CXXXIII. Día de los Muertos, 2020

 Day of the Dead, 2020

Yesterday was Día de los Muertos. On this uniquely Mexican holiday, I was shopping for frutas y verduras for dinner when I ran into some friends in the plaza.  

I had stopped to admire an ofrenda to 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.

“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.

“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. 

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 Mauricio 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.

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. El estaba llevando su cubrebocas. Cubrebocas—literally, “cover your mouth”—is what folks around here call the masks you wear for the virus.

I bring up the US election. We agreed the world would be better off if Trump was defeated. ¡Ojalá!

I ask and Cici tells me they haven’t had muchos clientes. The governor “pushed the button” last week to shift Jalisco back to a more strict lockdown, demanding vendedores 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.

My hope is that she did not know about the closure, or that she had plans to sneak inside the panteón. 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.

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. “Ojala”, we said together on parting, raising our hands in prayer to the sky.

CXXXII. Nos Falta una Pieza del Rompecabezas

We Are Missing a Piece of the Puzzle

We started out with the straight-edged pieces, including the ones with The
New Yorker title, and all the purple-edged ones. Look at that jumble we
would look through over the next week.

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.

As rompecabezas-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.

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.

You can see where the missing piece would go, what might be
pictured on it, and its unusual three-spades shape.

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. 

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 rompecabezas (literally, "breaking heads").

CXXXI. Las Hormigas

The Ants

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.  

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. 

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.

And I should mention that we keep a very clean place.

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.

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.

CXXX. Mauricio Se Fue

Mauricio Is Gone

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...

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…

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…

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…

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.

CXXIX. Prohibido

Prohibited

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 the broad walk and playground along the lake shore, called the malecón, 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.

On a beautiful Saturday evening, the malecón and adjoining
picnic and play areas would normally be packed with people.

Together with the roadblocks that limit traffic to the towns along the north lake shore, and the policía 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.

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.

Yesterday evening I took my camera along to document the effects so far:

There would likely be 100 people in this scene that looks toward the mountains bordering the southern shore of the lake.The malecón 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 voladores who come spinning down, upside down, accompanied by flute and drum music, from the very top--a popular attraction.

Further down the malecón are the exercise stations next to the mural-covered baño. The "Ajijic" sign in the center is a popular picture-taking spot.

Further still--the malecón is about 300 yards long--is the now-abandoned skate park.

The blue sign in the center is attached to the green-metal roofed gazebo. The sign says, "Yo me quedo en casa", 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.

CXXVIII. México en el Tiempo de Coronavirus - un Viaje al Supermercado

Mexico in the Time of Coronavirus - a Trip to the Supermarket 
Revised 30 Mar

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 tianguis; that's the crowded, two block-long open-air market that features all kinds of goods and is held every Wednesday. The tianguis 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.

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 tianguis now closed, he's moved his act to an appreciative audience at the entrance of our local supermercado. I was pleased to see him there several times recently and happy to give him a good tip. Some well-heeled Tapatios down from Guadalajara for the weekend were taking videos of Chava with their smart phones, and one gringa was putting effort into dancing joyfully.

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.

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 supermercado, though, I started drawing a mask over my face as soon as I entered the store. I recently discovered that the workshop mascara 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.

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)

I was planning a longer shopping trip on that first day but heard a rumor that the granero 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 dueña 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 abarrotes 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.

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.

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.

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.

CXXVI. La Posada Acaba de Pasar

The Posada Just Past

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CXXV. La Virgen de Guadalupe

The Virgin of Guadalupe

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rumble Butt is Dead. Long Live Hugo.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CXXIII. No Tenemos Mucha Gasolina

We Don't Have Much Gasoline 

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 frutas y verduras from a table in front of the supermercado, 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.

Yesterday the local gringo web board published accounts of five hour waits for a fill-up, and many stations still closed.

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.

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?

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.

Fortunately we’re able to easily walk about everywhere we need to go.

CXXII. Café Alma

Soul Cafe

The newest addition to tiny businesses open on our block is Alma Cafe. It joins about a dozen other tiendas 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 posole sold by the Ibarra clan just a few doors up from our casa.

The cafe is in the space that used to house the papelería and zapatería--office supply store and shoe store--overseen by Vicente's daughter, María. Vicente is the recently deceased 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.

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 alma, or soul, in the little coffee bar's name refers to this kind man.

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 dibujo 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. 

CXXI. ¡Que Tenga un Próspero Año Nuevo!

Wishing You a Prosperous New Year!

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. 

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".

CXX. Un Viaje a las Barrancas del Cobre

A Trip to Copper Canyon

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.

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. 

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

View down to a small town at the bottom of Urique Canyon from over a mile above.
Seeing these two crosses clutched at my heart. They are most likely for a pair of
engineers (ingenieros) who met their end in an accident during construction. D.E.P.
stands for Descansa En Paz--Rest in Peace.

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.

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.

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.

I met this smiling fellow as I began a final stroll around Cerocahui; he introduced himself as Juan, and as a chabochi, 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 un amigo cercano, a close friend.

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.

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.

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.

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 Valle de las Ranas--Valley of the Frogs so named because of their shape.

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.

CIXX. Un Viaje a Colima y Comala

A Trip to Colima and Comala

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.

In mid-September our Cazadores de Haciendas 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. 

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 Cazadores. 

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.

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". 

After exploring the small centro area, some of us gathered under the portales fronting one side of Comala's main plaza. I ordered the tamarind-flavored ponche made locally and snacked on the complimentary botanas 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.

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 tuba--a fresh and cooling drink made of fermented coconut milk.

Siesta time. Billowing cumulus clouds cover Colima volcano rising in the near distance above the red-tiled rooftops of Comala. 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 way to Nogueras Hacienda, allegedly only a few miles away.

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. 

A beautiful embroidered camisa 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.

CXVIII. La Muerte de Vicente

Vicente's Death

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 Vicente--who died in mid-spring.

I first introduced myself to Vicente a few months after we moved to this block, or cuadra, 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 zapatería, which was a combination shoe and notions store at the front of their casa.

He left me some vivid images of our shared greetings: "Tomás". "Señor Vicente, como está"? "Bien, bien, gracias. Y usted"? "Muy bien". "Bueno, que tenga un buen día Tomás". "Igual. Gracias, Señor Vicente". Simple as it was, this exchange always left me uplifted and better able to face the world with a smile.

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.

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 puerta. One day they were, and a funeraria'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.

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 panteon for his burial. It was unaccustomedly hot. I saw amigas passing a bottle of water around. Parasols were held against the sun. About sixty of us shuffled behind the hearse; he'd been a popular man.

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.