tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-91298056796938380972024-02-18T23:37:05.760-08:00Rinconcito de AmorMid-May, 2015, we moved to the center of a little town in Mexico, for a year or so, we thought. Now we've decided to stay. This is the journal of that move.The Last Quarterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160642079655042275noreply@blogger.comBlogger132125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9129805679693838097.post-23814720647719015552020-11-03T12:43:00.007-08:002020-11-18T10:45:10.462-08:00CXXXIII. Día de los Muertos, 2020<p><span style="background-color: #a64d79;"> <span style="font-size: medium;">Day of the Dead, 2020</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw-KQtL9p69e8Uz9odurhdGZRkeygXKt9jgsh8J6QpgshpotlyAgp9E0tlTvoHo5CZDe9gPCcfckJDGQ43LfOZ6hwbt2lKUWT2_OpLXzNE9SLRfqHRLMDYvI8bda2CnPyViqbfMOPbRFA/s2048/Juan%2527s+Oferta.jpg" style="background-color: #a64d79; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1459" data-original-width="2048" height="456" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw-KQtL9p69e8Uz9odurhdGZRkeygXKt9jgsh8J6QpgshpotlyAgp9E0tlTvoHo5CZDe9gPCcfckJDGQ43LfOZ6hwbt2lKUWT2_OpLXzNE9SLRfqHRLMDYvI8bda2CnPyViqbfMOPbRFA/w640-h456/Juan%2527s+Oferta.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><span style="background-color: #a64d79;"><br /></span><p class="p1" style="color: #151719; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: #a64d79;">Yesterday was Día de los Muertos. On this uniquely Mexican holiday, I was shopping for <i>frutas y verduras</i> for dinner when I ran into some friends in the plaza. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="color: #151719; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><span style="background-color: #a64d79;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #151719; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: #a64d79;">I had stopped to admire an <i>ofrenda to </i>a loved one who had passed away. The altar was set up in a place of honor in the gazebo at the center of the village plaza. While I was reading the inscription I heard someone calling for my attention with a familiar cracked-pitch, two-syllable, “Sir?” It was the village transsexual and occasional prostitute whose name I have forgotten, but will call Bella.</span></p><p class="p2" style="color: #151719; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><span style="background-color: #a64d79;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #151719; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: #a64d79;">“How you?” she asks. I show off a head bandage from a recent minor surgery, and Bella is attentive. I nod approval at her mask and compliment her new hair style. She explains something about cutting it short because her team lost.(?) l ask if she still cleans house in Chapala; yes, she says but not for today’s holiday.</span></p><p class="p2" style="color: #151719; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><span style="background-color: #a64d79;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #151719; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: #a64d79;">“Zhoo he'p me please?” Conversations with her most often—but not always—take this route. Her request is usually for something to eat, or bus money to visit a sister in Guadalajara, or sometimes just because she knows I care for her difficult plight, (She's chosen a hard path toward self-realization) and that I will be a soft touch.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="color: #151719; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><span style="background-color: #a64d79;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #151719; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: #a64d79;">She explains to me that to honor her dead relatives at this evening’s gravesite vigil, she would like some money to contribute to the family floral arrangement. I consider this and asks if she will also put some flowers at the grave of my friend <a href="https://littlecorneroflove.blogspot.com/2020/05/cxxx-mauricio-se-fue.html" target="_blank">Mauricio</a> who recently passed away; I had planned to visit but decided not to because I needed a night at home. She agrees and asks for directions to where he’s buried. I give her a generous amount for both offerings and the deal is sealed.</span></p><p class="p2" style="color: #151719; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><span style="background-color: #a64d79;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #151719; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: #a64d79;">After picking up some oranges and bananas for tomorrows smoothie, I walk back across the plaza and see Cici behind her family’s table of jewelry at the usual place, twisting wires for a brooch, looking a little low—not up to her usual fierce hug and bright smile. Or maybe she was shy for being unmasked. Her cousin was working next to her on the same shaded, old wrought-iron bench. <i>El estaba llevando su cubrebocas. Cubrebocas</i>—literally, “cover your mouth”—is what folks around here call the masks you wear for the virus.</span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #151719; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: #a64d79;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #151719; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: #a64d79;">I bring up the US election. We agreed the world would be better off if Trump was defeated. <i>¡Ojalá!</i></span></p><p class="p2" style="color: #151719; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><span style="background-color: #a64d79;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #151719; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: #a64d79;">I ask and Cici tells me they haven’t had <i>muchos clientes.</i> The governor “pushed the button” last week to shift Jalisco back to a more strict lockdown, demanding <i>vendedores</i> not set up for the usually lucrative weekend vacation trade. Cici mentioned that even the cemetery was closed for the usual nighttime vigils this evening. It was only after saying goodbye that I thought of the implications this last news had for my deal with Bella.</span></p><p class="p2" style="color: #151719; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><span style="background-color: #a64d79;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #151719; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: #a64d79;">My hope is that she did not know about the closure, or that she had plans to sneak inside the <i>panteón. </i>She knows that when I see her next, I’ll ask her what she did with the money and won’t give her any more until I’m satisfied she has honored both her parents and my friend.</span></p><p class="p2" style="color: #151719; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><span style="background-color: #a64d79;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #151719; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: #a64d79;">Finally, on my way home I stop for some tasty local bread at the corner grocery. Coming out the open door I almost run into my neighbor and friend, Suzie, a fellow US ex-pat. She’s a sweetheart. I ask what she thinks about the election and she said she thought we’d win but it would be messy. I agree. “<i>Ojala</i>”, we said together on parting, raising our hands in prayer to the sky.</span></p>The Last Quarterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160642079655042275noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9129805679693838097.post-28362483516799229502020-07-24T09:21:00.002-07:002020-07-27T08:06:01.261-07:00CXXXII. Nos Falta una Pieza del RompecabezasWe Are Missing a Piece of the Puzzle<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTL9ySeWv58ksTbYfXFI1iSEdB58eIQ0vZGYsVMFYt9CUpMFEs7_EDLDIQlzqn7RJZoVcZ36RUF2IEHaMxmIHF6pkgbujlHh08JHEr8LfQntGZBWAqXPgP3e2G2h48a3_sqZ0NHj5b3Kk/s1600/Jigsaw+B.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTL9ySeWv58ksTbYfXFI1iSEdB58eIQ0vZGYsVMFYt9CUpMFEs7_EDLDIQlzqn7RJZoVcZ36RUF2IEHaMxmIHF6pkgbujlHh08JHEr8LfQntGZBWAqXPgP3e2G2h48a3_sqZ0NHj5b3Kk/s400/Jigsaw+B.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We started out with the straight-edged pieces, including the ones with The<br />
New Yorker title, and all the purple-edged ones. Look at that jumble we<br />
would look through over the next week.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
For days recently, we slowly searched through a gradually depleting jumble of colored cardboard bits to complete a one thousand piece jigsaw puzzle. It pictured a Brooklynesque street corner in the late thirties, with a lively ethnic feel: the Irish cop on the corner, Cohen popping his braces in front of the haberdashery. Commerce and bustle on the street below, home economics in the rooms above. We loved the intricate harmony of this colorful tableau that had enlivened the cover of New Yorker magazine in mid-November of 1939.<br />
<br />
As <i>rompecabezas</i>-heads ourselves, we each had a specialty in filling its 24 by 18 inch negative space. She excelled in matching the shape of a piece to the contours of the area it would fill; I worked more using clues from the color and pattern of the picture. She was much better with featureless spaces like skies. We worked both in tandem and each on our own. The project occupied over half of our warped, wooden 6-person dining table. We covered the uncompleted work each night with a plastic sheet to protect it from sprinkles of rain coming though the skylight.<br />
<br />
It wasn't until the final hour of bringing this whole thing together that we began to entertain the possibility that something might be missing. There was an empty space near the lower right corner, just below a woman shopping from a cart of what looked like oranges, perhaps imported by train up the Atlantic coast from the Sunshine State. This virtually two-dimensional piece had at least one spade-shaped protrusion. Try as we might, we couldn't find it.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUANT-hL7NxSg-ffxhMKSiS_GIg9B48yAj4wJiSbD1EmjcOS0F6Y75pmQ9Vihy_7y0JzAXpaHuFXCins6y4cPjYoCF0eUwGbijQ-luxiniGMnxKIn93kEnDrzbkZghON5id6aH2dr_WA4/s1600/Missing+Main+Street+piece.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUANT-hL7NxSg-ffxhMKSiS_GIg9B48yAj4wJiSbD1EmjcOS0F6Y75pmQ9Vihy_7y0JzAXpaHuFXCins6y4cPjYoCF0eUwGbijQ-luxiniGMnxKIn93kEnDrzbkZghON5id6aH2dr_WA4/s320/Missing+Main+Street+piece.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You can see where the missing piece would go, what might be<br />
pictured on it, and its unusual three-spades shape.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
When we still had 15 to 20 pieces from completion, it became something of a tired joke: He: "I don't see it; it seems like it has to have on it some round oranges and part of a dark-colored board." She: "I don't see it either but if we've learned anything it's that going by the picture can be tricky, and sometimes so can even matching the shape." So we talked ourselves through the growing realization that--yes--in fact we were victims of the cliche that's also a metaphor: we were missing a piece of the puzzle. <br />
<br />
As a happy ending to this story of effort not rewarded as we had anticipated, Matt at the New York Puzzle Company is graciously sending us our choice of another <i>rompecabezas </i>(literally, "breaking heads").The Last Quarterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160642079655042275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9129805679693838097.post-80749624468207370852020-07-22T07:30:00.002-07:002020-07-25T19:18:34.694-07:00CXXXI. Las HormigasThe Ants<div><br /></div><div>This morning between the sink and the kitchen trash, I angrily smashed an ant scooting across our counter. They get in through a crack in the metal molding around those windows that give out to a good view. </div><div><br /></div><div>I see the same ants outside every time I walk across a line of them on the slate-covered pathway to the laundry and workshop. I place my feet carefully there; in what should be their natural habitat, ants seem admirably cooperative and industrious. </div><div><br /></div><div>That same admiration does not hold inside, though. The ants' presence in the kitchen waxes and wanes, but lately has increased to past the point of aggravation. Their miniscule blackish bodies seem to come alive and increase in number the longer I stare at them swarming over the deep cerulean counter. Freaky.</div><div><br /></div><div>And I should mention that we keep a very clean place.</div><div><br /></div><div>About the only other pest upon which I purposefully impress my top-of-the-food-chain prerogative is a cockroach, which admittedly can be a little bit intimidating the way the dart out at you and scramble frantically for a dark corner, hopefully not up your pants.</div><div><br /></div><div>On the other hand, it's nothing but fun clearing a path in the patio to walk through a swarm of bobos (similar to what we used to call no see'ums the way they get in your eyes and ears). To do the job I use one of those electrified racquets that give a satisfying sizzle and pop when it hits a critter, along with the thrill of a mini-fireburst as the tiny being incinerates. Afterwards, for a split second, I feel thoughtless and sadistic but that mostly passes.</div>The Last Quarterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160642079655042275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9129805679693838097.post-28156707072065599922020-05-15T08:37:00.000-07:002020-05-18T18:21:26.838-07:00CXXX. Mauricio Se Fue<h3>
<b>Mauricio Is Gone</b></h3>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpUFj284tBo84w7GnpHHGZEDVKVXSPIyaxLBal-rvR8Vz5ofIr47m-RxM7ZEY6Na4WhwB7mUCZJDLir-w9DTE8GlN6doRyYJ-KUgS8hLUZR2xzMKmii4jE30QlsbPfBNAA3xOrpotpZNo/s1600/Mauricio.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="344" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpUFj284tBo84w7GnpHHGZEDVKVXSPIyaxLBal-rvR8Vz5ofIr47m-RxM7ZEY6Na4WhwB7mUCZJDLir-w9DTE8GlN6doRyYJ-KUgS8hLUZR2xzMKmii4jE30QlsbPfBNAA3xOrpotpZNo/s400/Mauricio.jpeg" width="181" /></a></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My dear friend Mauricio has passed away. For four years he was my boss at the Lake Chapala Society garden and we always exchanged enthusiastic greetings when I came there weekly to volunteer: “Mi amigo, Mauricio!” I’d shout. “Mi amigo, Tomás. Qué tomas, Tomás? (What are you drinking?)” Then we’d make more silly jokes together as he explained what was on his mind. While working he would often tell me the uses of different plants, and would come by to offer help and company...</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I always felt encouraged to try out my poor Spanish with Mauricio, and our bond didn’t suffer at all from the lack of a shared language. With him you were never far away from another chance to make a joke, laugh or share a smile…</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Mauricio was a long distance trail runner and proud of his proficiency. His secret, he confided, was that he didn’t run, he flew. For one race I gave him a new pair of running shoes that no longer fit, but he wore them out while gardening: I guess with the flying he didn’t need new shoes to compete. I gave him some extra carving tools and he gave me one of his carvings—he was always working on a piece of wood he had found, and was happy to show it off…</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Mauricio’s nickname was El Pato—The Duck—but I didn’t see that in him; he was much spryer than my image of a waddling duck, more like a monkey, El Mono, with a wide mischievous streak, swinging from tree to tree. He had a posse of dogs he’d adopted—a short-haired white blond, Paloma, was his favorite—whom he would take up to his farm plot in the mountains. We made many plans to go up there together but they stayed plans…</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Mauricio will remain an endearing and enlivening presence, always pictured in my mind wearing his crinkly-eyed smile. This life is a poorer place without him. We’ll each have to be a little more our best selves to make up for his loss, but at least we have another strong ally in the wider world.</span></span></div>
The Last Quarterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160642079655042275noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9129805679693838097.post-8125393258325962342020-04-19T15:45:00.000-07:002020-04-19T19:29:25.879-07:00CXXIX. Prohibido<h3>
Prohibited</h3>
<div>
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">For the past week or so, more serious anti-coronavirus measures have been put into place in the municipality where we live. The most obvious spaces where they've had effect are </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">the broad walk and playground along the lake shore, called the <i>malecón</i>, and the village's central plaza. Recently the police have put up at least a kilometer of yellow tape connecting trees and posts that surround these two areas. Most of them simply say "PROHIBIDO" over and over again. Most everybody seems pretty cool about obeying the new regs. Most of the time.</span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNB0EVklHy0qQfb0xthyBtfC6uGfoXiwKhbaDxia-sEuLRqvP5-z-b073oeRUQqNvHUmmNsxJjOWhqy-bmb70nmhj2ypuA1INNqspemHAQjriypn3eZgVyt5zT2XtnpGUrR7AdXwXPwXk/s1600/Prohibido-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNB0EVklHy0qQfb0xthyBtfC6uGfoXiwKhbaDxia-sEuLRqvP5-z-b073oeRUQqNvHUmmNsxJjOWhqy-bmb70nmhj2ypuA1INNqspemHAQjriypn3eZgVyt5zT2XtnpGUrR7AdXwXPwXk/s400/Prohibido-1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On a beautiful Saturday evening, the <i>malecón </i>and adjoining <br />
picnic and play areas would normally be packed with people.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Together with the roadblocks that limit traffic to the towns along the north lake shore, and the <i>policía</i> driving around in their pickups telling people to remain at home, the state government has discouraged a whole lot of people from being out and about in this heavily touristed and ex-pat area.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This afternoon my neighbors told me that beginning tomorrow we are expected to stay at home except for essential trips, and masks must be worn outside the house. Fines may be levied. Jail.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Yesterday evening I took my camera along to document the effects so far:</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There would likely be 100 people in this scene that looks toward the mountains bordering the southern shore of the lake.The <i>malecón </i>that spans the picture is marked by a series of evenly spaced light poles in the near distance. The tall pole with alternating hand and foot holds is climbed by costumed <i>voladores</i> who come spinning down, upside down, accompanied by flute and drum music, from the very top--a popular attraction.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Further down the <i>malecón</i> are the exercise stations next to the mural-covered <i>baño</i>. The "Ajijic" sign in the center is a popular picture-taking spot.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Further still--the <i>malecón</i> is about 300 yards long--is the now-abandoned skate park.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The blue sign in the center is attached to the green-metal roofed gazebo. The sign says, "<i>Yo me quedo en casa</i>", which means, "I stay at home". On a normal weekend evening the plaza would be packed with strolling tourists from Guadalajara and NOB, dogs, kids running, and a host of vendors.<br />
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The Last Quarterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160642079655042275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9129805679693838097.post-61961262762136837312020-03-21T12:50:00.001-07:002020-04-03T09:20:55.123-07:00CXXVIII. México en el Tiempo de Coronavirus - un Viaje al Supermercado<b>Mexico in the Time of Coronavirus - a Trip to the Supermarket </b><br />
<i>Revised 30 Mar</i><br />
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There's a local singer who looks to be in his mid-50s, with an enviable mop of steel gray hair, a friendly face and jaunty demeanor. He usually sings a collection of phonetically-learned golden oldies near the south end of the <i>tianguis</i>; that's the crowded, two block-long open-air market that features all kinds of goods and is held every Wednesday. The <i>tianguis</i> was closed last week though, and into the not-at-all foreseeable future, as a surprisingly cautionary measure in this pandemic time. I say surprising because Mexico is not known for long-range thinking especially as it relates to personal health.<br />
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Chava is your basic guitar player but he has a nice gravelly voice for those Creedence songs--like Proud Mary--that he favors, and does an admirable job of hitting the high note on Let it Be. With the <i>tianguis</i> now closed, he's moved his act to an appreciative audience at the entrance of our local <i>supermercado</i>. I was pleased to see him there several times recently and happy to give him a good tip. Some well-heeled <i>Tapatios</i> down from Guadalajara for the weekend were taking videos of Chava with their smart phones, and one gringa was putting effort into dancing joyfully.<br />
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I notice it's not more or less crowded than usual in the store but I'm continually using a disinfecting wipe, while remaining particularly conscious of keeping my distance and not touching my face. Maybe a quarter of the shoppers are masked--although not the two cashiers--and about equally sorted between gringos and mexicanos. At the checkout I'm aware--in a more profound manner than usual--of airborne spittle; I breathe slowly through my nose while carefully holding my shopping bag open, thus using a minimum of touches to receive a bottle of wine, jar of olives, and carton of half and half.<br />
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There is a seed of fear beginning to grow but a week later I'm still not masking up when I go for a walk along the lake front and our increasingly deserted central plaza; my last two trips to <i>supermercado,</i> though, I started drawing a mask over my face as soon as I entered the store. I recently discovered that the workshop <i>mascara</i> I use to protect from polyurethane dust is considered the best around--emergency room grade. Kind of wasted on me. At least I can give my more pedestrian masks to the cashiers.<br />
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As yet another sign of these times, Juan Carlos, my fruit and vegetable guy who sets up his card table shop just outside the supermarket, gives me an elbow bump instead of our usual handshake, laughing at the incongruity. That was only a week after this initial post; nowadays we'd do a virtual bump from at least a meter. (30/Mar: Juan Carlos is not working his usual day)<br />
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I was planning a longer shopping trip on that first day but heard a rumor that the <i>granero</i> had just closed for five days in obeyance of a health authority directive. (I later learn that the store did not close, but, obeying the sign to keep your distance, you must give your order to the <i>dueña</i> at the door, who, yesterday, was wearing a clear plastic spittle-catcher over her mouth) Some of the stores around here, at least those primarily catering to ex-pats like Fernando's deli, are beginning to close. Most restaurants are also shutting down or just doing delivery and take-out. Even the corner <i>abarrotes</i> is taking the precaution of only allowing one or two customers at a time inside its closet-sized interior; I see several locals lined up on the sidewalk in the afternoon sun.<br />
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A recent early evening stroll along the lake side shows families--though fewer of them than usual--still enjoying picnics with their ever-present boom boxes. Later, during the next afternoon, our pueblo's usually bustling central plaza is almost empty, as are the streets.<br />
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These precautions were in contrast to the attitude of Mexico's president, Señor López Obrador, who said just mid-March that he's confident "misfortunes and pandemics won't affect us"--"us" meaning the poor and thus righteous. This kind of pronouncement is echoed by some other Mexican politicians and seems to promote a religious interpretation on the Who Qualifies for Rapture theme (an alternative spelling of "rapture" is d-e-a-t-h). The governor of our own state, Jalisco, takes a much more scientifically-oriented view, so we will probably be extending the week-by-week, spottily observed, 'lockdown' into the unimaginable future.<br />
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Regardless of its effect on us as a species, at least we are giving nature a break from our industry and consumerism. Meanwhile, even in this pandemic time for homo sapiens, beautiful lavender blossoms are now decorating the still leafless jacaranda trees, the primavera's yellow flowers will soon be coming out, and the weather today is warm, calm and sunny over both our village and the nearby mountains and lake.The Last Quarterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160642079655042275noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9129805679693838097.post-12985575485985674612019-12-25T17:02:00.000-08:002020-01-02T18:56:18.596-08:00CXXVI. La Posada Acaba de Pasar<h4>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-weight: normal;">I have a story to tell about our block’s <i>Posada</i> that we honored last weekend. <i>Posada</i> 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.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-weight: normal;">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 <i>posada</i>. The customary words represent the usual plea of supplicants for consideration and mercy, and the dismissive scorn of the Haves.<br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-weight: normal;">Finally, though, the hard heart is broken—the couple is welcomed inside—as, in real time, a small crowd of <i>vecinos </i>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.<br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-weight: normal;">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 <i>casas</i> that lies between our two properties. Even with the difficulties we are having with the purchase, our relationship has become increasingly warm and trustful. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-weight: normal;">As <i>patrónes</i>, Juan and Sofia take it upon themselves to organize and host the feast that accompanies our block’s <i>Posada. </i>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. </span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-weight: normal;">Seeking my advice was their way, I think, of leading to me to conclude that renting one of those <i>calle</i>-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 <i>simpatico</i>, 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 <i>el encargado</i>, the one in charge.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-weight: normal;">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.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-weight: normal;">So, Juan opted to buy a humongous tarp—called a <i>lona </i>in<i> español</i>—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 <i>barrio</i> 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.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-weight: normal;">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 <i>Mexicanos</i> 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 <i>el cielo</i>, the sky.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-weight: normal;">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, </span></span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-weight: normal;">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. </span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-weight: normal;">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. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-weight: normal;">I looked over to see what progress the <i>hombres</i> 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?</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-weight: normal;">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. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-weight: normal;">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 <i>lona</i> before it did damage. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-weight: normal;">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. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-weight: normal;">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 <i>carne asada </i>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.</span></span></div>
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</style>The Last Quarterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160642079655042275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9129805679693838097.post-17270274652961545702019-12-12T18:54:00.001-08:002019-12-12T19:09:23.870-08:00CXXV. La Virgen de GuadalupeThe Virgin of Guadalupe<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is the center of the Seis Esquinas neighborhood. The shrine under the<br />
tree is here year-round. The <i>Virgen de Guadalupe es la patrona aquí</i>.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue";">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.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Calle Ocampo, half a block west of previous shot. The orange structure in<br />
center represents the hill on which the Virgin appeared to Juan Diego. The<br />
Virgin is a small figure just below the center of photo, at the top of the orange,<br />
with a touch of red.</td></tr>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">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 <i>casa</i>, 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.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">The fireworks are called <i>cohetes. </i>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 <i>cohete</i>’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. <i>¡Ojalá!</i></span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A split second before <i>el encendedor</i> lets go of the rocket and it shoots 150 feet in the air and explodes.</td></tr>
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<br />The Last Quarterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160642079655042275noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9129805679693838097.post-37146787195628617492019-12-08T10:29:00.000-08:002019-12-31T07:27:46.173-08:00CXXIV. Rumble Butt Está Muerto. Larga Vida a Hugo.Rumble Butt is Dead. Long Live Hugo.<br />
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<i>We're pretty clueless about the genders I've inconsistently assigned in this story.</i></div>
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<span class="s1">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.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">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.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1">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.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1">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.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">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.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">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.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">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.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> At its best i</span>t enlarges our knowledge of—and place in—the natural world and opens our hearts to its creatures. Admittedly, at present, we are a little<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>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.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">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.</td></tr>
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</style>The Last Quarterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160642079655042275noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9129805679693838097.post-31189397286340131412019-01-16T08:47:00.000-08:002019-01-16T15:54:09.428-08:00CXXIII. No Tenemos Mucha Gasolina<h4>
We Don't Have Much Gasoline </h4>
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Jalisco is abuzz this week with talk of a gasoline shortage. Day before yesterday a line of cars stretched from our town’s—closed and empty—Pemex station out of sight along the highway’s curb lane. Juan Mateo, the guy who sells <i>frutas</i> <i>y verduras</i> from a table in front of the <i>supermercado</i>, told me that the last car in line was several kilometers east in San Antonio. All on the off chance gas would be delivered sometime before dark.<br />
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Yesterday the local gringo web board published accounts of five hour waits for a fill-up, and many stations still closed.<br />
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Shortages began when the new federal government shut down gas pipelines from refineries to storage facilities. Hijacked gasoline was being loaded from the pipelines into huge tanker trucks and sold in staggering quantities on the black market. Relying solely on federally protected trucked deliveries, the predictable shortages at the pump hit some states harder than others.<br />
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The government responded by hiring private trucking companies to facilitate distribution. It will be interesting to see how this plays out in national politics. AMLO— acronym for the new president—promised an end to corruption. Will the people have enough trust and patience to support his effort, however ill thought-out it may be?<br />
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A few hours ago I heard that most local stations had gas (and long lines). And--just in--AMLO is opening and protecting a pipeline to our populous state where the second largest city in Mexico--Guadalajara--is located.<br />
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Fortunately we’re able to easily walk about everywhere we need to go.The Last Quarterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160642079655042275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9129805679693838097.post-56516482352734232882019-01-06T08:35:00.000-08:002019-01-07T05:50:34.059-08:00CXXII. Café AlmaSoul Cafe<br />
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The newest addition to tiny businesses open on our block is Alma Cafe. It joins about a dozen other <i>tiendas</i> operated by families who live behind, above, or next to their shop. All open up to a narrow sidewalk on either side of Calle Encarnación Rosas between Guadalupe Victoria and Constitución. They do not include the more or less ad hoc card table of used clothing or <i>posole</i> sold by the Ibarra clan just a few doors up from our <i>casa</i>.<br />
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The cafe is in the space that used to house the <i>papelería</i> and <i>zapatería</i>--office supply store and shoe store--overseen by Vicente's daughter, María. <a href="https://littlecorneroflove.blogspot.com/2016/10/lxxx-vicente.html" target="_blank">Vicente</a> is the <a href="https://littlecorneroflove.blogspot.com/2018/09/cvxviii-la-muerte-de-vicente.html" target="_blank">recently deceased</a> great-grandfather who was the nearly constant occupant of a stool set up just outside the store's opening. His presence and greetings seemed to bless our block. <br />
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In the same spot where he used to sit, on the wall next to the cafe's opening, is a just completed drawing of Vicente wearing his sombrero and holding his cane. I think that the <i>alma</i>, or soul, in the little coffee bar's name refers to this kind man.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Alma Cafe has only been open a week. It is being run by Vicente's grand-daughter, visible behind the counter. A great-grandson, seen standing center, takes orders. The <i>dibujo</i> of Vicente is on the wall below the cafe's address, 15A. This is exactly where he used to sit and exchange greetings with me most mornings for over a year. I imagine he'd been doing that with everyone on the block for a long time. </td></tr>
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<br />The Last Quarterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160642079655042275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9129805679693838097.post-25094804785876111502019-01-02T06:18:00.001-08:002019-01-05T07:56:50.259-08:00CXXI. ¡Que Tenga un Próspero Año Nuevo!Wishing You a Prosperous New Year!<br />
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There's a fellow on the next corner, halfway to the farmacia, who deep fries pork fat and entrails in a big stainless steel cauldron over a curbside fire fed from one of those long skinny propane tanks that look like WWII bombs. He attracts walk-by customers throughout the morning, almost every morning. I often see him taking a break with his compañeros around noon--leaning against the wall or sitting on one of those plastic Corona chairs--the crispy rinds and intestines laid out for sale on brown butcher paper. He's got a brown face himself with friendly wrinkles and a white soup-strainer moustache. </div>
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Yesterday morning I greeted him with a traditional, "¡Que Tenga un Próspero Año Nuevo!" He grinned and growled, "Igual" which basically translates as "Back at ya".</div>
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The Last Quarterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160642079655042275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9129805679693838097.post-6151698589587020022018-10-29T13:40:00.000-07:002019-12-31T08:27:08.847-08:00CXX. Un Viaje a las Barrancas del Cobre<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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A Trip to Copper Canyon<br />
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For years I'd heard about this canyon complex in northern Mexico that's touted as "longer and deeper than the Grand Canyon". With my first sight of that Arizona wonder I was so stunned I literally fell on my ass. With this in mind, I was really looking forward to seeing how Mexico's version would compare.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The El Chepe train runs about 450 miles between the cities of Los Mochis on the Pacific coast and Chihuahua in the center of Mexico. It gains almost 8,000 feet of altitude traveling west to east through the large Copper Canyon area. We flew into Chihuahua and caught the train there. The scene here is several hours out of that city as we moved west from high plains to pine forest foothills. </td></tr>
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Adding to my curiosity was the mystique of Copper Canyon's indigenous inhabitants--the Tarahumara. Their prowess at super long distance running is legendary even though they often run barefoot, or in sandals, and the women even run wearing long skirts. Adding to the above enticements, most of the trip into and through the canyons takes place by train. That sealed the deal for my adventurous wife and me. We made reservations with a local tour outfit and just returned two weeks ago.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fields of corn in alluvial soil, goats, small houses with an outbuilding or two. There are few towns in an area about the size of Ohio, but many scattered dwellings like this that, together, shelter over 50,000 Tarahumara, or Rarámuri.</td></tr>
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At my first sight of the canyons I didn't fall on my ass but the scenery really was amazing, the local culture much stronger and more interesting than we'd imagined, and the train ride a lot of fun. The only problem: we both caught a historic flu that laid us up all of the final day in a darkened and air-conditioned, dizzy and barfy hotel room in Chihuahua, after being shunned for our racking coughs by the rest of the tourists during an interminable bus ride: another reason this trip will always be memorable.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJB7AQ5tuk1rocCNQTu-ZrRXxnHSAY95QVIj36AYsTT5Sn7GwnFOKkPdX3bmbx8bZuDjE6ZGi1I0vqcSvPvyEPH25AFhWgiz7H28xU47f31sE4BpJCF3ZUHdAPp7mv16MOevKMtb0Cpu0/s1600/Barrancas+de+Cobre-first+day-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJB7AQ5tuk1rocCNQTu-ZrRXxnHSAY95QVIj36AYsTT5Sn7GwnFOKkPdX3bmbx8bZuDjE6ZGi1I0vqcSvPvyEPH25AFhWgiz7H28xU47f31sE4BpJCF3ZUHdAPp7mv16MOevKMtb0Cpu0/s640/Barrancas+de+Cobre-first+day-3.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Being forewarned by our tour guide that the Rarámuri do not like to have their faces photographed, I snuck this picture of back of two girls to show their typical dress. They are standing near the train station at Divisadero in the heart of the canyons. Nearby are the goods that they sell, primarily sewn and woven wares. Plus two half-drunken bottles of Coke.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNbuNy9tOHYT46_fgxhQabpdLUmoD2EIbtEgUwg9L2ixcxtw2SvBTeDzQAvmoq76gTJq1A0S8Ft12uAWdWSo3eYh9HDqRSHxhzFS820FVwuIOZ41BtbpJgXCgErZsE0_FFFC9e4m00icg/s1600/Barrancas+de+Cobre-first+day-4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNbuNy9tOHYT46_fgxhQabpdLUmoD2EIbtEgUwg9L2ixcxtw2SvBTeDzQAvmoq76gTJq1A0S8Ft12uAWdWSo3eYh9HDqRSHxhzFS820FVwuIOZ41BtbpJgXCgErZsE0_FFFC9e4m00icg/s640/Barrancas+de+Cobre-first+day-4.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This incredible sunset view is from the balcony of our room at Divisadero's El Mirador Hotel. Barrancas del Cobre actually comprises six canyons. This part of Urique Canyon (pictured) is the most accessible and colloquially known as Copper Canyon. Not visible in the picture are several ziplines and cables supporting a car that runs from mid-left in the photo to mid-far right. Tarahumara dwellings can be seen at the bottom of the cliff far left and--barely--in the valley lower right.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View down to a small town at the bottom of Urique Canyon from over a mile above. <br />
Seeing these two crosses clutched at my heart. They are most likely for a pair of<br />
engineers (<i>ingenieros</i>) who met their end in an accident during construction. D.E.P.<br />
stands for <i>Descansa En Paz</i>--Rest in Peace.</td></tr>
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We stayed at Hotel Mirador (view above) for two nights and recommend it highly--fantastic location in Divisadero, the kind of rooms (and pillows) you like to find, excellent food and service. I had thought of trying one of the zip lines leaving from the ecopark below the hotel, but after standing at the edge of a nearby cliff felt that perhaps my bladder control wouldn't hold up in the first leap into the void. The cable car sufficed.<br />
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The third day of our trip we bussed several hours to the small town of Cerocahui deeper into the canyon complex. There we toured a residential school for Tarahumara girls, sampled the local wines at another luxury hotel, and took a hair-raising ride on a narrow, twisty road with views (see photo, left) of the deepest part of Urique Canyon, over 6000 feet below.<br />
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The weather on the rim is much different from that at the bottom of the canyon. This is especially marked in the winter when there is often snow up above, and sunny warmth below that even allows the cultivation of tropical fruits. Access down from near here is via a ten mile dirt road, consisting mostly of hairpin turns, that takes more than an hour to negotiate.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKGkBJDkOM8ofWVMtxkk5i5d8KPTDeLERIrDl78LERZiuImMAWmBJ0ZVF_Qa74oqkIYzihM_cji5bX561FrYdi71z1YanzmHWV_H5CrA2uWHF6tDDUBb8Bc6evR7uK-yUfYiKpLOoeRx8/s1600/Barrancas+de+Cobre-2nd-4th+days-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKGkBJDkOM8ofWVMtxkk5i5d8KPTDeLERIrDl78LERZiuImMAWmBJ0ZVF_Qa74oqkIYzihM_cji5bX561FrYdi71z1YanzmHWV_H5CrA2uWHF6tDDUBb8Bc6evR7uK-yUfYiKpLOoeRx8/s640/Barrancas+de+Cobre-2nd-4th+days-3.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I met this smiling fellow as I began a final stroll around Cerocahui; he introduced himself as Juan, and as a <i>chabochi</i>, or mestizo, in the Rarámuri language. Although the tour bus was leaving in half an hour I took him up on an offer to give me a quick tour around town. He hollered a greeting to everyone we passed, each time vouching to me that the other individual was <i>un amigo cercano</i>, a close friend.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-PGBogozrRR8O1q5m_7eAn5PWOSUCVPkNIv0M13PNCUXyi_PleP1pXzpQKQ0C_T3cvErXJts-VTRNqOI2mdriy2OjRWsN8vEfQDad_ECGNq-YU9UOhJkZLLjysZ2itONXsVRXjNSqHSg/s1600/Barrancas+de+Cobre-2nd-4th+days-4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-PGBogozrRR8O1q5m_7eAn5PWOSUCVPkNIv0M13PNCUXyi_PleP1pXzpQKQ0C_T3cvErXJts-VTRNqOI2mdriy2OjRWsN8vEfQDad_ECGNq-YU9UOhJkZLLjysZ2itONXsVRXjNSqHSg/s640/Barrancas+de+Cobre-2nd-4th+days-4.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We had anticipated that our bus ride would be less than an hour to the nearby town of Bahuichivo (above) where train tracks had led us to believe we would change modes of transportation for the next leg of our journey. There was a collective groan on the bus when it became clear that we had another couple of hours on the same winding road we had driven to Cerocahui. Torrential rains a couple of weeks earlier had resulted in dam spill upriver which brought down mudslides closing the rails. So no train here.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRcnpEvl0vhAQ3RvnQrFQlE2kArjyGUBUcYQEBp_J9o2Uuaon3bcdWotJckK0eSEbMkoHG7Je6ZRoccT238_i9Gj5I4fVKmZ963DMfX3LOtjk2aQIyA9Q7SFaUZqz9g1hSZW198Xw5OTo/s1600/Barrancas+de+Cobre-2nd-4th+days-5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRcnpEvl0vhAQ3RvnQrFQlE2kArjyGUBUcYQEBp_J9o2Uuaon3bcdWotJckK0eSEbMkoHG7Je6ZRoccT238_i9Gj5I4fVKmZ963DMfX3LOtjk2aQIyA9Q7SFaUZqz9g1hSZW198Xw5OTo/s640/Barrancas+de+Cobre-2nd-4th+days-5.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In Divisadero we finally met the train that would take us east. Now we could ride in comfort the rest of the afternoon on our way to the largest town in the Tarahumara area, Creel.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After a night in Creel we awoke early to get a closeup look at the lowland Tarahumara country and way of life. This beautiful lake reflecting a deep blue sky, the surrounding pine forest and inviting rocks all reminded me of country back home in Washington State. As soon as our tour bus pulled into the parking lot, however, that vision was broken when several Rarámuri women hurried to set up their wares on blankets laid out under the trees. Fortunately they had a receptive audience.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgif4KHIed_kDLmKXMf0IAYkf3tuN0Tm9KmawN7KGgaWAcFeAf8C_f0QxkPIioBoo9o9SmDI19wsypo1Il4_q2PIVel0P2wyEZJ_sX5VuC45Le2wjmv2nKj4iTAHwmckBkLnvTUb2HqeHc/s1600/Barrancas+de+Cobre-5th+days-4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgif4KHIed_kDLmKXMf0IAYkf3tuN0Tm9KmawN7KGgaWAcFeAf8C_f0QxkPIioBoo9o9SmDI19wsypo1Il4_q2PIVel0P2wyEZJ_sX5VuC45Le2wjmv2nKj4iTAHwmckBkLnvTUb2HqeHc/s640/Barrancas+de+Cobre-5th+days-4.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Near Creel, San Ignacio Jesuit mission is surrounded by a couple dozen dwellings, including a community center. The area also includes some fantastic wind-eroded rock formations. Above you see a sample of the rocks in <i>Valle de las Ranas</i>--Valley of the Frogs so named because of their shape.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In the photo you see a typical Tarahumara cave dwelling. It's created by walling off a large natural recess at the base of a cliff. We met a single mom who lived there with her teenage son, aunt and sister. The whole family catered to tourists from nearby Creel, selling a variety of small crafts and baked goods. The young mom had been raised in the States, spoke excellent English, and had moved here several years ago. I couldn't imagine how she might have adjusted to living in this close and dark cave after life in southern California.<br />
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The Last Quarterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160642079655042275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9129805679693838097.post-28221455117673296972018-10-25T12:04:00.000-07:002019-12-31T08:34:50.459-08:00CIXX. Un Viaje a Colima y Comala<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
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A Trip to Colima and Comala</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the attractive plazas in Colima Centro, Jardín Libertad. Portales sheltering the seats of a number of restaurants and bars line three sides of the plaza, the Colima State government office building abuts the fourth. Fountains such as the one pictured are at each corner of the plaza; pathways are directed inward to a central, 19th century Belgian gazebo.<br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">In mid-September our <i>Cazadores de Haciendas</i> group travelled about three and a half hours southwest of our lakeside village to the city of Colima, capital of a small state with the same name that borders on the Pacific Ocean. It was an interesting trip, much of it alongside several large and very shallow lake beds filled at the end of the rainy season, followed by a broken landscape of green canyons and mountain views. Nevado de Colima, the tallest peak we could see at almost 14,000 feet, played peek-a-boo with us. On its southern flank, Volcán de Colima, a still-active volcano, seemed to raise puffs of smoke, or perhaps our imaginations made too much of the wispy clouds. </span></div>
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La Campana archeological site is located on the outskirts of Colima city. During its heyday, 700-900 CE, it was the largest pre-hispanic settlement in what is now western Mexico. In the distance you see Volcán Colima with Nevado Colima to its left. Notice their alignment with the steps of the small pyramid to the left of two of our <i>Cazadores</i>. </div>
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<span style="font-size: small; text-align: left;">Our second day in Colima we awoke early, caravanned and GPSed our way through the city to La Campana archeological site. The Mexicans have a habit of partially restoring (above) their pre-hispanic ruins. I'm not sure where exactly their archeologists draw the line at the extent of restoration, perhaps they are trying to strike a balance between "suggestive" and "picturesque". Regardless, the sixteen of us enjoyed wandering alone or together on and among the rock structures in this one hundred acre area.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">We drove another half hour from La Campana to the village of Comala, one of some hundred Pueblo Magicos in Mexico chosen for their picturesque qualities. Comala certainly qualified with its recently white-washed walls, lush and well-tended plaza, all dominated on the near horizon by Volcán Colima. The prehispanic name for this area translates to "Valley of the Flowers". </span></div>
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After exploring the small <i>centro</i> area, some of us gathered under the portales fronting one side of Comala's main plaza. I ordered the tamarind-flavored <i>ponche</i> made locally and snacked on the complimentary <i>botanas</i> that filled our table. In the midst of this tasty lunch we were startled by a burst of fireworks that set off a large flock of pigeons that had been roosting among the church's belltowers. They encircled the plaza as all the bells pealed loudly for a good long minute. The hullabaloo was in honor of Comala's patron saint, Miguel. That's him in the picture above, barely visible with upraised sword between the two front spires of the church. Our arrival here had coincided with Miguel's fiesta patronal.</div>
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</span><span style="font-size: small;">A statue on the bench far left in the photo above represents Juan Ruflo, a Mexican writer of the last mid-century who allegedly set his most famous novel in Comala. His boots are being perpetually polished by a bronze, stool-sitting shoeshine boy. Meanwhile, town folks chat quietly in the mid-day shade around the plaza's fountains. Vendors sell sno-cones and <i>tuba</i>--a fresh and cooling drink made of fermented coconut milk.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgid4j-CeX49Im6jR3KPBF6xHofIDKrCXNCpdm_iOw7JvaXXcPtCZJ3D7iIMOa2wQH34B-pHC1_1zHV2jLDr5j1TBUM5-s5Oq57PR8jfEdY_MOeSY2AXiIHhsGFF_EsFQq68DuVNIv-hYA/s1600/Comala+horizon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgid4j-CeX49Im6jR3KPBF6xHofIDKrCXNCpdm_iOw7JvaXXcPtCZJ3D7iIMOa2wQH34B-pHC1_1zHV2jLDr5j1TBUM5-s5Oq57PR8jfEdY_MOeSY2AXiIHhsGFF_EsFQq68DuVNIv-hYA/s640/Comala+horizon.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="text-align: left;">Siesta time. </span><span style="text-align: left;">Billowing cumulus clouds cover Colima volcano rising in the near distance above the red-tiled rooftops of Comala. </span><span style="text-align: left;">Mid-afternoon the Hacienda Hunters gather from various parts of the village and make good their name as they ping-pong through Comala's roadwork detours on the </span><span style="text-align: left;">way to Nogueras Hacienda, allegedly only a few miles away.</span></div>
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<span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">Nogueras was famously occupied and remodeled for much of the past half-century by a prolific and multi-talented artist, Alejandro Rangel Hidalgo. A section of the buildings holds his paintings and custom furniture, as well as a fantastically well-displayed sample of local prehispanic ceramics, often depicting their revered dogs. Other areas of the ex-hacienda provide homes and workshops for artisans, large and artfully restored main living quarters and a magnificent five acre garden and arboretum, all now overseen by the University of Colima. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">A beautiful embroidered <i>camisa </i>is for sale in one of a dozen or so picturesque tiendas/residencias along the lane in front of the hacienda. Below is a gnarly leaf on the garden patio...Good trip.</span><br />
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<br />The Last Quarterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160642079655042275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9129805679693838097.post-60932805466102670432018-09-08T12:43:00.001-07:002018-09-09T07:09:19.054-07:00CXVIII. La Muerte de VicenteVicente's Death<br />
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It's been over two months since my last post, and I've been wondering lately what has held me back from writing another. Maybe it's been the absence of an accounting of the death of our block's beloved mainstay--always friendly and observant <a href="http://littlecorneroflove.blogspot.com/2016/10/lxxx-vicente.html" target="_blank">Vicente</a>--who died in mid-spring.<br />
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I first introduced myself to Vicente a few months after we moved to this block, or <i>cuadra</i>, now over two years ago. Nearly every time I walked up the street this grandfatherly man would be sitting on a stool in front of his daughter's <i>zapatería</i>, which was a combination shoe and notions store at the front of their <i>casa</i>.<br />
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He left me some vivid images of our shared greetings: "Tomás". "<i>Señor</i> Vicente,<i> como está</i>"? "<i>Bien, bien, gracias</i>. <i>Y usted</i>"? "<i>Muy bien</i>". "<i>Bueno,</i> <i>que tenga un buen día </i>Tomás". "<i>Igual. Gracias, Señor </i>Vicente". Simple as it was, this exchange always left me uplifted and better able to face the world with a smile.<br />
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Sometimes I would stop and we would exchange a few more pleasantries. One of the last times we spoke he told me about the fall he'd taken the previous year that had broken his hip and put an end to his daily constitutional, which was a cane-assisted walk down to mid-block and then back to his storefront perch. He had me feel his forearm which I could encircle with thumb and middle finger--it was just bone encased in wrinkled skin.<br />
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With winter's chill, Vicente's presence on the sidewalk became much less frequent. When he did appear on a sunny morning he'd be bundled up with a wool scarf around his neck and a colorful and whimsical knit hat on his head. During this period nearly every time we heard a death knell from the nearby church, I'd hurry to the gate and look up the street to see if any neighbors were gathered around his <i>puerta</i>. One day they were, and a <i>funeraria</i>'s tent was being put up in the street across from the house, a dozen or so folding chairs placed on cobbles for those who would come to pay their respects at his coffin in the living room. I was one of the mourners.<br />
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With flowers in hand I also followed his casket through the cobblestone streets from the church, down Parroquia and Hidalgo to Seis Esquinas where we joined Ocampo on the way to the <i>panteon</i> for his burial. It was unaccustomedly hot. I saw <i>amigas</i> passing a bottle of water around. <i>Parasols</i> were held against the sun. About sixty of us shuffled behind the hearse; he'd been a popular man.<br />
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During the nine days of mourning that followed his burial my wife and I brought a traditional donation of food for his daughter, who looks to be in her sixties. She told me that her father had quit eating a week before his death, that during those final days all his children, grandchildren and their offspring had visited to say goodbye. It had been a fittingly affectionate and respectful leave-taking for this friendly, gentle man.The Last Quarterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160642079655042275noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9129805679693838097.post-56523693562397900722018-06-29T17:10:00.000-07:002018-06-29T19:42:41.524-07:00CXVII. ¡Felíz Cumpleaños!Happy Birthday!<br />
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: "helvetica";">They’ve been going at it for more than thirty minutes now—since 6:45AM when we were awakened—so I guess half an hour's not the length of time for which they’ve been hired. Some kind of celebration, that’s for sure. From our cozy bed we kept waiting for them to move on—the usual route down to the plaza and church, if it’s religious, or to the <i>charro</i> ring, if secular—but no, they stayed put, and damned close to our </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;">casa</i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: "helvetica";">. And LOUD.</span><br />
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: "helvetica";">I finally rousted myself, put on shorts and tee and shuffled through </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;">sala</i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: "helvetica";"> and </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;">comedor</i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: "helvetica";">, out the </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;">pasillo</i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: "helvetica";"> to the front gate and source of sound. The music had become deafening as I approached the group arrayed on the cobbles in the street in front of our house. And likewise in front of our neighbors. Francisco, the dad—he of boastful gestures—was swaggering among the musicians. Relatives were passing trays of sweetbreads and a sugary coffee drink—</span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;">muchas gracias</i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: "helvetica";">—and <i>mamá</i> was on the sidewalk smiling with all the hugs and kisses she was getting. It was her birthday.</span><br />
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: "helvetica";">And now, an hour after its first brassy and percussive notes, the band has begun dispersing. From the left we’ve had two trombones, two trumpets, two clarinets, a flugelhorn, two congas, a two-person trap set advertising <i>La Misma Banda</i>—The Same Band—and </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;">una </i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: "helvetica";">tuba. I reckon there will be another party tonight.</span><br />
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</style>The Last Quarterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160642079655042275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9129805679693838097.post-3179301919479810152018-06-10T11:18:00.000-07:002018-06-10T12:33:12.197-07:00CXVI. Una Entrega de CervezaBeer Delivery<br />
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<span class="s1">The motorcycle I’m talking about was one of the small, wiry types</span>—and funky from hard use—<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">maybe about 95cc’s. You see them everywhere around our </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">pueblo</i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> but I noticed this particular one because of the way it was being used. I heard the driver revving to blow out his plugs as he stopped on the cobbles, in the street right in front of our gate. I went to check out the noise since I’d been hearing a group of guys talking from—I thought—the sidewalk, but the driver was the only one I saw. </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Buenas noches</i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> exchanged, he swung his leg over the tank and reached behind him for a big plastic bucket. He handled it like it was heavy. It had been held in place by a circle of steel molded to fit both it and another bucket on a jerry-rigged bumper. Both buckets were filled with bottles of Corona beer. There must have been about a dozen in each, arranged neatly upside down on ice. The driver went to my neighbors’ door, passed the bucket inside and got paid, then climbed back on the bike and drove away for his next delivery.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span>The Last Quarterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160642079655042275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9129805679693838097.post-77578615848830878952018-06-04T12:11:00.000-07:002018-06-05T13:04:05.184-07:00CXV. Las Elecciones MexicanasThe Mexican Elections<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Supporters of Moy Anaya, the Citizens Movement candidate for president of<br />
our municipality, march past our door making noise. A minute earlier the<br />
candidate himself stopped to chat and give us a pamphlet outlining his plans.</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">They gather and make a lot of noise up at the corner of our street with Guadalupe Victoria, maybe because the latter’s on the bus line, so greater visibility. Then they march down our block to go up Constitución—which is also on the bus line—chanting, banging drums, and hollering out their candidate’s name. Last time it was someone for the MORENA party. Late yesterday afternoon the <i>desfile</i> was for the Movimiento Ciudadano (MC) choice for <i>Presidente</i> of our municipality. I’m guessing the race will be tight between him and the incumbent PRI toady who has held that post the past three years.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">As with most countries worldwide the election here is always held on a Sunday, and this year that’s four weeks away on the first of July. This is a strange time weather wise. Most of the election’s run-up takes place during May’s perennial heatwave, but the last half of June will have seen the beginning of the rainy season, now two weeks away. So election day comes around, perhaps, against a backdrop of budding optimism, fed by hope for greening and growth.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif93TikT5hdW1u7QZVJvJRfWjtipu6d-M6FWmweXbUkz2UM14o0bswDg0RkvFI3_itcyCpfUa1TUh0p31gb34LFcAalqKHDYEKQRfH2nJGTJrb8xctwfbR8KCJWKivmq23QMGj3Am3SXM/s1600/2018+Elections-4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif93TikT5hdW1u7QZVJvJRfWjtipu6d-M6FWmweXbUkz2UM14o0bswDg0RkvFI3_itcyCpfUa1TUh0p31gb34LFcAalqKHDYEKQRfH2nJGTJrb8xctwfbR8KCJWKivmq23QMGj3Am3SXM/s320/2018+Elections-4.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The PAN party candidate for municipality president is Alejandro<br />
Aguirre, pictured here saying, "For you, for your prosperity, for<br />
Ajijic." The lower hashtag says, "Get happy, change has come".</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">Or not. Traditionally, the final months of the countrywide campaigns are also marked by vandalism, hot-headed fights and even a few cold-blooded assassinations funded by murky deep pockets. Cries of Corruption and Malfeasance abound! Piling on, the narco-cartels take advantage of this unsettled time to attack each other without their customary regard for incidental casualties. One longtime resident ex-pat suspends her country-wide travels during this period.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Since the Mexican equivalent of a civil war that occurred in the early 1900’s, and for next seventy years, members of only one political party had been popularly elected as <i>Presidente</i>; its name alone a contradiction in terms, the Institutional Revolutionary Party, is known to all as simply PRI—pronounced ‘pree'. Since about the last half of that period in the past century there has been a loyal opposition group, the National Action Party—PAN—that still retains a semblance of its historical alliance with the Catholic Church. In the year 2000 PRI’s lock on the national presidency was finally broken by PAN candidate Vicente Fox, whose victory was made possible by a split within PRI that gave the country the breakaway Party of the Democratic Revolution, or PRD.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The old guard PRI party candidate for municipality president<br />
is the incumbent, Javier Degollado.</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">A new, one-term only national president is democratically elected every six years. Since the turn of the millennium the number of viable parties has proliferated, and mutable coalitions arise every electoral cycle. After Sr. Fox, PAN elected another president in 2006, its candidate barely beating Andrés Manuel Lopez Obrador (AMLO), a popular Mexico City mayor at the time and the candidate of a PRD-led coalition of leftist splinter parties. AMLO ran again, and again was barely defeated, in 2012. After this loss he founded a new, nationalistic and populist party he called Movement for National Regeneration, MORENA. <i>Morena</i> is also the Mexican-Spanish word describing a dark-skinned woman.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqqxEl9KB1XXIxnPHyoqJD0n8vu7eQHpAqb6PCd0UKmFtmLsteuB-Y0WCmIo8fon-SeWJTAS4Ebc-oKLFPqPjiQqyS14PCtayN6zIJQbJXJVyq9ZkZrDfy6pzE6iA3Tq1PrfOOh9qkyYE/s1600/2018+Elections-5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqqxEl9KB1XXIxnPHyoqJD0n8vu7eQHpAqb6PCd0UKmFtmLsteuB-Y0WCmIo8fon-SeWJTAS4Ebc-oKLFPqPjiQqyS14PCtayN6zIJQbJXJVyq9ZkZrDfy6pzE6iA3Tq1PrfOOh9qkyYE/s320/2018+Elections-5.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mexico has a federal bicameral legislature. Sergio here is the<br />
local PRI candidate put up for election to the Chamber of<br />
Deputies. He says that he is "Moving Forward With You".</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Meanwhile, PRI, in the person of Ken-doll impersonating Enrique Peña Nieto, has controlled the presidency for the past six years. This will end next month, when by all accounts AMLO should finally win the national election, running for the coalition "Juntos Haremos Historia” (“Together We’ll Make History”) representing MORENA, the leftist Labor Party, and conservative, religious Social Encounter Party. Latest polls give AMLO a 22-point lead over PAN candidate and boy wonder, Ricardo Anaya. The latter’s “Forward for Mexico” coalition includes two groups that had supported AMLO in his previous tries for the presidency.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidmuUqxjN2-Xw-KZ990mzKUOE4v9IOIXTC1qTi9FlFgnTi9yUQGwz3RzlDhNQKXPcH2vBqQxyBdfVNe3ugmDdzdad8kMx8G-EikGJZdBea7JMK1zmt4eQ8ZOcnWmHct3JyRaipJmXaLEc/s1600/2018+Elections-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidmuUqxjN2-Xw-KZ990mzKUOE4v9IOIXTC1qTi9FlFgnTi9yUQGwz3RzlDhNQKXPcH2vBqQxyBdfVNe3ugmDdzdad8kMx8G-EikGJZdBea7JMK1zmt4eQ8ZOcnWmHct3JyRaipJmXaLEc/s320/2018+Elections-2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"MORENA The Hope of Mexico" reads this wall painting just<br />
around the corner from where we live.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">A few of AMLO’s positions: place price controls on basic necessities, increase minimum wage and pensions, but no expropriations or nationalizations; charge Mexican consulates in the US to defend immigrants’ human rights there and bring a lawsuit in the UN against US violation of these rights; grant universal access to public colleges; end oil exports to encourage energy self-sufficiency; give amnesty to some drug war criminals and promote worthwhile alternatives to a life in the trade; allow international rights organizations to investigate corruption and human rights abuses in Mexico.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ3b4M6JoZ07Dn6jNSYrVjYZx1gWp5uBI2SDuiJsZFyfpwjbkR7JRI7lPCoIw_dUGMwZ5ZkBB7Cxo_C1-5uBhgho1kN2luuU9oFlAiwFWKU2RCAPN8ynaFbnKjgjAxGRMmtYlEu7TP72M/s1600/2018+Elections-6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ3b4M6JoZ07Dn6jNSYrVjYZx1gWp5uBI2SDuiJsZFyfpwjbkR7JRI7lPCoIw_dUGMwZ5ZkBB7Cxo_C1-5uBhgho1kN2luuU9oFlAiwFWKU2RCAPN8ynaFbnKjgjAxGRMmtYlEu7TP72M/s400/2018+Elections-6.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another Morena poster hangs from the balcony of the <i>casa</i> belonging to our<br />
handyman, Saul. Many of the signs in the blocks around where we live are on<br />
the bus routes.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">In reference to the US President’s insistence that Mexico pay for a border wall and turn back Central American immigrants, AMLO has recently said that Mexico will not “be the <i>piñata</i> of any foreign government.” His critics worry that if elected he will become another Hugo Chavez, Venezuela’s deceased leftist strongman. AMLO’s supporters, though, say that he has softened previous nationalistic stands and that claims to the contrary are to be expected from those fearful of losing their places of corrupt privilege. </span>It is unsettling the extent to which the Morena Party is identified with the person of AMLO, but in his defense I’d also like to point out that he is a baseball fan and his favorite team is the St. Louis Cardinals, also beloved by my dear Granddad.</div>
<br />The Last Quarterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160642079655042275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9129805679693838097.post-39029087464868114772018-05-24T15:31:00.000-07:002018-05-24T16:53:43.149-07:00CXIV. Cuando Ellos Traen Los Rifles...When They Bring the Guns<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJxhCELxfytAq2Zg-467BOOlAc50JGD_6xNMM6tCi50Bi6wN1S1RXxaxpXrfpSQdQcqN-eMUDWU88sfwz4XJv-kulD7y0pk_iOSwYROzrOwQjqGhZYikjUmiEBEC48RagsTHmuUJt0Z_o/s1600/Rigo+en+su+Casa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJxhCELxfytAq2Zg-467BOOlAc50JGD_6xNMM6tCi50Bi6wN1S1RXxaxpXrfpSQdQcqN-eMUDWU88sfwz4XJv-kulD7y0pk_iOSwYROzrOwQjqGhZYikjUmiEBEC48RagsTHmuUJt0Z_o/s320/Rigo+en+su+Casa.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rico, last month, at the door to his self-built shack. Inside was<br />
a toaster oven, radio, lights, bed, chair, etc.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: "helvetica";">“Cuando ellos traen los rifles, no hay nada qué ustedes pueden hacer.” When they bring the rifles, there’s nothing you can do. Trying to be comradely, this is what I said to Rico as he walked dazed around the mess of broken wood and palm branches, pieces of blanket and tarp, and a lot of unrecognizable (at least to me) debris that just this morning had served as his self-built shanty.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: "helvetica";"> </span><br />
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: "helvetica";"><br /></span>
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: "helvetica";">“Está bien, está bien,” he muttered. It’s OK, it’s OK. Trying to keep his cool.</span><br />
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: "helvetica";"><br /></span>
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: "helvetica";">About 15 black-suited municipal police, a few with automatic rifles slung over their shoulder, all with holstered hand guns, sat about 20 meters away on benches they’d scavenged from their recent wreckage.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: "helvetica";"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: "helvetica";">Half a dozen others were in plain clothes—jeans, and blue or plaid long sleeve shirts stretched tight across their shoulders.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNu7x0-IMo7lvw1DBS9FcHJYMSQmj5Bcld-wTUAl1gQVCQCOmtKR319KXAzOAeEjWHM6GdDKAs7rYKCNghWDmt-c9TjQxo7L7NpNDvhSFMdRuBGxVL4RfiXK3Pv9_DDNQNHUpWuoHuIGo/s1600/Shoreline+Shantytown-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNu7x0-IMo7lvw1DBS9FcHJYMSQmj5Bcld-wTUAl1gQVCQCOmtKR319KXAzOAeEjWHM6GdDKAs7rYKCNghWDmt-c9TjQxo7L7NpNDvhSFMdRuBGxVL4RfiXK3Pv9_DDNQNHUpWuoHuIGo/s320/Shoreline+Shantytown-2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the whimsical planters the community constructed. "La<br />
Borrachita", or the Little Drunkard, is the name of the boat.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: "helvetica";">Rico’s wasn’t the only shelter that had been destroyed. A handful of others had barnacled together over the past couple of years on the shady lakeshore several blocks from where we live. They had all been leveled during probably less than an hour on a thankfully clear and warm morning in our central Mexican village.</span><br />
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: "helvetica";"><br /></span>
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: "helvetica";">When I stopped to ineffectually commiserate with Rico I saw the few other former residents poking through the rubble of what had served as their homes. I had admired the industry with which they constructed rock planters around the trees in this area, painted signage, regularly raked windfall from the sandy trail, began raising a small nursery of plants, fished in the lake and barbecued their catch, and kept what I thought was a friendly profile along this stretch of the shoreline.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: "helvetica";"> </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw3rRw8N0O12lqgDC45HiI2rnUSmMxc99FcqFWJOlmaoHg79IhbWcZ7kMlbHBcVxVHNNRIDDeKqWOrDcYBoRHMW-sKMU3Oq83gY0wJpVL05pKhCBN06HfsI8Q8-Le_w0Q50L_8U1m9Q_A/s1600/Shoreline+Shantytown.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw3rRw8N0O12lqgDC45HiI2rnUSmMxc99FcqFWJOlmaoHg79IhbWcZ7kMlbHBcVxVHNNRIDDeKqWOrDcYBoRHMW-sKMU3Oq83gY0wJpVL05pKhCBN06HfsI8Q8-Le_w0Q50L_8U1m9Q_A/s400/Shoreline+Shantytown.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The "found" sign from Hacienda del Lago is a good tongue-in-cheek name<br />
for this ramshackle hut.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: "helvetica";">Their jerry-built structures sure looked funky, but I never smelled their poop or pee, and there was an endearing whimsy to their lifestyle which admittedly included lazing in the shade with one or more of those big brown bottles of Corona. Over the past months we were happy to contribute an air mattress bed we could no longer use, an old sleeping bag, a few tarps, and a number of plastic pots and the seeds to plant in them.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: "helvetica";"> </span><br />
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: "helvetica";"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: "helvetica";"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Times;"></span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: "helvetica";">I doubt if it’s a coincidence that this relatively long-term community has been destroyed at this particular time. It’s only a little more than a month before nationwide elections that include a complete slate of municipal seats up for grabs. I’m sure there is a large constituency that will applaud the current officeholders’ actions to rid the beautiful lakeshore of rabble.</span></span><br />
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: "helvetica";">Squatters, yes. But we admired their unapologetic, scrounge-based individualism in a world that’s way too often lockstep to a numbing digital beat.</span><br />
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</style>The Last Quarterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160642079655042275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9129805679693838097.post-42803773502850907322018-04-01T18:11:00.000-07:002018-04-02T16:43:55.961-07:00CXIII. Semana SantaHoly Week<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPbIFMaiJGdfaxYZt6A5_JArtPDFwNwKoyY1f9UddmpydzDlP0V6H8JeSumhugOXkWdVlJkKHc-DmGKh-UxxjzQIflSJCUhhh_MhNTMsrPDp6cHYorNgqEUk2_dXrh9t70SGZZL9ffS_0/s1600/Semana+Santa-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPbIFMaiJGdfaxYZt6A5_JArtPDFwNwKoyY1f9UddmpydzDlP0V6H8JeSumhugOXkWdVlJkKHc-DmGKh-UxxjzQIflSJCUhhh_MhNTMsrPDp6cHYorNgqEUk2_dXrh9t70SGZZL9ffS_0/s400/Semana+Santa-1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Peter leading Jesus down Calle Hidalgo on the way to San Andrés church,<br />
<i>Domingo de Ramos</i>--Palm Sunday.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Palm Sunday marked the beginning of </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Semana Santa</i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">, Holy Week, here in central Mexico. In our village, Hidalgo street was covered with green verbena stalks for half a mile from Six Corners neighborhood to San Andrés parish church. A crowd of about fifty parishioners walked along this route in the late afternoon, each carrying a bouquet of chamomile tied to a woven palm frond. At the front, just ahead of the priest, was a small group of costumed young men acting as the apostles. At their center was Christ, represented by another young man from the parish. The procession ended with a mass in the church courtyard. Over the next seven days we would see Jesus and his apostles at several more events depicting the last week of His life.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDuBCKM0qqgw4vcX0myV1fhiFc1dgsgSlT4s54RRYJI9mK668EGltQKyqMne4FCNOhbG5SUTGNElcwQ6biWlI6fpxbpUj8NBAYZSgpnA1xVp_2MtRB2_wx-D0nREt4yucYb18v6Z531-0/s1600/Semana+Santa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDuBCKM0qqgw4vcX0myV1fhiFc1dgsgSlT4s54RRYJI9mK668EGltQKyqMne4FCNOhbG5SUTGNElcwQ6biWlI6fpxbpUj8NBAYZSgpnA1xVp_2MtRB2_wx-D0nREt4yucYb18v6Z531-0/s400/Semana+Santa.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Last Supper re-enacted in front of the bicycle repair shop at <i>Seis Esquinas</i>.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Their next appearance was on </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Jueves Santo</i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">, Maundy Thursday. Both the faithful and interested bystanders began gathering</span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">in the early evening to witness an enactment of the Last Supper, again at </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Seís Equinas </i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">barrio—the most traditionally Mexican area of the village. Some of the scenes brought back memories from long ago bible study—Jesus washing the apostles’ feet, calling out Judas and Peter, everyone performing the first Eucharist by eating the bread and drinking the wine representing the body and blood of Christ.</span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHIsPtWJ307cioeyChkfZzcbQDs-uqOWfOcS9XEepx1O4W_FItfsrQMzWOoIpmlERB0qyefFLSWVWbvodYIm436q_JtufSDR5zhVUbz2beftzLJb7mGqvHfUxvFhlz1s81xrItYCN0ufw/s1600/Semana+Santa-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHIsPtWJ307cioeyChkfZzcbQDs-uqOWfOcS9XEepx1O4W_FItfsrQMzWOoIpmlERB0qyefFLSWVWbvodYIm436q_JtufSDR5zhVUbz2beftzLJb7mGqvHfUxvFhlz1s81xrItYCN0ufw/s400/Semana+Santa-2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Torchlit procession uphill to Tempisque. Handlers moved ropes<br />
to create space around the actors.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Jesus and several of the more involved apostles were miked just like Broadway actors. After supper the less involved were given torches and they all set off at a blistering pace through the dark cobblestone streets, across the </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">carretera</i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">, and up Tempisque to the </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Jardín de Getsemaní</i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> set, near the base of a large, fairly recently constructed microwave tower. Many of us trying to take photographs stumbled to get ahead of the actors, grumbling about their pace and the lack of enough light to get decent pictures.</span></span></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixKxzI08Y_aSmkyzUu7y4AhAcPyICXCkarlgNuofz9irrInsOeByGwLX8eG9WI2qjsqyhFMVNZAP7JSKJ9VEOn15o_M32DZG5GtoutfsDJtqScLqsY_eL7jO1lygBA7_dNjaclBG2lxoE/s1600/Semana+Santa-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixKxzI08Y_aSmkyzUu7y4AhAcPyICXCkarlgNuofz9irrInsOeByGwLX8eG9WI2qjsqyhFMVNZAP7JSKJ9VEOn15o_M32DZG5GtoutfsDJtqScLqsY_eL7jO1lygBA7_dNjaclBG2lxoE/s320/Semana+Santa-3.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The way back downhill was lit by torches as well. <i>Vecinos </i><br />
stood outside their <i>casas </i>waiting for Jesus to be escorted by.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">It took quite a while for the sound system to get set up (so what was the rush?), and the fifty meter or so distance between audience and actors made for a less than ideal theatrical experience. But who’s to argue when such momentous events are being depicted?: Simon Peter disowning Christ, and Judas betraying Him, His arrest by the Roman troops, and then everyone’s march back down the hill into town for his arraignment at the plaza.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">The next day was </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Viernes Santo</i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">, or Good Friday. This featured the only event which I had previously seen—Jesus’s trial before Pontius Pilate. It seems churlish in light of the suffering of our actors, not to mention the original cast, but I chose not to endure the noonday heat in the crowded church courtyard, and missed Jesus’s flagellation and struggle to carry the cross back up to the base of Tempisque’s tower, now representing the path of the Stations of the Cross on the way to Golgotha.</span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidHwnetS1UeppUPTq3gbSPtWDb0nbO2DMp2FtGJ99w69uLSEHBRRMqcnWyaWI3FrHah3oXiceRp3b230wyzwQ7ZiPj18uXUh2aCwpPCWkWJZb1Y2_c9AcJFxT-2rEYSXomIp9U7-xeXag/s1600/Semana+Santa-4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidHwnetS1UeppUPTq3gbSPtWDb0nbO2DMp2FtGJ99w69uLSEHBRRMqcnWyaWI3FrHah3oXiceRp3b230wyzwQ7ZiPj18uXUh2aCwpPCWkWJZb1Y2_c9AcJFxT-2rEYSXomIp9U7-xeXag/s320/Semana+Santa-4.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jesus dragged his cross over this and many more cobbled<br />
streets, the mile-long route distinguished by colored banners.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">By the time I made it up the hill a large crowd had gathered favoring the scant shade from walls or nearly leafless trees or gathered under numerous parasols (literally, in Spanish, “for the sun”). Drink and ice cream vendors were popular. On stage, which means up the hillside, Roman soldiers in faux leather armor looked awfully hot, but Christ and the bad hombres on either side of Him must have been miserable. They were tied to crosses facing the harsh midday sun. I was feeling the heat myself and made my cowardly way back home before the event was over.</span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH-ugm62Ea7zIpdD_lDDCSuzEyS_19Eb6_efscqbTvyrgBgN6QlS0OYx2Hfg5zol78kma74vg0xw-abPlujWu4YRpFRr5Icf_oGPM9GXeKCpR_O_BB-U22tTYOrJwbqquA4nd4b66zSBQ/s1600/Semana+Santa-5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1083" data-original-width="1600" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH-ugm62Ea7zIpdD_lDDCSuzEyS_19Eb6_efscqbTvyrgBgN6QlS0OYx2Hfg5zol78kma74vg0xw-abPlujWu4YRpFRr5Icf_oGPM9GXeKCpR_O_BB-U22tTYOrJwbqquA4nd4b66zSBQ/s400/Semana+Santa-5.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spectators at the crucification re-enactment angled for shade.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">It was much more comfortable the next evening, </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Sábado de Gloria</i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">. A crowd was seated in the church courtyard waiting for a representation of the resurrection, but I opted to join the more secular folks listening to mariachi music around the plaza’s gazebo. When the music was over I wandered over to the courtyard and stood in back. The faithful were lighting their candles. It was a peaceful and moving scene.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Today is Easter, </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Pascua</i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> here in Mexico. No dyed and hidden eggs, baskets to put them in, or Cadbury chocolates to be missed by the seekers and not found until the slugs had gotten to them. No Easter Bunny, even. It’s a quiet day mostly spent at home with family.</span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAwu3weHXYtPkGdtdcDjKt_3pANTRMgpW-yiSwXrKbOFQYMy-oCV2mox4WZVaMjJELq2b8NcJ4Gh4Lii97_5zhkbE51ybLbT-dJBZWQDhinDMydubtgSO99Vpxok7zceHy4RMcReFeRqY/s1600/Semana+Santa-8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAwu3weHXYtPkGdtdcDjKt_3pANTRMgpW-yiSwXrKbOFQYMy-oCV2mox4WZVaMjJELq2b8NcJ4Gh4Lii97_5zhkbE51ybLbT-dJBZWQDhinDMydubtgSO99Vpxok7zceHy4RMcReFeRqY/s640/Semana+Santa-8.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Saturday night the faithful gathered in the church courtyard to celebrate the resurrection of Christ.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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</style>The Last Quarterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160642079655042275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9129805679693838097.post-44062177693557049602018-02-24T15:57:00.001-08:002018-04-01T15:00:20.780-07:00CXII. Un Otro DesfileAnother Parade<br />
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It had been a quiet, warm and clear Saturday morning. Our patio garden green and peaceful. We had just sat down to breakfast. Then we heard the </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">cohetes</i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">—sky rockets—exploding, then the brass and drum band. My wife said, “Parade”, and we hurried to the door. In front of our </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">casa</i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> the first thing we saw was a big, wildly colored papier mâché elephant being maneuvered to enable it to pass under low hanging wires.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span><br />
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We saw a float with the Chili Cook-off queen and her costumed attendants. Another carried a mariachi group and dancers advertising a neighborhood restaurant. Fancy cars and pickups with well-dressed passengers from local businesses and charities. A final energetic band. Everybody friendly and happy, smiling and waving, the two of us leaning out our front door.</span><br />
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The parade was heading up a couple of blocks to the </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">carretera</i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">—the main road through town—on its way to the cook-off being held at Tobolandia waterpark where there’d also be the chance to pick up something handmade by local artisans.</span><br />
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The <i>desfile</i> would sure slow down traffic for the next half hour for all the gringo snowbirds in their rental cars, and rich Tapatios from Guadalajara down for the weekend, but what the hell. Slowing down is good for the heart and the soul.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This is a parade-loving village. I'm not sure how typical that is of other Mexican pueblos, but I can see how parades and fiestas contribute to this being one of the top rated countries for happiness, even with the poverty, corruption and cartel violence. Being able to walk out our door or go to the end of the block and hear this gratuitous music and celebration, to see </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">someone we know, a neighbor, to smile at and greet by name helps keep us feeling connected to the things that bring joy. </span><br />
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</style>The Last Quarterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160642079655042275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9129805679693838097.post-2901366532711129822018-02-15T17:13:00.000-08:002018-04-01T15:00:07.572-07:00CXI. Carnaval, 2018<h4>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">Carnival, 2018</span></h4>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><i>Written on Fat Tuesday, two days ago:<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></i></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">I dodged warily among a half dozen horses at the cobblestoned corner of Aldama and Constitución as I waited late this morning for the Carnaval parade to began. The horses were itching for a chance to dance to a brass and drum band that was warming up. I also kept an eye out for the masked scrum eager to grab an audience member and toss him or her on a mattress on a truck bed full of flour. Congas and maracas practiced beating time for the Carnaval Queen.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">An hour after the parade ended I stood in the middle of Constitución, beer in hand, and looked up five long blocks towards the mountains that edge our lake. A bus was bearing down on me, still at a distance, one of the white ones with red trim that announce it’s headed for Chapala. Nothing odd in that, but it was followed by a billowing white cloud, remains of the many kilos of flour thrown at today’s parade bystanders by the slightly scary, grotesquely masked <i>sayacas.</i></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">And two hours after that, workers arrived at our <i>casa </i>to carry three huge full and planted terra-cotta pots—each about the size and weight of a burro, and at least as unwieldy—many back-breaking paces across the <i>comedor</i> and <i>sala</i>, through the patio and up twenty-three narrow steps to the mirador. Three small wiry guys laughed and humped their loads without incident—a typical Mexican job. Tomorrow is Ash Wednesday and the beginning of Lent. Tonight there will be music and fiestas all over town.</span></span></div>
The Last Quarterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160642079655042275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9129805679693838097.post-42851450882958236082018-02-11T12:26:00.001-08:002018-04-01T14:59:30.491-07:00CX. Dos Días Antes de Carnaval<h4>
Two Days Before Carnival</h4>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Noonish—I still hadn't showered, still in my sweat pants, </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">faded</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">nine-year-old Obama t-shirt, brown knit cardigan for the chill. On my feet, the furry mocs I wear from bed to bathroom—not street-ready—so didn’t feel like going outside when I heard the noise. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Outside—the sound of a brass band, most likely for one of the pre-</span><i style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">Carnaval</i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> parades. </span><i style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">Carnaval</i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">—literally, “Farewell to meat”. The grotesquely masked and costumed Sayacas would be wildly throwing confetti (if you’re lucky) and flour (if you’re not). The municipal delegate tried to calm them down last year. They grew rowdier with a vengeance, but still in fun, especially for the kids shrieking with their love of harmless danger. A tradition, like bullfighting. The parade still ends in </span><i style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">Lienzo Charro</i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">, the old bullring. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Not an hour after the brassy procession came the solemn double-noted death knell tolling from the nearby parish church. Someone in the pueblo died this morning. That about says it all from here: Life and Death intertwined and out in public.</span><br />
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</style>The Last Quarterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160642079655042275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9129805679693838097.post-42663703561775439822018-01-01T19:08:00.000-08:002018-04-01T14:59:53.185-07:00CIX. Felíz Año NuevoHappy New Year<br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">From our mirador last night, just after midnight, I saw fireworks from all over our village and heard voices of celebrants in the streets around our house. Today, mid-afternoon, we watched a very good natured New Year’s Day <i>desfile</i>, or parade, that came out of the <i>Seis Esquinas</i> neighborhood and made a big loop through the village streets before returning for a traditional soccer match. On the three-block walk to the parade route we saw ashen remains of last night’s bonfires in the street. We imagined neighbors bringing in the new year together on their doorsteps, maybe some of the same ones I had heard in the night. </span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">While we waited at the corner of Constitución and Galeana for the parade, Saul, our neighbor and handyman, came by, shook hands, and introducing us to his sister wished us “Felíz Año Nuevo”—Happy New Year. It wasn’t long before the brass band and exploding <i>cohetes </i>signaled the parade’s arrival. Young girls carried a banner announcing the first “float”—it said something about a gift—<i>regalo</i>—for Sr. Trump. What followed was a papier mache figure in black suit and trademark yellow hair, accompanied by two dancing, grinning attendants, one of whom was our friend Mauricio. On the buffoon’s back was pinned a sign—“Hit me”. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The theme for the rest of the goofy parade relied heavily on the recent Disney movie “Coco” which is set in a small Mexican village: I counted three different pickups with kids in skeleton face makeup striking tableaux with their little <i>abuelas</i> while crooning and pretending to play guitars. Then there was a gang of bicyclists in clown masks and rainbow afro-wigs. More bands. A "slimer" from "Ghostbusters" rode in another pickup--evidently a holdover from parades past. Dancing girls threw candy and confetti. It seemed nearly every tall float got hung up on a large ficus tree draped over Galeana. The winner for high-concept was nearly a full deck of those Mexican lottery cards with each one come to life in costume and props. The <i>desfile</i> ended with a final brass band and two guys shooting exploding fireworks into the sunny afternoon sky. Happy New Year, everyone!</span>The Last Quarterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160642079655042275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9129805679693838097.post-52948277699454697632017-11-17T18:45:00.001-08:002017-11-18T19:30:54.110-08:00CVIII. Nuestro Viaje a Morelia<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
Our Trip to Morelia<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpNiq6-7gN6BCsicxMDAP-_YHSGLy0nY61q-f9lx6DUmUbeYOvraJTqDQZo3q6ewu3edyaePURKoiDYSj1C6t9lV89Ywnk2ohI2nlFVo7o4pwkQLYhk7WJcNf3UWpBlPKT4VEc4XHjByQ/s1600/Morelia%2527s+Picks-14.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpNiq6-7gN6BCsicxMDAP-_YHSGLy0nY61q-f9lx6DUmUbeYOvraJTqDQZo3q6ewu3edyaePURKoiDYSj1C6t9lV89Ywnk2ohI2nlFVo7o4pwkQLYhk7WJcNf3UWpBlPKT4VEc4XHjByQ/s400/Morelia%2527s+Picks-14.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Sanctuary of Guadalupe was constructed in the early<br />
1700s, and the elaborate decoration added nearly 200 years<br />
later. Every December 12, the day the Virgin of Guadalupe<br />
is celebrated. hundreds of pilgrims come here to pray.</td></tr>
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A couple of times a year we rent a car and take a trip to a place we feel would be interesting to visit, three or four hours away from where we live in central Mexico. The cool mountain village of Mazamitla is a popular place to go, especially when it's hot here by Lake Chapala. Larger cities, tourist spots that are further away--such as Pátzcuaro about 200 miles southeast of us--are also destinations. Last week we had planned to go to Zacatecas, a picturesque colonial silver mining town with an international street theater festival that may or may not have been going on at the time, but a few days before our departure we saw that it was forecast to have highs near 100°F. That wasn't for us, so we decided on a trip to Morelia instead; the capital of Michoacán, it's a city we'd talked about visiting for its large, attractive and mostly intact three to four hundred year-old <i>centro historico</i>.<br />
<br />
The drive last week, along with the one to Patzcuaro and others I've taken with the <i><a href="http://littlecorneroflove.blogspot.mx/2016/04/lxiv-cazadores-de-las-haciendas-la.html" target="_blank">Cazadores de Haciendas</a></i> group, have acquainted me with the <i>cuota</i> (fee) road system--mostly well-maintained, divided and controlled access highways--that is expensive but much faster than the often potholed, speed-bumped and narrow, twisty roads that go to and through every village. It cost us the equivalent of about $30US each way on the 200 mile <i>cuota</i> between Guadalajara and Morelia, but it took us less than three hours and was a beautiful drive with long vistas in the high dry scrub of central Mexico.<br />
<br />
We took a crash course on TripAdvisor, Lonely Planet, etc. websites and planned a rough itinerary. It worked out pretty well. Over the four full days there we took one ten minute, $2US taxi ride to a half dozen sites--a rococo sanctuary to the Virgin of Guadalupe, several museums, a park, plazas, and 250-year-old aqueduct, plus an excellent Latin American fusion restaurant. The rest of the time we walked from our centrally located hotel to a cathedral, more plazas, museums, colonial-era architectural wonders, cafes and restaurants, fireworks and free music--lots of music, it's home to a several centuries' old music school and its students both present and past busk all over town. That's not to mention the artisans from all over the state of Michoacán who display and sell their fantastic folk art from a central <i>mercado y museo. </i>As usual though, our primary recreation was soaking in the vibe and people watching.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZMsID9SisbPIDYqjHPybI8uDcfJBluhkUOvBu_2d_YfckBaB80OEsblaPTDygQJCHpWU-GAo1uiAGwUvKgLOJ4wzstOPiTi5PxYsNSii30ZKUoIaC2R-Y-v7LnuoRXn5l2Qit1mm8_G8/s1600/Morelia%2527s+Picks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZMsID9SisbPIDYqjHPybI8uDcfJBluhkUOvBu_2d_YfckBaB80OEsblaPTDygQJCHpWU-GAo1uiAGwUvKgLOJ4wzstOPiTi5PxYsNSii30ZKUoIaC2R-Y-v7LnuoRXn5l2Qit1mm8_G8/s640/Morelia%2527s+Picks.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The rococo ornamentation was added to the <i>santuario</i> a hundred years ago by a local artisan. It is a combination of indigenous clay sculpture techniques along with European-style plaster work. The effect is mind blowing! The large paintings along each side of the nave appear to show Franciscan friars overseeing converted <i>indígenas</i>. And then you think about the <u>way</u> they were converted-- </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigraDVjN9N5AtkiQo2mmPyStwZ7nq9QYtigpe61Or8QSInR3saEYW5BGRXuFKIQNo5zBBNodbc5nx7V8JWAaTYl6zxZjW1LF85BtXVnnmNzpehovTqiIAvwZ2Q1LnBsQh2P0Hsf_ULmUo/s1600/Morelia%2527s+Picks-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigraDVjN9N5AtkiQo2mmPyStwZ7nq9QYtigpe61Or8QSInR3saEYW5BGRXuFKIQNo5zBBNodbc5nx7V8JWAaTYl6zxZjW1LF85BtXVnnmNzpehovTqiIAvwZ2Q1LnBsQh2P0Hsf_ULmUo/s640/Morelia%2527s+Picks-2.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After being awed at the Sanctuary we strolled across the street to <i>Plaza Morelos</i>, named for José Maria Morelos, one of the main heroes of the Mexican War of Independence in the early 1800s. He is the one usually pictured wearing a bandanna on his head. This city, originally called Valladolid, was renamed Morelia in his honor. Here he is on a horse leading his troops against Spain and its forces. In the left background of the picture is a small section of a 250-year-old aqueduct that our taxi driver insisted still carries water. Hmmmm.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRlZCnBGSMb38tdXx_NoJqWCLV21_PLdYexZPthcme940_AZPYMzCWQsar9nQ7nxq88eA7ItFaYdeNx4VEFNtccPxLutIB_mnQtitIgDEa2W1-Z5EWgJ3TtpuqfWa4Yn78ztgxFLILWV0/s1600/Morelia%2527s+Picks-17.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRlZCnBGSMb38tdXx_NoJqWCLV21_PLdYexZPthcme940_AZPYMzCWQsar9nQ7nxq88eA7ItFaYdeNx4VEFNtccPxLutIB_mnQtitIgDEa2W1-Z5EWgJ3TtpuqfWa4Yn78ztgxFLILWV0/s640/Morelia%2527s+Picks-17.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The small <i>Jardín de las Rosas</i> was a relaxing daily stop during our trip. We snacked and bantered with a musician at one of the cafes under the green umbrellas. Parks like this, both small and large, abound in this civilized city. The <i>Conservatorio de las Rosas</i>, across the street to the left is the most prestigious music school in Latin America. We were graced with music from their students during our stay.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_8pwdJJvBotHmOSXdsA-qLn57c7f5HTltL9_eINJHR4Jz2DrVsO85HiSd6elfDN1qyz1ckaebDkkGyJySC5VNWRhhI_GNxBQgEf2XWW3fOEXilQdLMZJniKovdMshJRJqr9GFe43OEiw/s1600/Morelia%2527s+Picks-9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_8pwdJJvBotHmOSXdsA-qLn57c7f5HTltL9_eINJHR4Jz2DrVsO85HiSd6elfDN1qyz1ckaebDkkGyJySC5VNWRhhI_GNxBQgEf2XWW3fOEXilQdLMZJniKovdMshJRJqr9GFe43OEiw/s640/Morelia%2527s+Picks-9.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The trees over the <i>Jardín de las Rosas</i> are background left. This sculpture is on the pedestrian street<br />
running two blocks to the town square with its covered archway promenade. The sculpture seems to<br />
display two acrobats, limbs interestingly arranged, one half-hidden and supporting the other on the<br />
soles of his feet. The one on top arrests the viewer with her gaze and flyaway hair braid.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuQLXnckRVyDxVJE7YVH8KlYLaUQ6Y2Rt47wwMOtHlY8VxdwkgLgqMJv-Fn0nz6CLwOHPQ4hmLr656d0tpvzJdgtBzEirQ_TRAXOZJYv6_dYAig5GbPPXYVxBrWG-P0Et5cysN58iYJE0/s1600/Morelia%2527s+Picks-13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuQLXnckRVyDxVJE7YVH8KlYLaUQ6Y2Rt47wwMOtHlY8VxdwkgLgqMJv-Fn0nz6CLwOHPQ4hmLr656d0tpvzJdgtBzEirQ_TRAXOZJYv6_dYAig5GbPPXYVxBrWG-P0Et5cysN58iYJE0/s640/Morelia%2527s+Picks-13.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">These two young guys played some good music while we ate breakfast inside the covered promenade across from the main plaza in background.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7G3GnmeT_BwkfuVeU3miq1yHXH7P0SFejnIe37pRZKMnEOuGXCF8s9vlvPrpP3Oin4rgTLyZ9l1Q2nWUPMB8Nz5NtpDaZ_ZrMg6CvhHWQOvokqASudbdM2Wu5IS04oqTypJDjkNlMvZA/s640/Morelia%2527s+Picks-11.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="640" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking toward site of the previous picture--notice the same green awnings--several days later. The fellow checking his cell phone is one of the musicians that accompany the traditional "Dance of the Old Men" in the main plaza. He is likely from the village of Jarácuaro where the dance has been performed for hundreds of years. It features dancers wearing masks that depict old men who hobble feebly until the music strikes a more lively tune, and then they perform a very energetic tap dance...Behind us now, and pictured just below, is the main plaza with <i>Andador Juarez</i> park in the following photo.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjToSrBllTLZW1-ML_klBfUD4V61A0glGcsCeW9Gt8YjAhhSgbDx8-epzZUQL_A1__q4BBYVqZgZuei1ECngV4J_Gprqhu98FeNrOgnIN0s8soVOdt0UBNhhyphenhyphenkt7fDtXk8vDHOC2f8__SM/s1600/Morelia%2527s+Picks-18.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjToSrBllTLZW1-ML_klBfUD4V61A0glGcsCeW9Gt8YjAhhSgbDx8-epzZUQL_A1__q4BBYVqZgZuei1ECngV4J_Gprqhu98FeNrOgnIN0s8soVOdt0UBNhhyphenhyphenkt7fDtXk8vDHOC2f8__SM/s640/Morelia%2527s+Picks-18.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Walking toward the center of Morelia's main plaza with its fountains, benches, trees, and lawns. Paths radiate to all sides and corners from a central gazebo, always the site of children playing. The board at left of the picture advertises the concerts during a two-week long international music festival. We heard some excellent and free jazz by a group from Spain. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq01244wkA7bO5EhMwoUwMUy7eo3tOMp31FojBHlDS5RE9I3yd6ppxIn-1NC9FSzEEipFGo_fUumgtczekwH9C9EPc_VhKP0KSyhNbvyGzY3hkR3JCxP8QpmxDEEByzpzvHJf-3GbuEVE/s640/Morelia%2527s+Picks-3.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="640" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Adjacent to the main plaza is <i>Andador Juarez</i> which comprises three tree-lined lanes for walkers that connect streets north and south of the 200 meter long walkway. The steeple in the center of the picture is part of the city's main place to worship, the <i>Catedral de Morelia</i>, seat of the archdiocese.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwWWG_fFmgNjE9aXKAlVIyxbRuNZj7g0Yc51lnfTtchAhOkYUKgxryscBsNeuaA5rbrlZzPtEkWaAqx2ioGOvzTV4rW-s0IBSBB1jmXVJM-qTkiaA7eHXcr31oQjobtey6T_0481W6Zsg/s640/Morelia%2527s+Picks-10.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="640" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Every time we passed through the <i>andador</i> some clown was putting on a show to lots of laughter and usually rapt attention from the children and their parents alike. This picture shows lots of empty bench space because of the strong afternoon sun; most of the audience is on the shaded side of the walkway.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglm1M1bqTCDUkn3W3ZC-yoEFmXaOivavCy10JCr5JWTe5NQEOphfWVFjudlQFpHx7QKV9ECXSUsTjugdid2VuZjqZa25NNEb-7Ro1rYY-T4tVDokM5IAw2KGipx9xZOA6nKNAYMi4iYkc/s1600/Morelia%2527s+Picks-16.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglm1M1bqTCDUkn3W3ZC-yoEFmXaOivavCy10JCr5JWTe5NQEOphfWVFjudlQFpHx7QKV9ECXSUsTjugdid2VuZjqZa25NNEb-7Ro1rYY-T4tVDokM5IAw2KGipx9xZOA6nKNAYMi4iYkc/s640/Morelia%2527s+Picks-16.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vendors selling all kinds of cheap plastic toys are a common site around the cathedral, <i>andador</i> and plaza. Another way of making a peso or five is shown by the silver fellow in the center of the photograph, somewhat mimicking the statue's pose upper left. The miner guy stands immobile until people begin to ignore him and then makes a sudden, startling move. He seemed too intimidating, though, to attract much<i> dinero</i>.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLYfgzCzy3oF4aA4BHtcK9Nylif1iqrnvWRD8L5XmfE-uH9oc0-zFxibdOcjfBX2qcEQyyLfwRzG_d7e_O1SeeJN0dgaTuxJV0gl3okpIc0LRJigRHEqxnLarBgvGZXof0PBpv58Llrug/s1600/Morelia%2527s+Picks-15.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLYfgzCzy3oF4aA4BHtcK9Nylif1iqrnvWRD8L5XmfE-uH9oc0-zFxibdOcjfBX2qcEQyyLfwRzG_d7e_O1SeeJN0dgaTuxJV0gl3okpIc0LRJigRHEqxnLarBgvGZXof0PBpv58Llrug/s640/Morelia%2527s+Picks-15.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On the other side of the cathedral, another toy vendor. Under a large awning behind me, about a hundred chairs were set out inviting passersby to stop and watch a movie--something artsy and in Spanish. The wooden doorway of the cathedral gives entrance to the transept. As people exit the church and pass through the gate they meet the outstretched hat of a beggar displaying his leprosy. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxz0kr3H7jmjKsrHpi2ohbX3cS6huUDI7ZBNPXchIa1TbuxfjpOf_zacjzQI5WWbpEcrvnYvlGovaU8K3ybIobDcFB2OpP4C9mrm-cMx3jkHRuF25B-3BSKkxIX9Ttd-tulK-jYmQJd60/s1600/Morelia%2527s+Picks-19.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxz0kr3H7jmjKsrHpi2ohbX3cS6huUDI7ZBNPXchIa1TbuxfjpOf_zacjzQI5WWbpEcrvnYvlGovaU8K3ybIobDcFB2OpP4C9mrm-cMx3jkHRuF25B-3BSKkxIX9Ttd-tulK-jYmQJd60/s640/Morelia%2527s+Picks-19.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Several years ago we visited the workshops in Santa Clara del Cobre, a village not far from<br />
Morelia. As its name suggests--<i>cobre</i> means copper--the artisans there specialize in hammered<br />
copper objects such as the plates, bowls and vases displayed here in the <i>Instituto del Artesano<br />Michuacano.</i> Both a museum and market, the Institute is housed in a large, nearly five hundred<br />
year-old ex-convent.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxbaAGX2lDRezQyd-DcVoyMtnOrbX_wLGH5tMhc_wdlKAJLQ9uTzZ1ErYTjoChUoABGBc2lQ3FqEN7xx67YKRqmec8jNaFOPRBkQz7AlADI8L4siM6M2DerGHnhPIEXTV_cf6PAvu8vcY/s1600/Morelia%2527s+Picks-5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxbaAGX2lDRezQyd-DcVoyMtnOrbX_wLGH5tMhc_wdlKAJLQ9uTzZ1ErYTjoChUoABGBc2lQ3FqEN7xx67YKRqmec8jNaFOPRBkQz7AlADI8L4siM6M2DerGHnhPIEXTV_cf6PAvu8vcY/s640/Morelia%2527s+Picks-5.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This clay-sculpted statue, also in the Institute of Michoacán Artisans, displays a Shiva-like figure, a destroyer consuming and allowing for new creation. Notice the accompanying snakes. The same technique that creates such figures as this also was employed in adorning the <i>Santuario de Guadalupe</i>, pictured at the beginning of this post. Along one hallway of the ex-convent, fifteen former cells have been converted to salesrooms for a like number of villages, each specializing in a particular craft. I think past three and four centuries to those nuns and novitiates padding over these same stone floors.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimfSg3O6xb_NTHCzInDZ1kUXnDZHyyAIaEIYETbRhZObz3WnQgkkhMPweQKrxJp9CoR7rs7GoGKhdlGzP7J0sUKVcSrhhtylBhw0-wW91VvWc5xpvzt3eQ2obBYBEk8T4OdLER7L7ZXNA/s1600/Morelia%2527s+Picks-7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimfSg3O6xb_NTHCzInDZ1kUXnDZHyyAIaEIYETbRhZObz3WnQgkkhMPweQKrxJp9CoR7rs7GoGKhdlGzP7J0sUKVcSrhhtylBhw0-wW91VvWc5xpvzt3eQ2obBYBEk8T4OdLER7L7ZXNA/s640/Morelia%2527s+Picks-7.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Every Saturday night the lights come on at the cathedral following a fireworks display. The streets around <i>centro historico</i> are packed with people for an hour before.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXehQx5KQ-LUBgCWpzsHSzWCJQ_xqCZTMDP_ntOEf9paZmx5_KaCnioMn84WDZQx9kAkhf0BSOypjk5ftq3xjrjdIiAsW8w3f3GzOzqh0v1eIauibNN9ZM0udZ_XvGBx22jR6xMnmjENw/s1600/Morelia%2527s+Picks-12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXehQx5KQ-LUBgCWpzsHSzWCJQ_xqCZTMDP_ntOEf9paZmx5_KaCnioMn84WDZQx9kAkhf0BSOypjk5ftq3xjrjdIiAsW8w3f3GzOzqh0v1eIauibNN9ZM0udZ_XvGBx22jR6xMnmjENw/s640/Morelia%2527s+Picks-12.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our final afternoon in Morelia we attended a free jazz concert by a Spanish group, <i>Tempus Fugit Cuarteto. </i>What a treat! It was one of the first concerts of a two-week long festival, mostly held here in a repurposed sixteenth century monastery. On two sides of the vast courtyard (out of the picture) were several dozen booths serving excellent quality and inexpensive food and drinks.</td></tr>
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The Last Quarterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160642079655042275noreply@blogger.com0