Tag: Mazatlan Mx

Posted on

Lobo

The years I spent in Mazatlan, running a home for snowbirds, are some of my fondest memories. The people I met were fun and funny,  thoughtful and kind. Some of them became my friends for life. With one exception. Because I can’t use his real name, I’ll call him Lobo.

The last summer I lived in Mazatlan, I was ready to sell my place and return to the U.S. I needed someone to house-sit while I was away. Someone who would sweep the courtyard every day and make sure the kitchen was clean. Two of my guests recommended Lobo. They met him at church and were impressed by his demeanor and intelligence. According to them, Lobo was an attorney with two daughters living in the U.S. He was a tennis player and a Spanish-speaker. He was about my same age. I thought Lobo was the person I was looking for.

I met with Lobo and explained his responsibilities. I had him sign a rental agreement that stated that he could use the guest quarters, but that the owner’s side of the home would be locked. I would not charge him rent as long as he lived up to our agreement.

Lobo had free rein in the kitchen, but my telephone was off-limits. Lobo pushed me to let him use my office but I held firm. I told him that a friend would be checking my home on a regular basis, to see if everything was ok.

I was back in Colorado for only a few weeks when i started receiving emails. Everything was not ok! Lobo was not sweeping the courtyard, which was now full of mango leaves. Lobo was seen urinating on the front door when he came home drunk at night. The neighbor complained that Lobo often walked around the courtyard totally naked, in full view of the neighbor’s young grandchildren. Lobo needed to go.

I called Neto and asked him to meet me at the airport to help me evict Lobo. When we arrived , Lobo was not yet home. We found a set of lock picks on the kitchen counter. The door to my office was wide open. We swept the courtyard, which was ankle deep in dead mango leaves, and cleaned the kitchen while we waited for Lobo to come home. He was surprised and not happy to see us.

When I told Lobo we were there to evict him, he went crazy. He bellowed like a bull. He pounded his fist on the kitchen counter and started spewing lawyer talk. He said he wasn’t leaving and we couldn’t make him. He grabbed the telephone off my desk and started running down the courtyard toward his room. Neto ran right behind him. When I told Lobo to stop, he threw the telephone at me, hitting my upper arm with full force.

Neto was a super-hero. He’s the most athletic man I know. His nickname is “Chanfles” because of the powerful left kick that was his trademark when he played soccer as a kid. Neto’s famous left kick landed square on Lobo’s testicles. Lobo fell to his knees and whimpered like a baby. We told Lobo to start packing. We were going to find a lawyer.

We returned with a lawyer and Lobo was still screaming. He hadn’t packed anything. We called the police, who arrived and said we needed to go before a judge. The police put Lobo in their car. Neto and I went in the lawyer’s car and we were off to see the judge.

Lobo sat quietly in the corner of the courtroom. The judge immediately pointed at Neto and said, “What has this guy done?” The lawyer said nothing. Neto explained that he was not the criminal. He was the owner. The criminal was the old man sitting quietly in the corner. We needed the judge to sign an order to evict him. Lobo responded that Neto had kicked him in the balls and he wanted to press charges. He offered to show his bruised balls to the judge, who declined to take a look.

The judge ruled in our favor and everybody trooped back to our house: Me and Neto, the lawyer, the policemen and Lobo. The police told Lobo to start packing. For forty-five minutes nothing happened.. The lawyer said he couldn’t do anything. Finally one of the younger policemen told Lobo he had five more minutes to get in the car. They would drop him off at a hotel up the street.

The young policeman then turned to us and asked if the room was now available to rent. He would like to live there. He would love to be our house-sitter. 

Lobo climbed into the back of the police car, looked at me and said, “Nos vemos.” (See you later.)

I replied, “Vete al Diablo.” (Go to Hell)

The lawyer approached us and said we owed him $1000.00. U.S.

I replied, “Besame el culo.” (Kiss my ass.) I was barely a Spanish-speaker but it’s always a good idea to learn the bad words first.

I still google Lobo’s name from time to time. He’s now living in a fancy retirement community in Florida, where he regularly terrorizes the residents with his obnoxious behavior. He recently spent six weeks in jail for impersonating a lawyer. I was lucky to get rid of him with only a bruise on my arm. 

Posted on

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!”

Posted on

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.

Posted on

Zelmira Moves to California and Sees the Pope

Traveling back and forth, from Mazatlán to California, Zelmira got an itch to move to the U.S. full-time. She still wanted to collect clothing to sell in Mazatlán, but she decided that her main home would be California. At least for a while. 

In 1981, Zelmira left her husband, Jesús, in charge of their two youngest sons with strict orders that they needed to finish high school. Zelmira’s daughter Alma, age twenty, was already married and having babies. Zelmira didn’t want Norma to get in the same trouble at age eighteen, so she got her a visa and dragged her along.

Zelmira moved to Los Angeles, a city she already knew. There was a well-worn trail from Mazatlán to California, established long ago by her brothers and other braceros looking for work. Her brothers, Gero, Chendo, and Ramon all worked as braceros, picking grapes in California in the 1950’s.

Three of Gero’s children, Delia, Mercedes and Jesús, moved to Calfornia in the 1970’s. and Zelmira often stayed with them when she went on her clothes-buying missions. She knew almost enough English to get by. 

Zelmira quickly adapted to life in California. She liked working and sending money home to her family. She and Norma lived with her niece, Delia, in Inglewood near the L.A. airport. Norma went to work right away, working in the same airplane parts factory that Delia did, and later working in a ceramics factory.

According to Neto, “California felt like Mazatlán to Mamí and the other immigrants. People spoke Spanish on streets lined with palm trees. Smells of chiles, cooking in oil, and meat roasted on backyard grills, greeted people as they came home from work. Her neighbors stopped at local tortillarias or frutarias before walking up their sidewalks and opening their doors.”

Zelmira quickly found work, as a full-time maid and nanny in a big home in Echo Park, where she had her own live-in apartment. She moved to Echo Park and left Norma in Inglewood under Delia’s supervision.

Zelmira continued to come back to Mazatlan three or four times a year to sell clothes and check on Jesús and the two boys left at home.  Somehow she managed to get visas for the two youngest sons but not for Ernesto.

“I was always the black sheep. I think that’s why I was left behind,” Neto told me. By this time he, too, had discovered California and was able to jump the border easily, even without legal papers.

In 1984, Zelmira called Ernesto to tell him she was going to Italy to see the Pope. Padre Alvarez, pastor of  the Catholic church in Inglewood, sponsored the trip and Zelmira was the first person to sign on. She was fifty-seven years. She came back with stories of everything she had seen and done. For a working woman from tiny Hacienda del Tamarindo to go to Rome and see the Pope was a huge adventure.

“Neto, that airplane was more than a block long,” she reported. She slowly shook her head, as if she couldn’t believe it herself. “We walked all day. Some people got tired but not me. I could have walked all day and still walked home at night.”

Two years later, Zelmira signed on for another trip to Europe with Padre Alvarez. This time to visit the shrine of Our Lady of Fatima, in Portugal. She also traveled to Mexico City, to the Basilica of  Our Lady of Guadalupe, when Pope John Paul II appeared there in 1999.

When the Pope visited Los Angeles in 1987, Zelmira was there in Dodger’s Stadium, cheering along with 6000 people as the Pope rounded the bases in his Popemobile.  Zelmira was ecstatic as she told Neto, “You should have come, M’hijo. He spoke in Spanish and English. He told the priests and the bishops they should work to help illegal immigrants become citizens.” 

A picture of Pope John Paul II hangs in Zelmira’s house to this day, along with pictures of John F. Kennedy and Our Lady of Guadalupe. The Pope is a reminder of all she has done in her lifetime. She considers him one of her good friends.

Posted on

Mangoes, Mangoes Everywhere!

Two huge mango trees in my Mazalán courtyard. A source of welcome shade throughout the year and wonderful fragrant blossoms beginning in January. By spring the trees were heavy with delicious sweet mangoes. Thousands and thousands of mangoes! More mangoes than one person could eat or even dispose of without a plan.

But Neto had a plan. He hung a sign on the door that said, “Free Mangoes!” and invited anyone walking down the street to ring the doorbell, come inside and help themselves. I didn’t realize that Lola and Julio, my next door neighbors, wouldn’t like what I was doing.

First Lola pleaded with me to ban the neighborhood children from coming into the courtyard. She wanted me to put mangoes in bags and hand them out the door, as if it were Halloween. 

That way, she reasoned, no one would know what my courtyard looked like. Her exact words were, “You don’t know what you are doing. These kids are bad. They are surfers!”

Lola told me that even the police were angry with me for opening my courtyard to children coming from the beach. When I told her that I would be careful but I intended to continue to give away free mangoes, I thought she would explode.

Later that day, Neto and Publio were up on the rooftop picking mangoes when Julio came to the open window that overlooked my house. He started screaming at them. 

“You are looking in my window! Stop looking and me! Stop looking at me”

Julio picked up a fallen mango and pitched it right at Publio’s head so hard it could have killed him. Luckily, Julio, drunk as usual, missed. Publio, who is generally very passive, said that if he’d gotten hit he would have just started pitching mangoes right back at the old fool. And by that time, Publio had an arsenal of more than sixty mangoes at his disposal.

I wish I had used that opportunity to tell those two busybodies to close up their windows and they wouldn’t have to worry about people looking in or climbing through the windows to rob them. Of course, then they couldn’t watch what I was doing, either.

Soon whole families were at my door, holding plastic bags. Word spread throughout the neighborhood about our ripe, juicy, free mangoes. We brought the families inside and turned on the music. There was dancing and laughter in the courtyard. There was a party goin’ on! 

One Saturday, after a week-long Mango Fiesta, my doorbell rang about 2:00 in the afternoon. I opened the door to find two uniformed policemen standing there. I remembered what Lola said and figured they were there to arrest me or, at least, warn me about the dangers of opening my door to children. 

Before I could say anything, one of the policemen pulled a plastic bag out of his pocket and asked, “Are you still giving away free mangoes?”

“Por supuesto! Of course!” I said. “Here, use this ladder to get on the roof and pick all the mangoes you’d like.”

“And,” I added with a smile, “Come back any time.”

Posted on

Primavera

¡Primavera! The first day of spring. Of course the holiday is celebrated with a parade. Everything in Mazatlán is celebrated with a parade. And because my home was on a busy main street, every parade went right past my front door.

Some of the parades, I must admit, began to have a sameness about them. Gorgeous girls with long dark hair and beautiful black eyes wearing tight sequined dresses and sparkling tiaras. Military bands and dancing horses. Music booming from speakers the size of my kitchen stove.

But the Primavera parade is something special. Held on the first day of spring, it is a day for preschoolers and kindergartners to dress like flowers, butterflies and baby animals. Mothers walk alongside their children or push them in fancy strollers along the parade route. Teachers walk with their entire classroom of preschool children, all of them holding hands. Often, to my horror, tiny boys and girls were perched on the hoods and even the roofs of cars and trucks decorated with balloons in every possible spring color combination.

The parade would never be allowed in the United States. It is certainly too dangerous to allow babies to ride on top of moving vehicles. And yet, the smiles on the faces of the children and their proud parents made this my favorite parade of the year.

Posted on

Adios, México!

The countdown has begun. From the number of weeks, to the number of days, and soon to the number of hours before I leave México for my home in Aurora, CO.

Ernesto and I have a ritual in the final days before saying goodbye. We list our best memories of our time together. We had a lot of fun in the past eight weeks. Here are my five best moments, in order.

1. Drinking coffee and chai on the balcony every morning with the sun on my face. 

I was cold for two months before coming to Mazatlán. So cold, I thought I would never get warm. And then I landed in México. Every morning, as I sat on the patio of our beautiful apartment wearing only shorts and a tee-shirt, I was grateful to be where the sun is warm, the sky is blue, and birds sit on the telephone wires, singing Buenos Dias to anyone lucky enough to live here even for a short time.

2. Discovering a new favorite restaurant.

We had a few disappointing meals in highly-rated restaurants before we stumbled upon La Parilla Express, a lovely restaurant in a remodeled old home on a side street near our apartment. We got lost the first time we tried to find it. We walked about a mile out of our way in the dark, stopping to ask for directions from people who had no idea where it was but were happy to give us directions anyway. I’m glad we didn’t give up. The meal was so extraordinary, we went back for Valentine’s Day and returned again this week to say goodbye. 

3. Laughing every time I discovered a new monigote on display for Carnival.

Neto and I skipped most of the Carnival events this year. A combination of poor planning and lack of interest on our parts. But I never got tired of looking at the monigotes, the twenty-five foot tall statues along the main street in front of the ocean. This year there are 16 statues representing the Spanish speaking countries of Central and South America.They are a quirky reminder of the fun-loving spirit of the Mexican people.

4. Seeing a couple get engaged on the beach.

People get engaged all the time on Mexican beaches but this ceremony was truly over the top. We happened to be eating dinner in a nearby restaurant when we noticed huge letters, spelling out “Marry Me”  lighting up the sky in front of us. As the Mexican couple, dressed all in white, approached the beach, someone presented the young woman with a bouquet of five dozen long-stemmed red roses. Under spotlights, in full view of family and friends, the young man got down on one knee and asked his girlfriend to marry him. Of course, she said yes. Then a long kiss as they were surrounded by ten Mariachis in formal dress, playing quiet songs for dancing. AND THEN FIREWORKS!. A full ten minutes of fireworks on the beach.

Neither of these two young lovers were glamorous, or even gorgeous in the way I’ve come to expect Mexican faces to be. No, they were in their mid-thirties, a little plain, a little pudgy, but obviously in love. 

5. Meeting our dear friends, Eunice and Gordon, for dinner.

Eunice and Gordon, from Saskatchewan, stayed with me many times when I lived in Mazatlán. Often they were the only thing that kept me sane. Eunice loves Mexico more than anyone I know. She missed being here last year because she was sick. Terribly sick. So sick, I was afraid I would never see her again.

Seeing Eunice and Gordon walk toward me, as I sat waiting in the Papas Locas restaurant, brought tears to my eyes. It was the highlight of this trip for me. Adios, my dear friends. Vaya con Dios! Until we meet again.

¡Viva México!

Posted on

Carnival 2020

There is a saying in Mazatlán, “Time is measured by Carnival.“ In this city of endless fiestas, Carnival is the biggest party of the year. This year’s theme is Somos América: Pasión, Alegria y Esperanza. We are America ~ Passion, Joy and Hope. The mangotes, giant statues representing the theme, are always impressive. This year they are spectacular.

Carnival starts next Thursday and ends on Tuesday, February 25. The following day, Ash Wednesday, marks the beginning of Lent. One of the largest Mardi Gras celebrations in the world, the Mazatlán Carnival, is everyone’s party.

My first Carnival was in 2006, not quite a year after I moved to Mazatlán. The main entrance to the party was half a block from my front door. A lot of Americans and Canadians chose to leave town. I stayed and loved it.

Music from multiple stages ~ a lot trumpets, drums, accordions and tubas ~ blasted non-stop along the beach for six straight days and nights. The parade, a spectacle of lights and girls in skimpy costumes, rode right past my house. Beautiful dancing horses, kings and queens, clowns and floats! I’d never seen anything like it. I couldn’t take pictures fast enough.

Neto warned me not to go alone along Olas Altas beach, the area most known for non-stop music, unruly drunken behavior, and extravagant fireworks. He tried to convince me, “There are lots of activities for tourists and families along the side streets ~ food and souvenir vendors ~ that you will like.”  But I wanted to go inside.

“Then let me take you to the fireworks on Saturday night. My daughter wants to go. We’ll stop by and get you. Don’t bring a purse.”

Neto showed up at my house at 7:30 with his ten-year-old daughter, Vannya, and her mother, Loca. I was surprise to see Loca. I was even more surprised to see her wearing a surgical mask over her face.  “To protect her from germs,” Neto explained. “It’s her birthday and I had to bring her. It’s the only way she’d let me bring Vannya.”

We found a restaurant with an empty table and three chairs in front of the ocean, something that still amazes me today. People usually reserve spaces months in advance. We grabbed the chairs, ordered french fries and drinks, and waited for the fireworks to begin. With a blast of color and gunpowder, fireworks lit up the sky just as Vannya put her head on the table, closed her eyes, and fell asleep. 

The Combate Naval, the most poplar of all Carnival events, is an over-the-top fireworks display that recalls a naval battle of 1864, when the French Navy attempted to seize the Mazatlán harbor and were met by cannon fire. More than 500,000 people come to watch the re-enactment every year.

Fireworks continued for nearly an hour. Beer and tequila flowed freely. The crowd became more boisterous with every blast. Vannya never woke up. When it was time to leave, the crowded surged toward the entrance. We were swept along in a mad rush of bodies. Neto picked up Vannya, put her over his shoulder and told Loca and me to follow him through the crowd. Loca grabbed him by his belt and I was left behind in a crush of bodies, almost all of them taller than me. 

I grabbed the shirt of a burly Mexican man in front of me. He turned around to see who was hugging his back, “Don’t worry,” he said. “Just hang on. I’ll get you out of here.” I peeled myself away from the crowd as we approached my front door. Neto was waiting for me there, Vannya still asleep on his shoulder. “Thank goodness you are ok,” he said. “I almost lost you.”

I went inside and continued to listen to beautiful mariachi music from a party next door. Neto hailed a pulmonia (golf carts that operate as taxis throughout the city) and took Vannya and Loca home before he returned to meet his friends at the beach.

Posted on

Publio Donates Blood

It’s been a quiet week in Mazatlán. So while we wait for the next holiday which is, predictably, right around the corner, I’m going to tell you a story about one of Ernesto’s friends

Publio is Neto’s friend and his best surfing buddy. Fifteen years younger than Neto, Publio is from a very musical family and plays a variety of instruments. He is currently a drummer in a band with his older brother, a flute player, when he isn’t at his job delivering furniture.

Publio’s mother, a hard-working woman from Mexico, recently retired as a gardener at the Holiday Inn. His father, from Ecuador, used to work for Cirque de Soleil in Las Vegas. He was the strong man at the bottom of  the human pyramid until he fell and broke his back, never able to work again.

Publio grew up in Mazatlán and did well in school. Due to generous support from his father, he graduated from high school and followed his brother to Mexico City to attend the university. Publio and Neto returned to Mazatlán about the same year. Neto was evicted from the U.S. by a Tucson judge who believed it was time for Neto to go back to surfing. Publio dropped out of college, left Mexico City to join a Reggae band, and eventually found his way back in Mazatlán. They met one day at the corner grocery store. Neto loved the music of Bob Marley and was fascinated by this young guy from the neighborhood with long deadlocks, a quick smile and a quiet voice.

Publio’s mother never forgave Neto for encouraging Publio’s interest in surfing and, in her mind, leading him astray. Alicia wouldn’t allow Neto into her house, so Publio spent a lot of time at our place. He was Neto’s right-hand man whenever a job needed a right-hand man. Lots of time he stayed for lunch. I’ve always liked Publio. He’s a quiet, gentle giant ~ a nice contrast to Neto’s sometimes exhausting exuberance and impulsivity. 

One day Publio came to our house to let us know that he needed to donate blood for his diabetic uncle, a local Mariachi musician. Why a seemingly healthy man with diabetes needed fresh blood was one of a long list of Mexican customs I never understood and learned not to question. Before he could donate blood, however, Publio had to have his blood tested to make sure it was “strong enough.” At the time, Publio was only thirty years old, practically a virgin, and one of the strongest men in Mexico. His blood, however, was found to be too weak to donate.

Not to be deterred, Publio drank a concoction that the blood center mixed up. Since Neto was with him and thought that maybe his blood needed a pick-me-up, he asked if he could have one, too. It took them about thirty minutes to swallow their highballs of celery, garlic, tomatoes, vinegar, olive oil and liver powder. Publio gagged every time he took another sip. Neto just asked for a little Tabasco to make it taste better.

The next day Publio donated blood but then felt too shaky to come to work. Neto felt fine but he didn’t come to work either, out of sympathy for his friend who didn’t feel well.

Posted on

Q and A: Week 3

This week I’m going to answer some of the questions I’ve received since I first posted from Mexico two weeks ago.

Q: What is your favorite part of being in Mexico?

A: Do you really want to know? The beautiful weather! We sit on the patio in the morning, drinking something hot (coffee for him. chai for me) and eating sweet bread. At 7:00 in the morning, I’m in my t-shirt and shorts. Can you imagine? At night, we go for a walk to the OXXO (think 7-11) for fresh tortillas or pastry for the next day. I’m going to miss this when it’s time to come back to Colorado.

Q: Is there anything that is frustrating or difficult?

A: Yes! This is not the all-inclusive life that most Americans experience. The nitty-gritty of daily life in Mexico is eye-opening and can be tremendously frustrating. For example, Neto spent an entire day getting car insurance because the computers were down at the insurance agency and didn’t resume operation for hours.

It took Neto most of last week to get his driver’s license renewed because he didn’t want to  bribe someone to speed up the process.. It is all part of being poor and dealing with a government bureaucracy that can be both cruel and stupid, in equal measures. 

Every day Neto returned to the DMV and was told he needed to produce more proof of his address ~ the house he’s lived in for more than 50 years. Having the address listed on his nearly acquired car insurance wasn’t enough. Finally, after four days of standing in line and meeting with different unhelpful clerks, he returned to the office with his old driver’s license and social security card, his brother’s birth certificate and driver’s license, and a copy of the electrical bill. Success! The photographer took his picture and he went on his way.

Q: How is the car?

A: The car needs work but is running well. We have questions about the previous owners, however. From the car’s documents, we know it was stolen in Mazatlán and recovered in Cabo San Lucas. The car used to be bright red before it was painted its current iridescent green. It has six gears plus reverse. The automatic windows are tinted dark black but they no longer work. It’s a car made for fast get-aways and who knows what else. We’re lucky to have found a mechanic who can get the windows working again.

Q: What happened to the cow?

A: As far as we know Prieta is alive and well. Neto’s uncle, Ramon Rodriguez, is the unofficial veterinarian of Hacienda del Tamarindo. He runs an animal rescue out of his tiny home and saves injured animals he finds in the forest. When he heard that Neto hit the neighbor’s cow, he went to the farmer’s house and offered to help. Tio Ramon fashioned a cast out of plaster so the cow could continue to wander and eat grass by the side of the road. When it was time for the cast to come off, Ramon made a brace to using sticks and a piece of leather to support the cow’s leg until it was completely healed.  Ramon is a living legend. A true animal whisperer.