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.”