. Christina hoped that Eduardo would be like his brother, Jesús, and eventually finish secondaria and go on to even higher education. I was honored to be invited to the graduation ceremony.

Eduardo’s graduating class was small ~ about ten boys and ten girls. When I told Christina that some of the students looked especially handsome, she let me know, “Some of them are fifteen years old!”

It is customary, as part of the graduation ceremony, for the class to perform a very formal, tightly choreographed dance that looked like a French Minuet. I asked Christina about the significance of the dance. She explained that it was a demonstration of restraint and respect for the opposite sex. It might have been introduced by the Jesuits a long time ago. 

Eduardo’s class worked all year on the dance presentation for their parents and guests. From the looks on their faces, I think they would have preferred something more modern. 

Each class chooses a class color for their graduation ceremony. Eduardo’s class chose lavender. Even though the school is located in a very poor neighborhood, all the boys were dressed in new shoes, new suits and handsome lavender shirts. The girls wore matching lavender dresses that laced up the back, showing off their lovely brown skin and gorgeous black hair.

Christina invited me and another friend to come to lunch at her house before the graduation ceremony. It was the first time I had been to her house. It was an experience I will never forget.

We ate carne asada (grilled meat), flautas, beans and fresh corn tortillas. Eduardo had a special cake, bought from a local bakery, with his name on it. Christina was an excellent cook and the meal was delicious.

On Eduardo’s graduation day, I realized that seven people lived in Christina’s tiny, two room house on top of a very high hill. When I entered the house, I saw that the house had electricity and a gas stove but no indoor plumbing. There was no warm water. There was a makeshift shower outside, near the outhouse. The only water came from a hose attached to an outdoor faucet. 

There was a single bed in the kitchen. The bedroom had a double bed for Christina and Antonio, plus another double bed and a single bed for the boys. A small TV sat on top of the only dresser. There was a window with a view of the ocean below, but no room to move in that small bedroom.

Outside, a hammock attached to two trees was also for sleeping. I could imagine people vying for a chance to sleep outside in the fresh air. A rooster, a hen and six baby chicks pecked the dirt yard, looking for insects. An old dog slept in the sun. 

It made me sad to think of Christina walking up that high hill every night after she had finished cleaning my big house , with its huge courtyard, five bedrooms, and six bathrooms, and then making dinner for her husband and five sons.

Mother’s Day in Mexico is May 10th, which is not always a Sunday. It is an extremely important day. No man or boy would ever neglect his mother on Mother’s day. The consequences could be dire.

My first Mazatlán Mother’s Day, my housekeeper and friend, Christina, invited me to go to a party at her son’s school. Eduardo was in middle school and his school was hosting a party for all the mothers after school on Thursday, May 10th. Of course, I said yes.

On the way to the party, Christina and I were walking to El Mercado, the big market, to catch the bus, when I ran into my favorite street beggar. I really liked this woman and there were maybe four other people in the city who shared my feelings.  Her name was Güera because her skin was so light. She was about eighty years old and tough as nails. The woman was indestructible.

Güera begged you to put money in her tin can by shaking it in your face as she glared at you. If you didn’t give her money, she scowled and said (in perfect English) “That’s ok. I don’t like you either.”

Güera could have worked on her delivery a bit, but I guess I admired her determination. I always gave her something ~ five pesos (about 50 cents back then) if I had it. Most people thought that was a lot of money. I thought it was nothing.

That day, the day of the Mother’s Day party, Christina gave Güera two pesos and as I was searching through my purse, the old witch shook that damn can in my face. I said, “Un momento, Chica!” (One moment, girlfriend.) Gûera looked up, saw it was me and smiled a wonderful, toothless grin. Then my favorite beggar grabbed my hand, shook it and wished me a Happy Mother’s Day..

Christina and I continued on to the party. It was a wild, free-for-all. Two hundred pretty mothers in full makeup, dressed in their very best clothes. We danced and ate free food. We drank gallons of Coca-Cola. I noticed there were no husbands or children around except for the student entertainers. The final event was a massive drawing, where women could win big prizes ~ blenders, toasters, pounds of fresh coffee, necklaces and beautiful combs for their hair. Every woman won something.

I wondered why there were no men and children. “Where are they?” I asked Christina.  She looked at me as if all my marbles had just fallen on the floor. “They’re home, of course. This party is just for mothers.”

Later, I told Ernesto about my experience with Güera. He said that she has been a beggar by the market for as long as he could remember. Rumor is that she is actually a very wealthy woman, who provided an education for all of her children with the money she earned begging in front of the market.

Now all of her children are grown but Gûera continues to shake her tin can and beg for money. One of her sons is a taxi driver in the city. Every day a different taxi driver gives Güera a free ride home at 3:00 p.m. ~ just because she is old, and tough, and somebody’s mother.

I met Mari ten years ago, on a hot, muggy, November day in Bucerias, Mexico. Neto and I were alone, sitting on a blanket, watching the waves, waiting for the sunset. Far off in the distance, we saw a woman trudging through the sand. She was the only seller still walking along the beach that late afternoon. A tiny woman with a long black braid, she wore a heavy woolen skirt and a bright silk blouse, Her shoulders were weighed down with heavy woven purses for sale. 

I like talking to the beach sellers and so does Neto. He was a seller, himself, when he was ten, selling peanuts to tourists along the beach. He began learning English as he repeated over and over, “Peanuts! Warm peanuts! I have peanuts for you!”

Mari struggled as she walked toward us. We smiled and invited her to show us what she had to sell. Her work was so lovely, it is hard for me to describe. Hand-woven purses of all kinds, with intricate embroidery on every one. My favorites were the travel bags embroidered with a globe surrounded by children, their arms outstretched as if they were holding hands. I bought three of them in different colors, to give as Christmas gifts. I wanted more but that was all the money I had with me. I made an appointment to meet Mari later, in the town square, to buy more.

That was the beginning of our friendship, Mari is among the indigenous Maya people, whose first language is Tzotzil. Her Spanish was not very good at the time and mine was terrible but Neto was, as always, a great interpreter. 

I learned that Mari was twenty-one years old, the youngest of eleven children from Chamula, Chiapas. Her father died young, leaving her mother to raise eleven children alone. Mari came to Bucerias as a seller to help support her family. She volunteered to travel because, as she explained, “I am determined and feisty, like my mother.” 

The people of Chiapas are used to working hard. Seventy-five percent of them live in poverty. The average family income is $300/year. (That is not a typo!) They seldom smile. The women wear their warm native clothing, no matter where they go.

When I showed Mari’s purses to my friends in Denver, they encouraged me to buy more and bring them back to the U.S. I found Mari again when I returned to Bucerias in January. This time I bought more bags, table runners and handmade whimsical animals. I told Mari I would be back in the fall.

When I returned, Mari’s Spanish was good and she was learning English. She spent the previous summer in Chamula, working in the corn fields. Mari told me that she was married over the summer and she was not happy about it. A young man, Vincente, from nearby San Cristóbel asked Mari’s mother if he could marry Mari. Mamí said yes, ignoring the fact that Mari didn’t want to be married. “I am an independent woman,” she confided. “And I don’t even know this person.”

I liked Vincente right away. He is a kind, gentle man who is very much in love with Mari. He travels with her every year as her helpmate. He carries her heavy load of merchandise and does his best to help sell along the beach.

Years have gone by since I first met Mari. Sometimes Neto and I travel to places other than Bucerias and I lose track of her. But, lucky for me, whenever we’re back in the Bay of Banderas she pops up in my life again. 

Last year, Neto was riding a bus to Punta Burro when Mari boarded the bus with a big bag of handmade animals to sell. She was headed for Punta Mita, a town known for movie stars on vacation. 

Neto grabbed her wrist as she walked past. He commanded her to sit in the empty seat next to him. Poor Mari was terrified until she realized it was Ernesto. She broke into a happy grin and asked about me. When Neto said I was in Bucerias and would love to see her, Mari reached into her bag and pulled out a gift for me ~ a lovely, charming, embroidered cloth peacock.

I look forward to my next encounter with Mari when I return to Bucerias again. I hope that Mari will still be there. She will always be my friend.

Often, as I am riding a bus through town, a musician comes on carrying a guitar. I find this to be true, no matter what part of Mexico I am in. I have seen bus musicians in Mazatlán, Bucerias, Sayulita, and Puerto Vallarta.

Usually the musician goes to the back of the bus and soon he starts to make music. Sometimes the music is simply wonderful but this is not always the case. After three or four songs, singing and playing his guitar, he walks up and down the aisle with his hand cupped by his side. The conductors tolerate, if not welcome, his behavior.

Most of the people on the bus give the musician a few pesos for the pleasure of having live music on the bus. They know this is how this man earns enough money to get through the day. I always give the musicians something. I know how hard it is to make music in front of people and I’ve never had to do it on a moving stage.  I make sure I look the musician in the eye and thank him for the songs as I give him what I have.

I clearly remember one old man who got on the bus with a tin can and a single drumstick. I was in Mazatlán, on my way to Walmart to buy a week’s worth of groceries. I didn’t realize the man was a musician at first. He just looked haggard and dirty to me. His long black hair hadn’t been washed in a long time. Neither had his clothes, his hands or his face, for that matter. It was impossible to tell how old he was, just that he seemed to have lived a long time.

Soon the man started to bang on the tin can with his drum stick, keeping time as he sang. I would like to write that the man had a great voice but he didn’t even have a good voice. He stared at the floor as he mumbled the words to his songs. When the musician finished, the passengers dug into their pockets for pesos, as usual. I gave him five pesos and a smile. 

And the musician came alive! His eyes twinkled. He gave me a huge smile in return, showing the dimple in his cheek. He stood up straighter and kept his eyes on me. He was flirting with me.

As hungry and dirty and down-on-his-luck as he was, this man still had the energy to flirt with a  gringa with grey hair, as she sat on a bumpy bus, mopping the sweat that was running off her face and soaking her t-shirt. Ah, Mexico!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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