LVII. En el Sendero Extraño y Peligroso a la Cascada Esmeralda

On the Strange and Dangerous Path to the Emerald Waterfall

That's mighty hot water spilling over La Cascada
Esmeralda. Photo courtesy of George Frazier

Every Tuesday and Friday a group of mostly gringos—both ex-pats and seasonal visitors to this area—meet at Dona’s Donuts on the carretera, or throughway, that bisects our little town. From there we walk or drive to a trailhead where we begin a 3-6 hour hike. There are usually at least two—often, three—levels to accommodate everyone from tenderfoot to experienced bushwhacker. This past Friday I joined a group of the latter types headed for Bosque de la Primavera, a large, semi-protected, pine and oak forest just past the western outskirts of Guadalajara. Among the trees, cerros and arroyos the area is full of the remains of past volcanic action—huge blocks of pumice, scattered chunks of obsidian, free-standing fossil fumaroles, lava plugs and lots of geothermal activity. We were there for a walk along Rio Caliente—"Hot River", and it lives up to its name—and thence on a hunt up to the source of one of its scalding tributaries not far above—often spoken of but seldom seen—La Cascada Esmeralda.

About the Ride to the Bosque

I met my main hiking buddies, George—an ex-newspaper columnist, -private eye, and -branding entrepreneur from Marin County—and Anthony—yoga instructor and former high school shop teacher from Texas and Florida—at the donut shop a few minutes before our 8AM departure. There was only one car for the ten of us who wanted in on this hike and we were ready to chuck it and wait for a later, lighter-weight local trip until Canadian Peter volunteered his newish SUV for the two hour drive to El Bosque. I traveled with him and three other Canadians all here to escape the brunt of Ontario’s winter. As usual with Canucks the talk at one time or another turned to their unfavorable exchange rate compared to the Yankee dollar…The ride was mostly past sugar cane fields being harvested and trucks way overloaded with same. It was a clear, warm day above the haze from an occasional field being burned to rid the cane of its leaves and bugs.

About Rio Caliente

After paying a nominal entry fee at a kind of Mexican hillbilly toll booth, we found the river flowing clear and mostly shallow over a pebbly bottom, and occasionally bunched into pools above makeshift rocky dams. You could tell by the low banks and youthful vegetation that in the rainy season the river must deepen and spread more widely. We began hiking under a mid-morning sun through a narrow valley with pine and bigleaf oak forests in the hills on either side, hardly any understory. Several times—in order to stay on the path—we had to hop across the stream on convenient rocks. The first time, I put my finger in the water to test how hot it was—“warm,” was what I called out to my companions. When we met a creek tumbling down to our river, steaming hot through a rocky arroyo, the beauty and odd confluence of natural forces made me laugh with happiness at being its witness.

About the Hot, Emerald Stream 

Our destination Friday was the source of a scalding hot tributary of Rio Caliente. This stream’s bed has a bountiful growth of emerald-green algae giving color to its clear water. And it IS hot. A cautionary sign at the trailhead claims the temperature reaches 80º C, more familiarly about 175 Fahrenheit. It wasn’t long before we came to the first crossing, a balancing act on six rocks zigzagging about eight feet to the opposite bank. Maximum depth here appeared to be around knee high. I think we were almost all wondering something along the lines of “What if I fall in? Will I parboil my huevos?” I tested the water with a quick finger poke. “It’s hot. But not too hot.” Meaning, we’ve all put our foot (and quickly withdrawn it) into a full bathtub that wasn’t any hotter than this; we wouldn’t die if we fell in…It’s a testament to our nimbleness that we all made it; possibly our foolhardiness that we even tried…A bit further on and we came to La Cascada Esmeralda—a stunning scene, and a new level of heat and challenge. Steam blowing off this beautiful green-tinted waterfall gave it an eerie and dangerous air. The arroyo had now closed down around the stream. From here on we’d have to climb up its steep walls to gain access to the source that our GPS told us was only a tantalizing 130 meters away.

About Being Stuck

Mis dos amigos (plus Artos, our lanky German friend who always wears a ceramic bear around his neck) wisely decided to bag it at this point. John, intrepid leader, gingerly skirted around the thin edge of the cauldron trying a low approach. The rest—including Lynn, only woman among us, game and fashionable in a black satin and rhinestone visor over Nieman Marcus sunglasses—opted to scramble about fifteen feet up a nearly vertical and overgrown embankment. It wasn't long though before we realized our way forward was irrefutably blocked. And then we saw John below us. He'd run out of room and was hand-over-hand up the vegetation on the sheer wall above an almost-literally-boiling pool of emerald water. John is a stout guy. We saw him grasp and pull out by the roots several small bushes as he scrambled for purchase. Russell, my Canuck seat mate—even more stout—reached down to grab hold of John’s hiking pole. I—smallest of the bunch—backed up Russell…We made it! John—legs scratched and bleeding—fell to the “trail” to catch his breath. I imagined the leg-shaking tension I would have felt in his place…Later, he and I compared notes on an alternate route that will allow us to reach our destination—perhaps next time.

About the Post-Hike Celebration

Not too far from where we left the Bosque on our way home there were an awfully lot of buses and trucks—18, 26, even 32 wheelers—traveling on the loud and air-polluted main road between Guadalajara and the large coastal city of Puerto Vallarta. They could get up to some pretty good speed running past an unbroken line of vividly painted concrete block and metal awninged tiendas, cantinas, repair shops and bodegas. Cafe customers there were close enough to the traffic to really feel the rapid displacement of air and vibration of engines grinding loudly behind their backs. Close enough—we were on the sidewalk, for crissake—to make it difficult to hear, let alone understand, the rapid fire patter of a restaurant owner trying to explain she doesn’t actually serve the food on the appetizing-looking poster displayed on her road-dusty wall, nor does she even have a license to sell cervezas...She solved the former problem by overwhelming us with information about what was on the menu until we ordered whatever (“Carne asada is usually good,” someone muttered). The more important legal issue was worked around in typical Mexican fashion by sending a girl to the little store next door for some liter bottles of Corona, Tecate, etc., and pouring the beer into ceramic mugs…Anthony—bless his heart—is always a soft touch and treated us to a couple of songs from a passing minstrel. We heard the guy's hoarse singing between the noise of passing trucks, but I couldn't keep my eyes off the tennis ball-sized growth on the side of his neck. Salud!

LVI. Nuestra Nueva Casa

Our New House

We're the liver-red casa on the left. The grillwork will be replaced by a wall
with glass brick windows changing the garage into an office/bedroom, maybe
performance space.

There were eight of us around the table yesterday at the notaria's office for all the papers we had to sign in order to gain the deed to our new home. The now-previous owner—elegant, frail and friendly—was there with una amiga. We were there with our lawyer. The realtors’ office was represented, and of course there was the notary himself, a dapper fellow. 

Most of the money had already changed hands—a one-way street from our bank to theirs. We were in and out in an hour, came home and took a nap, drank an extra margarita before dinner and retired early. We were beat. 

Breezeway from front door looking out to street, kitchen
window to right.

Today is another let-down day after the adrenalin rush of our transaction—culmination of weeks of way-out-of-my-comfort-zone financial dealings, plus all the 3AM paranoias about what could possibly go wrong. My therapist—I mean, sensible spouse—was talking me down to the very end.

I went over to the house this morning and found some cool things I hadn’t noticed before like the indirect lighting hidden all around the living room cornice to illuminate the brick-domed ceiling above. Wall sconces on dimmer switches are always a plus. And I hadn’t noticed before how fine the view is from the mirador to the mountains, and how much we can see of the sky. 

Dining room with kitchen entry at left guarded by large Virgin.

On the other hand, a cucaracha and I surprised each other in the closet off the patio, the one that also houses mops and garden tools; I couldn’t get the garage opener to work and quit trying after jumping back from the crackling sparks of an electrical short.

I accomplished my main goal, though, of watering all the plants that our erstwhile realtor had been neglecting, poking around in drawers (discovering some colorful ceramic plates I liked), and making mental notes of how to proceed with cleanup and maintenance.

The configuration of this house is interesting and unusual but not uncommon around here in the central area. Because the properties are pretty much cheek-by-jowl and the blocks

We'll add some of those colorful ceramic tiles to counter top
and replace shelves to right with cabinets.

are big squares, the property width is only about 20 feet, but it goes back well over a hundred. There’s a long breezeway entry walk, past the garage and kitchen and you enter a dining room and through that to a large living room with brick domed ceiling. There are octagonal skylights in each of the last three spaces.

Past the living room you enter a patio with many plants, a wall fountain, and steps leading up to what will be a second story mirador. Straight ahead you go through the patio to the bedroom with its bathroom and at the far wall of the bedroom is a big window and glass double doors onto a very narrow and plant-filled space that mainly is there to give the room more light. 

From the dining room looking into living room and past our friend Wayne into the patio. Refinishing the tile floors is one
of our first orders of business.

Patio with our detached bedroom straight ahead, steps to mirador on left, fountain on right.

Bedroom fireplace and its own narrow patio which is mostly there for the light. The house was designed by the previous
owner--a gringa who lived in Mexico for many years and eventually became a Mexican citizen; she accumulated several houses, much artwork, and still enjoys an idiosyncratic personality. The design is notable for having no windows to either side of the enclosed property. All light comes through skylights or from interior garden space.

LV. ¡Dinero—Ay, Caramba!

Money—Ay, Caramba!

In exactly two weeks the closing is scheduled for the house my wife and I are buying here in Mexico. That’s when we pay for the whole kit and caboodle, minus the 10% down payment we already wire transferred*. Our offer for the house was only accepted a little over three weeks ago, so it’s been a whirlwind trying to get our financial ducks in a row. 

Feathers are flying as I try to get our financial ducks in order.

Less than two weeks ago—following a back and forth exchange about where to send the request—I faxed a document asking that a relatively small—but crucial—amount of money be directly deposited from an AXA investment fund to the joint checking account my wife and I have at Bank of America. A few days later I was notified that AXA regulations would not let them accept as proof for direct deposit the faxed photocopy of our bank account’s voided check, which they had requested but that only had my wife’s name printed on it. Nor would they accept a PDF document I offered to email of our most recent bank statement that had both of our names, account number, bank logo, etc.

AXA would mail a check for the amount we were requesting to the address they had on file, which belongs to our younger daughter. Ten days ago, that’s what I told them to do. Our daughter had deposited other checks in our bank account, so we figured she could do the same with this one. However, the AXA check had not arrived as of last evening. Tonight I’ll get an email from her letting me know if anything came in Monday’s mail. Needless to say, we’ll be very happy to hear everything is OK with this penultimate piece of money movement.

If not, I reckon my first step will be to call AXA and ascertain when (if?) the check was mailed, and the soonest we could have it cancelled and another one Fed-Ex’d for next day delivery, if that’s possible; the AXA rep didn’t mention it as an alternative in the previous phone and email exchanges. (He did suggest, however, that before any money could be transferred out of my account I really should have been required to submit some other undoubtedly complicated and time-consuming document as a consequence of not being in the U.S.)

This is the way we want things to look.

Depending on the timing of a check’s delivery to our conscientious daughter, I might need to further—with that information in mind—contact the realty office to notify them that the final $10K or so will be available by such and such date, possibly after the scheduled closing. I hope that’s not the case because every time I speak with the business manager at the realty office she seems to feel that we are not putting serious effort into purchasing the house. (I think, though, that her suspicions might have been allayed now that she’s got a good chunk of our change in her office’s Mexico City bank*.)

In the meantime I’ll keep growing what remaining hair I have on my head since I seem to have made a de facto decision to not get it cut until I feel that all those financial ducks are in some sort of presentable file.

UPDATE: The check was received by our daughter, and that was a big Hooray! Contrary to our instructions, however, 20% was withheld for income tax. This morning I contacted the AXA functionary to ask about that and he said that disbursement of a Tax Sheltered Annuity, by federal regulation required such an amount to be withdrawn. Who knew? 

*The wire transfers went relatively smoothly from B of A to the Mexico City bank. As a consequence of our Luddism neither my wife nor I have one of those smart phones, nor are we even sure how to send and receive a text message. In order to send an online wire transfer of over $1,000 US, we needed to supply a verification code sent to a mobile device. Younger daughter was once again the middlewoman. As I was online to my bank, and daughter and I were long-distance connected by telephone, she read off the code that I'd had sent to her iPhone. I entered the code in the little box B of A supplied on my laptop screen, and presto-chango the virtual money flew into the ether and eventually to our realtor's account.

LIV. A Las Guachimontones Encima del Pueblo de Teuchitlán

At the Guachimontones Above the Village of Teuchitlán

Taking a break from realtors and bankers I went on another recreational hacienda hunt yesterday. Nowadays, Las Cazadores [Hunters] de Haciendas club not only has badges affixed to hats, packs, shirts or shorts, but many of us (not me) were also sporting their official blue and yellow t-shirts, under several layers of sweaters, down vests, or jackets. It was cold. There was a nasty wind.

We went to a restored hacienda this time—El Carmen is its name. We had a noontime dinner there in a fancy dining room, after strolling the grounds and being shown to some opulent suites—all the mod cons in eighteenth century style. The style, though, of the entire place didn’t suit my tastes. I’ve come to much prefer the early colonial period, simpler and more rustic. And sometimes, just ruins seem appropriate. 

As a side note, the medical doctor who owns the place also has his practice attached to the hacienda’s large, no longer functional and very old stables. You can see his sign as you drive into the gravel parking lot, its tasteful brushed aluminum letters are cunningly attached to the stucco exterior, “Dr.———, Urologia.” That awakened unpleasant memories. 

Undoubtedly, though, my funky mood was more a factor of the uncomfortable day rather than any aesthetic distress. Due to high clouds the air was unwarmed and the light seemed stretched and thin, and a fitful wind was disturbing my ability to receive an I’m-OK-You’re-OK vibe from the environment.

Things picked up in the fine little museum of the nearby town, Teuchitlán. An amazingly athletic and knowledgeable guide met us there after being called by a friend who’d seen us talking in the town plaza with a curious restaurateur who’d seen us gawking at the ruins of an old casa grande just off the main square. They’re all friendly sorts and willing to help some curious gringos. 

In the center of the picture is the largest restored guachimontón at the
archeological side above the town of Teuchitlán which is visible on the plains
below. The long, narrow space stretching clear across the lower quarter of the
picture was the ballgame court. All of the low area stretching from the lake on
the left to the distant foothills and covering the existing town used to be only
part of a huge lake that existed when the site was established several millennia
ago.

The reason I wrote that the guide was “athletic” was because he demonstrated some of his remarkable ball game skills. He’s a member of the town team that plays the ancient jugo de pelota like their ancestors who lived in a nearby city that used to be in the hills above Teuchitlán. Today that's an archeological site called Guachimontones—the word describing their circular pyramids that were recently restored after being covered and lying forgotten since some time in the pre-Columbian period.

The game was usually played, he said, to resolve disagreements. The same five young men for each team played all day from sunset to sundown, up and down a long and narrow court. The round ball was heavier than a five pound sack of flour and could only be moved by striking it with one’s deerskin-padded hips. The game was also played during periods of threat or famine. In those cases, in order to gain the dieties’ assistance, the captain of the winning team was given the honor of being sacrificed.Being sacrificed was an honor because only those who had given their life to help the common cause could go to Heaven to be with the gods.

The way I understood what the guide was telling us, the alternative to Heaven wasn’t so bad either; especially since it was called Paradise. Your manner of death determined in what section of Paradise you landed. There were something like 19 levels down there, and much fewer levels up above, in Heaven. The space where they met was the plane of our existence. 

After lunch at the fancy hacienda we went back through town, drove past a kind of kitschy hot spring resort and up to Guachimontones. By this time, the sun was stronger, the wind weaker and I think we were all feeling much better. From the site’s plateau we had a great view of the new town below us, and beyond to the still-impressive remains of a once huge and ancient lake, with a string of long extinct volcanos in the distance. Not far behind us, to the north, Volcán de Tequila, rises to almost ten thousand feet. 

The most restored pyramid there was 80% original, sixty feet tall and about a hundred and fifty feet in diameter, composed of 17 levels of progressively smaller concentric circles, each rising a few feet above the one below it. At the pinnacle—it has been conjectured—a tall pole was inserted in a deep hole, and a priest would occasionally swing from its top, supposedly simulating the flight of a bird.

There was a very compatible group in our car. Good-natured Gary is always fun to be around, and his two friends visiting from California were interesting, friendly people as well. 

When I got home there was a fantastic soup waiting from the kitchen of my culinary wife, and we later talked on the phone to our youngest daughter stateside. Meanwhile I arranged a bank wire transfer of the first of two installments of our down payment, and she fed me the verification codes I had to have sent to her cell phone since neither of our burners can receive calls here from the US. We’re now into the money part of our commitment to buy a house, and more and more frequently I’m nervous as a cat. 

LIII. Estamos Comprando una Casa

We Are Buying a House

In the more than half century since I graduated from high school I’ve never owned a house. For most of my working life I was marginally self-employed and/or doing my artist thing, and couldn't afford even a meager down payment, not to mention qualify for a loan. But more than that the idea was so off-putting I seriously doubt I would have done it even if it had been possible. The first hurdle was coping with intimidating finances, bureaucratic hassle and confusing legalities. Even putting that aside, when I contemplated being a home owner I was overwhelmed by a depressing scenario of not only being burdened with responsibilities of ownership and debt, but most of all of being tied down to one place. I envisioned dusty rooms, the echoes of an empty garage, furniture that was only growing old, the weariness of parking my car in the same spot for decades.

For the past three or four months, though—in this country not-of-our-birth—we’ve been regular visitors to the real estate listings online and posted at the half-dozen realty offices nearby. On my nearly daily walks I’ve kept an eye out for suitable “For Sale” or “Se Vende” signs. We still want to live in el centro, close to the plaza, the lake, library and gardens. We want a little bit quieter street, though, with a good feel to it, a mixed neighborhood of houses, cafes, and shops. Mostly Mexican, a few gringo touches would be OK. We want a house that’s open and airy, with traditional architectural details, outdoor workspace, patio garden and rooftop mirador. Not too big, not too little. In good shape. Out of the ordinary. Affordable.

Last month I walked by a house that met the criterion for location. We checked out the listing and liked what we saw; the price was within our range. For several weeks we talked about it, walked by it, looked at its pictures online. Finally, a few days before the new year we arranged to meet a couple of our friends there—they had recently bought a house themselves—for a walk-through with the realtor. We were all charmed. It had everything we had been looking for. A plus was the artwork, along with furnishings. Other bonuses included a fountain, two traditional fireplaces, a high domed brick ceiling and several tiled, hexagonal skylights.

A few weeks ago, my adventurous wife and I took the plunge. We submitted an offer to buy this casa, and our offer was accepted. When I look back on the few times in the past when I’ve been vaguely tempted to buy a house, I could not imagine any allure to the permanence associated with our purchase as there is now.

This is a cash economy here in Mexico and we are fortunate to have the cash—at least enough to buy this place—and there’s good reason now for making the purchase. An immediate benefit will be a reduction of our monthly expenses. And with the house paid for there will be no debt hanging over our heads*. Nor will there be the inevitable ratcheting up of rent. Allied to that is the security of knowing where we can live for the rest of our lives. And when one of us dies, not having to pay rent will make up most of the difference in income lost. At that point owning a house will also offers possibilities we would not have otherwise. I could never have put the issue so starkly before.

In the meantime—several decades, at least, we hope—we’ll have a lovely place to call our own and to slowly make over in the image of our own tastes. And when this run ends for both of us, a place to leave in this fine village to our daughters. Still, for me at least—my wife has been at least part owner of five different houses spread throughout the west coast with an outlier in Iowa—this is taking some getting used to. Some nights I imagine all the obstacles that could come in the way of our closing mid-February. In the worry hours I also wonder how I will adjust to ownership. Time will tell.

*Property taxes are incredibly low here. The house we’ve made an offer on has taxes that run about US$50 a year.

LII. ¿Cuánto Gastamos Cada Mes?

How Much Do We Spend Each Month?

About four months ago my sensible but fun-loving spouse and I began tracking all of our expenses here in Mexico. We kept a 3”X5” post-it on the table where we have the phone, change basket, keys, etc. Every day when we’d come home from shopping, we’d write things like, “115 [amount in pesos] - fruit/veg”, or “410 - meds”. We could usually get a whole week’s worth of expenses on one side of that little piece of paper. At the end of the week I’d add it all up and start a new post-it.

We did this for twelve weeks. We felt that this amount of time would allow us to reasonably extrapolate to a typical month for the whole year. 

At the end of the twelve weeks I ordered all the expenses into categories and totaled the amount in each. Since I figure we probably captured a little less than 100% of all that we spent, I added 4% to make up for what we might have missed. And since twelve weeks is not quite equal to three months, in order to get the “average” monthly outlay I added 8% (except to expenses billed monthly like rent and utilities) before dividing by three, thus turning 28 days into a tad over 30—the typical month.

To turn pesos into dollars I divided these totals by 17, since the current exchange rate—unusually high and very favorable to Yanks—is 17.8 pesos to each dollar. As recently as three years ago, however, the rate was 12.5 to 1, so the following figures will probably be somewhat higher as the global economy changes. 

Altogether we spent during each of those three months, on average, about $2300US. Major expenses were for rent (the peso equivalent of $800/month), groceries (about $450/mo), dining out (about $250) and travel (including hotel and car rental, about $175). Health care, including visits to Mexican clinics and for drugs, plus our U.S. Medicare supplemental payments, came to a little over $100. All of our utilities, including internet wi-fi (but no TV) cost us about $75/month.

We didn’t stint, buying artwork which would have cost us in the U.S. well over $200 during that period, eating out several times a week, a couple of big and entertaining eventos, and weekly recreation—often including kayak rental and gas money for short trips out of town—plus Spanish and cooking classes, with books and supplies for both of us. During this time, we were also paying down a student loan of over $200/month. In other words, we lived comfortably but definitely not lavishly, unless you contrast it to the frugal lifestyle we were accustomed to in the States. We even had a liquor bill of about $60/month which allowed us a generous margarita early every evening.

The "Future Expenses" column mainly differs from "Current" in that it is based on a budget 
after buying a home in Ajijic and includes funds earmarked for savings in several categories. 
The final column extrapolates from the previous one to the entire year. One caveat is that the 
peso to dollar conversion is figured near the current (Jan., 2016) rate of 17 pesos to one dollar.
Even so, these expenses are well in line with those reported by other ex-pats in Judy King's 
excellent book, Living at Lake Chapala, based on the 2012 exchange rate of 12.5 to 1. 

To give you an idea how we could spend so much less in Mexico and get more, compare some of our current costs with what we'd be paying in the States: locally grown ground coffee here, $4.40/lb; there, $9-10/lb; bottle of good tequila here, $9 for 950mL; there, about $20 plus for the same brand and amount; excellent haircut here, $4-10; there, $30-50, full breakfast here, $2-3; there, $5-10; rent here, $800; there, for a comparable apartment, $1500; mammogram, pap smear and bone density scan in Guadalajara including transportation there and back, $90; at Seattle's Group Health, not sure, but the latter test is not normally given...

Looking to the future, we will increase our budget for health care to about three times what we have been spending. We have both joined Seguro Popular—the free Mexican public health insurance that we plan to use as a backup for emergency, catastrophic care. Our local and reliable MD charges only about $10 per office visit, but the prescription meds can be expensive—$50-75 for a week's worth of antibiotics. (We could get these drugs from Seguro Popular for much, much less but we'd have to take the bus into Chapala and wait at a dispensary.) Finally, our plans include—as a familiar safety net for now—keeping our supplemental Medicare programs, but we want to build up a fund to allow for unanticipated expenses that we elect to take care of outside the Mexican health insurance, including possible travel to the States. We’ll do that to the extent of putting aside about $3,000/year over our current healthcare spending. 

We will also set aside more money for travel—a little over $4K a year. This will allow us each one week-long trip stateside a year, as well as the funds to continue 3-7 day trips around Mexico about every quarter or so.

Buying a house instead of renting will effect a big change in our budget. Since home sales are always cash here, and utilities are about the same whether owning or renting, after the purchase the main additional cost is for upkeep. Because labor is pretty inexpensive, maintenance and even remodeling costs are relatively low. And property taxes for one house that we have been considering buying are less than $50 a year.

LI. Esta Mañana

This Morning

We must be now halfway to the Equator from our old home back in the States that snugs against the Canadian border. When today’s alarm goes off a little after 6:30—up early to go hiking—it might as well be in the middle of the night for only the darkness shows. Twenty minutes later, though, coffee in hand on our balcony, looking past the guava and palm trees we see a fire-colored sun beginning to rise into the lightening sky. For some minutes, the only noise we hear is from the roosters scattered throughout our pueblo: their many rousing greetings of old sol.  There’s one guy who’s closest, somewhere in the middle of the block across the street, another behind us must be located near the parish church by the plaza, and many more are indistinguishable—their hoarse, piercing, five-syllable calls come from out west away from the Centro. It isn’t long before the colibris—hummingbirds—join this cacophonous chorus from a tropical tree with a riot of purple blooms that rises out of the galeria’s garden across the street, sounding like a bunch of tiny typewriters according to my spouse…Then the parroquia's bells begin to ring for morning mass.