CXXVI. La Posada Acaba de Pasar

The Posada Just Past

I have a story to tell about our block’s Posada that we honored last weekend.  Posada literally means ‘inn’ in Spanish; it also refers to the Mexican custom of neighborhoods re-enacting the Biblical scene of Joseph and Mary looking for a place to rest for the night that would become Christmas Eve.

For our block's evening gathering, a scripted call-and-response is chanted between two groups, one representing the couple on their quest for lodging, and the other the innkeepers, inside their cosy posada. The customary words represent the usual plea of supplicants for consideration and mercy, and the dismissive scorn of the Haves.

Finally, though, the hard heart is broken—the couple is welcomed inside—as, in real time, a small crowd of vecinos shuffles into their neighbor’s house amid relief from those witnesses who are shivering at the long row of tables at the side of our cobbled street.

Our next door neighbors but one—the Molinas—are the patrons of our block, and for the past year we have been associates with them in trying to buy the decaying warren of small casas that lies between our two properties. Even with the difficulties we are having with the purchase, our relationship has become increasingly warm and trustful. 

As patrónes, Juan and Sofia take it upon themselves to organize and host the feast that accompanies our block’s Posada. So, given our friendship, I wasn’t surprised on the cold and dreary morning of that event, last Saturday, to answer their knock and invite them in from a spiteful rain. They wanted to ask my ideas about how to handle the usual street-side array of tables, chairs, cooking and serving stations, given the continuing rain that was forecast. 

Seeking my advice was their way, I think, of leading to me to conclude that renting one of those calle-spanning awnings usually set up for funeral vigils was the way to go, and then realizing I should offer to pay a share of the expense. After talking with the other simpatico, gringo home-owner on the block, and evidently gaining his support as well, Juan said he’d get it done; that, after all, is why he is el encargado, the one in charge.

The weather improved as late Saturday morning turned to afternoon—still chilly, though, when I wandered out to see how the set-up was getting along. Juan told me there was an awning available in the next town, but once put up, couldn’t be removed until Monday. It wouldn't be acceptable to block the street all day Sunday with the canopy and its supports, in addition to the de facto no-drive zone we’d be creating the night before.

So, Juan opted to buy a humongous tarp—called a lona in español—about 20 feet by 40, and surprisingly heavy. I helped him unroll this behemoth to expose the top fold, with its grommets, along the narrow sidewalk below the mirador of the villas across the street from his house. By this time a couple of young men from the barrio had joined us. We engaged each other in a strangely effective choreography: passing the twine (twine! not rope) back and forth to make it four-ply and then threading the strands through the grommets. I wielded the length-trimming scissors. Even the four year-old from next door who, with his wild hollers and screams, usually brings to mind the image of a gremlin—even he—was patiently coiling the unused cord with a diligent motion that could only have come from practice.

By this point, the rain had stopped but a nasty wind was beginning to blow. This creature comfort-loving gringo sidled across the street to our front door and let the Mexicanos have the scene. But not before Juan had asked me whether I preferred the tarp’s blue or black side to face the street. The blue, we all laughingly agreed, like el cielo, the sky.

Returning half an hour later I saw the ganglier of our two young men leaning over the mirador’s parapet, reaching for the ends of twine thrown up from Juan or his son, below. The lightweight cords were each ballasted with a small chunk of firewood from the nearby pile that was awaiting a match to become tonight’s bonfire. All seemed to be going well--throwing, catching, lifting the attached section of tarp, then tying the twine to the balustrades--until Juan’s son pointed out a wrinkle we hadn’t yet considered: the cords had been attached to one of the two longer of the rectangular tarp’s sides. Stretched this way, the more narrow side would not cover the street to where the tables had all been set up, and thus protect them from the forecast rain. 

As the crew, including several newcomers, digested this incontrovertible fact, I was starting to slide away again when Sofia asked for my help in stringing the lights to cover the food prep area. This was a much more straight forward task with a greater possibility of success and emotional reward than wrestling the tarp into place. I happily agreed with her request and we soon got the extension cords and lights in position and lit. 

I looked over to see what progress the hombres had made turning the tarp 90° and then retying the twine in the correct grommet holes. I was pleased to see that this was being done with alacrity, but had my doubts about the very next step in the project: namely, there was only one stout pole on the near side of the street where we could secure the tarp as it was stretched across. By anyone’s accounting we would need at least one other point of attachment to bring the cover taut. The only possibility I saw was a thin metal pole rising above the neighbor’s house, holding their electrical lines. Even now, the vast area of the tarp was bucking in the gusts; how long could that rusting pole hold on to the galloping tarp? And then, once released, what would be the consequences to those gathered beneath?

I retreated again from this dilemma and the growing chill to have a drink with my spouse in front of our fireplace. It was now growing dark; inside, the lights were flickering to the wind’s bluster. We’d been led to expect, with our perpetually gullible gringo belief in punctuality, that the meat would hit the griddle in only about half an hour. 

What drove me back outside was that expectation plus guilt over not meeting what I perceived to be my neighborly obligation to lend a hand, however awkward that effort might become for all of us. What I saw was kind of heartbreaking: Juan, Sofia and their son were the only ones outside, if you discount the Arctic gale rushing down from the mountains to replace the warmer air rising above the lake. This bitter wind was whipsawing the tarp between its opposing and fragile ties. We were mesmerized by the inevitability soon manifested as one end came loose and began violently lashing the street. We looked at each other and by common assent rushed to completely unmoor the lona before it did damage. 

As we struggled to hold on to that thrashing sheet we must at times have looked like those sailors photographed during the Americas Cup, stretched horizontal over angry waves while--by their counter-weight alone--they keep the billowing canvas above the keel. Several cars took this inopportune time to drive down our street. We stretched and danced on our toes over the cobbles, trying to keep our balance and give them enough room to pass underneath, taillights disappearing into a tunnel formed by the now dangerously undulating tarp. But the four of us worked well together, subdued that Mayflower-sized sail, and squared it away into a remarkably neat package. It was a bonding moment. 

Except for the cold wind, the rest of the evening—at least what I saw of it—went well. About forty of the neighbors and their guests came together for food and shivering camaraderie. I ferried carne asada and bruschetta in and out from our house, went to bed early, slept well and long. It had been a chilly night, but that rain never came. Retrieving my propane tank from the Molinas the next morning we laughed over the previous evening's efforts and I gladly accepted their thanks for the small but possibly unexpected part that I had played.

CXXV. La Virgen de Guadalupe

The Virgin of Guadalupe

This is the center of the Seis Esquinas neighborhood. The shrine under the
tree is here year-round. The Virgen de Guadalupe es la patrona aquí.

Today is the Virgin of Guadalupe’s feast day. Nearly five centuries ago on this date an Aztec man named Juan Diego returned home from a hill near Mexico City where he had encountered a brown-skinned Virgin Mary. As proof of her appearance she gave him a bouquet of fresh roses, miraculously growing in winter. He carried this gift in his cloak to the bishop. Opening the cloak, the bishop not only found flowers, but the image of the Virgin imprinted upon it. The original garment with that now-famous image is still in Mexico City’s Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe—the terminus of a vast yearly pilgrimage that ends today.

Calle Ocampo, half a block west of previous shot. The orange structure in
center represents the hill on which the Virgin appeared to Juan Diego. The
Virgin is a small figure just below the center of photo, at the top of the orange,
with a touch of red.

We awoke at 4:30 this morning to the sound of rockets exploding in the Virgin’s honor, summoning the faithful to mass. Fortunately the local church that celebrates this beloved figure is located a kilometer from our casa, so the noise was more muted than the fireworks shot off last month in recognition of San Andrés, our village’s patron saint. His church, and rocket launching site, is only three blocks due west from our bedroom ears.

The fireworks are called cohetes. They consist of a fat cigar-sized packet of gun powder lashed to a meter long stick for ballast. The rockets are set off by hand and leave a smoking trail as they shoot straight up to fifty meters before exploding. If you see the fiery burst at the cohete’s apogee, you are forewarned that a bang will soon follow. After nine days leading up to today's commemoration of the Virgin’s appearance, this is the last blessed day we’ll hear these explosions until New Years. ¡Ojalá!

A split second before el encendedor lets go of the rocket and it shoots 150 feet in the air and explodes.

CXXIV. Rumble Butt Está Muerto. Larga Vida a Hugo.

Rumble Butt is Dead. Long Live Hugo.

We're pretty clueless about the genders I've inconsistently assigned in this story.

Rumble Butt died a few days ago. I knew something was up from the way he’d been acting; “listless” is the best word to describe it. And once it looked like he was gagging—arching his back in a strange way and then seeming to do pushups with his front legs. I think Little Buddy knew something was up too; I saw LB copy this gagging motion himself, and then scurry over to the Butt and nip his flank, which seemed completely out of character for the little guy.

So, yesterday when I found the big guy’s dead and tailless body next to the wall we were emotionally prepared. Already that day we had thought several times he was dead—not moving for an extended period, and once even, on his back with his feet in the air—but each time when I tried to enshroud him he kicked and struggled. It didn’t take too long, though, for the ants to sense what we had been anticipating. They were crawling all over Mr Butt when I shooed them away and wrestled his non-responsive body into the skin moisturizer box we were using as a coffin. 

We were sad. Rumble Butt had been a fixture on our bedroom terrace; every day punctuated for us by his sightings and activities, or lacks thereof. We’d share our observations and often try to engage him in recognition of our interest. And he did seem to return the attention, sometimes sticking his nose to the french doors, and one memorable time even scratching the glass as we approached. My partner also, and always, matched his (or is RB a her??) clicking calls. 

We buried Rumble Butt near Renza under the little clay Zapotec lady, inside her ring of lava rocks. I made the hole deep enough so we can inter the next of RB’s ilk in the same place. Our patio is getting crowded with the burial plots of deceased geckos. Two others have wandered onto the terrace, all arriving solo during successive Mexican winters. Each lived there for about half a year, until one day we found each dead, just as we had found Mr Butt.

Never a demonstrative lad, since RB’s recent demise Little Buddy has been making himself more scarce than ever. That could be a consequence of Hugo’s arrival. Hugo=huge is a large fellow, about RB's size through his sturdy orange-striped trunk but with a six-inch tall that the latter lacked. Hugo showed up mere hours after Mr Butt cashed in his quickness. Perhaps he’d previously been honoring RB’s territory.

We’re not too worried about Little Buddy, who originally appeared on the terrace about half a year ago—a fledgling the size of a small green bean. He’s got a private hidey-hole that’s accessible only through the narrow crack between the top and bottom of the wavy palm’s pot. He often used to pose there, half in and half out. LB has always been shy, although he gradually began coming out in the sun when The Butt was around—the two of them studies in patient immobility until a quick lick vanished one of the terrace’s large quota of ants.

We’re glad that the terrace provides a safe and bountiful space for our lizard friends. We liken the view it provides into their lives as akin to the ant farms we each had as a child. At its best it enlarges our knowledge of—and place in—the natural world and opens our hearts to its creatures. Admittedly, at present, we are a little put off by Hugo’s size, but already we look for him every time we go past the terrace doors. And so far, at least, Hugo and Little Buddy seem to be cohabiting peacefully.

Hugo. Perhaps it's because (s)he doesn't have the bruised vulnerability of tailless R Butt, or maybe just because we've only been acquainted for a few days, but we haven't warmed much to Hugo...and L Buddy has become more elusive.