LXXXIII. Los Tapetes Grandes de Antonieta

Antonieta's Big Rugs

Antonieta, at ex-hacienda La Calera last month.

I first met Antonieta a month and a half ago when Doug, from my Spanish class, invited her to be our model at a photography club field trip to ex-hacienda La Calera.

I got to know 'Tonieta on the ride to the old hacienda. Doug had already told me some of her story. She sells rugs—tapetes—in the plaza of our little town. The rugs are made by her family. But her family lives 500 miles south of here in a little Zapotec Indian village in the state of Oaxaca.

So, for most of the year Tonieta lives here alone, away from husband, sons, and daughter, in order to be near the gringos to whom she hopes to sell her faraway family's rugs.

A couple of 4'X6' rugs

The tapetes are wool, hand-dyed and-woven rugs and hangings of many sizes—some barely more than a foot square. Tonieta can display these smaller pieces at her table just off the plaza, in the walkway where the fountain used to be (and when is the municipality going to replace it, as promised?). She is often set up next to our sweet, young and beautiful friend Aily, who is there to sell Alex's fine jewelry.

2'X8'

Almost all of the bigger rugs that Tonieta and her family have made are too heavy for her to move—twice a day—from the little house where she is staying to and from the plaza. As a consequence, she has sold none of these large and magnificent pieces all summer. Potential customers do not even know they exist since they are not on display.  

Antonieta's sales book

At the suggestion of my thoughtful wife, and with the enthusiastic approval of Tonieta, Doug and I took color photos of many of the large tapetes, some as big as 8'X15'. We printed pictures of a representative fifteen and fitted them into the transparent sleeves of a notebook, along with the size and price of each. She now keeps this book on her table in the plaza, along with her smaller rugs.

Tonieta was very appreciative, and we all hope this visual aid will boost her business. 

LXXXII. Virgen del Rosario, 2016

Virgin of the Rosary

I don't know much at all about the Catholic faith, and here in our small central Mexican town, that faith is especially strong. There is a chapel, or capilla, in our town that seems to be sort of under the protection of Nuestra Señora del Rosario who is represented and revered as a doll-like figure. Once a year this seemingly sacred figure is carried on pilgrimages from church to church to church in our pueblo, finally coming back on the ninth day to permanent display in her home church. This is a big deal and I've pictured and written about it before, because I joined the celebration of her return home, along with my daughters last year. Here are a few pictures of the festivities in the plaza several nights ago:

Add 4 trumpets, 2 slide trombones, 2 saxophones, a tuba, 3 clarinets, congas, 2 drum sets, keyboards, a guitar, and two hyperactive singers, all male, nearly all barely out of their teens, and you have BANDA musica--always a Wall of Sound staple at fiestas in our town plaza.

The fellow with his back to the camera is selling those child-seductive, light-filled toys, advertising his wares with a spinning, flashing "gun". 

As I stood before the capilla to watch this intricate spinning castillo, this fellow in a cowboy hat scurried across the scene, in front of the crowd.

The tail-end of the castillo from the previous shot, its supportive stack of metal boxes--which appearance gives the castillo its name--appears here to be the innards of some infernal machine, chasing the silhouetted hombre who glances over his shoulder to see if it's gaining on him. 

The churning, burning representation of Virgen del Rosario herself, flanked by spinning doves of
paz, and the words, "Bendice tu Pueblo", "Blessings to your People".

LXXXI. Un Puño, Lleno de Pesos

A Fistful of Pesos

One of our goals when we moved to this small town in central Mexico was to donate time and money to local people in need. We feel that the accident of birth is largely responsible for our greater affluence and some redistribution is called for. Somewhat ironically, however, not having a car has made this more difficult than we had foreseen. Several of the service opportunities we looked into—an orphanage and food bank—are located so far away, and out of the way, that just getting there and back by bus and foot would take 2-3 hours. 

We don't usually go out in the village without making sure our
pockets are full of pesos to give away. Here is the equivalent of
about 50 cents.

Instead of more organized philanthropy we’ve become regular patrons of several local beggars. Our favorite sits in front of the bank—once the sun has warmed a spot—his artificial right leg displayed next to him, left foot bared to expose its leprosy. Despite (or, perhaps, because of) these disabilities he has an edgy sense of humor. Two of his favorite chistes are to feign outrage at any coin offered that’s less than ten pesos—he doesn’t like being overloaded with change—and to stick his slightly deformed hand out with feigned innocence on our exit from the bank, a few minutes after we’ve already given him money.

To see him sitting at his morning post—before he’s taken his leg off—on a bench in the plaza, you might mistake him for a poet or academic. He often has a scarf wrapped rakishly around his neck—against the early chill—and is wearing a tweed flat cap. 

And then there’s Alfredo who, before I began wearing only non-leather walkers, used to shine my shoes. It’s been months since I’ve needed that kind of attention, and Alfredo has stopped making that assumption whenever he sees me in the plaza. But he does tell me of the health trials of his wife, recounting how she is being treated in a Guadalajara hospital for some illness. I rarely understand more than the general gist of his story and sometimes not even that; several months ago I mistakenly thought he had told me that she died. Anyway, I usually give him fifty to a hundred pesos for medication or medical bills once or twice a month now.

I may be getting gamed by Alfredo. Or not. But I like the guy, and prefer to feel as if I trust him. Harkening back to that "accident of birth" belief, I sometimes imagine Alfredo and I are just playing our respective parts—roles that could be reversed next time around. My stomach does sink a little bit, though, when I pass through the plaza on the way to the bank and see him shambling in my direction…I don’t know…

And then there’s Nataly—I just made that name up. I don’t know what she’s called; I’m not even sure if she’s a she. Our SF neighbors used to think she was transgender, and that would kind of fit. I once saw her with a stubble of hairs on her chin. Nataly’s slightly built and always dressed in a tight, short skirt. Her “breast” size seems to vary. Her features and coloring are strongly Mayan, especially a very aquiline nose. Two eccentric braids curl down over her forehead.

About once a week or so she accosts me on the street; I usually hear her calling, “Sir, sir—“ before I see her, in a voice that’s distinctly unmusical. Nataly is satisfied with ten or twenty pesos, por algo para comer, por favor—tengo hambre. She once propositioned me, but my polite and unequivocal rejection must have been well understood. I don’t think Nataly has a happy life, especially if—as seems—she has this gender issue. Plus, my wife (who somehow knows these things) tells me she has long lived in that same house where drug dealer Pepe was shot dead last year.

And then, at the other end of whatever spectrum Nataly inhabits, are the small Indian ladies, with faces like polished bronze, dressed in their típica garb and sitting cross-legged just to the side of the path through the weekly tianguis, or market. I can picture them working on some craft project which I never recall seeing for sale. They have a styrofoam cup to collect change for which they give a heartfelt blessing. 

Nursing mothers are sometimes found sitting on the sidewalk, accepting donations while leaning against Farmacia Guadalajara's stripmall-esque building. I think they have bags of chayotes for sale, but I just give ten to twenty pesos, "Para el bebé." I'm a sucker for those moms. The farmacia is also the preferred haunt, though, of the Green Bean Kids who insistently offer a small bag of unappealing vegetables in exchange for 10-15 pesos. I almost always dissuade them with a brisk, "No, gracias".

There are others who come and go. Just a few days ago, on my way back from El Torito market, a father importuned me to raise money for a daughter’s operation. He had pictures and receipts to prove it. I’ve looked at these proofs occasionally—Afredo has shown me receipts for his wife’s prescriptions—but can never make definitive sense of them. They at least show that the supplicant has gone to some trouble to convince prospective donors of their need. 

I don’t know…I’ve of course heard and on a few occasions espoused the “Teach a Man to Fish, etc” mantra. It holds a kind of “tough love” negative charm, but I feel more comfortable (in this naturally uncomfortable situation) with my usual tack of making individual decisions to give—or not give—based on habit, put-upon-ness or put-off-ness, guilt, looks, embarrassment, fear, pity, or even charity, as the mood strikes me.

We recently have found another way to donate our time and money that involves working with an organization that provides food at a very low price to needy families. More about that soon, in another post.

LXXX. Vicente

Vicente

He sits nearly every day—all day long except for siesta time—on a bamboo stool outside a small store just up the street. It’s one of many little tiendas around here that are in the front room of someone’s house. You can occasionally see—through a door at the back of the small salesroom—a family member or two relaxing, eating or talking in the sala. If no one’s behind the counter or even visible, and after waiting a good minute you cough or clear your throat, a middle-aged lady will emerge from that door, perhaps wiping her hands on an apron.

The sign out front advertises the place as a zapatería—shoe store—and when the roll-up door is open, as it is most days except domingo y lunes, you can see several dozen pairs of shoes on display in a floor-to-ceiling showcase as you walk by. The store also trades in school and office supplies. I bought a notebook for my Spanish class there, as well as signboard and markers for our housewarming party.

Getting back to that guy: He’s an older fellow—about my age—and small, also like me. Always wearing a tidy sombrero, almost always awake. He’s mostly sedentary, moving gingerly and with a cane—several times a day—to and from his place in the sun just outside the store opening. The few passersby who don’t know any different might refer to him—although I have no proof to back this up—as “the guy who’s always sitting outside the shoe store with a flyswatter in his hand.” Those are the things you notice most. Regardless how you describe him, I imagine he knows more than anyone else about what goes on up and down our block of Calle Encarnación Rosas. 

But if you’re not in too much of a hurry as you walk by, and you wave and holler out a friendly, “Buenos días” to this fellow, you’ll see him smile and return your salute in a voice that’s a little creaky but full of good cheer. He’ll raise a hand in your direction and keep it there for a moment, as if he’s the Pope and offering benediction. If you exchange this greeting once or twice, or even more, every day for some period of time, you might get around to introducing yourself, and thereafter the exchange takes on a more personal meaning.

That’s what I did. His name is Vicente, and now he always lets me know he remembers my name, too. Today we also shook hands, as we sometimes do when I go on his side of the street. As I walked away he called out, “Qué le vaya bien”—“May it go well for you”. To which I gave the standard reply, “Igualamente, Vicente”. A good way to start my day in the village.

LXXIX. Dengue Fiebre

Dengue Fever

This evening, in the patio during our regular margarita time, we heard the unaccustomed sound of a two-stroke engine. We speculated what it might be. Not a lawnmower nor even a weed-eater, because there are no lawns to be either mowed or edged around here. We were befuddled. Soon though, in addition to the noise, we saw smoke rising over the palm in the yard of a casa on the privada off Calle Guadalupe Victoria, right behind our casita. We recognised the smell of the smoke that was wafting our way.  Our neighbors—vecinos—were being sprayed by the local health department to kill mosquitos carrying Dengue Fever.

The Aedes aegypti mosquito--a nasty guy
that not only can carry dengue, but yellow
fever, zika virus, and chikungunya.

According to WebMD nearly 100 million tropical-dwelling people a year are infected with this debilitating disease—fever, headaches, joint and muscle pain, nausea, fatigue—which generally lasts at least a week. In other words, similar to a very bad case of the flu. Dengue is spread only by the bite of a certain type of mosquito which has already bitten a person whose blood contains the virus. 

Everyone around the lake here is familiar with the disease and knows someone who has contracted it, or they’ve had it themselves. A couple of months ago, the couple who own the bakery/deli where we shop several times a week came down with Dengue. Fernando described the experience to mi esposa; it was bad. I just got an email from the moderator of my Spanish/English conversation hour telling me he probably wouldn't be able to come to the next class—Dengue.

Wondering about the etymology of “dengue”, I googled it. It’s a Spanish word, fittingly, and means, “careful, in an exaggerated manner”. The supposition is that dengue describes the way an infected person might walk, favoring their painful joints. Not something one would want to experience.

If it’s in the neighborhood, I decided, we better take precautions. What with the rain we’ve been having recently—nearly every night—and the small accumulation of water under the outside work table that’s reluctant to dry up, not to mention the fountain’s pool, I figure our patio offers attractive breeding waters for mosquitos. 

I had an idea. Early in the summer I bought some insecticide to handle whatever it was that had been shredding our canna lilies’ leaves. I shopped around, wanting nothing that might harm the birds that came to our nearby fountain, nor hurt the tortugas with which we still plan to inhabit the pool. I came up with a chemical called cypermethrin that could be sprayed. Another Google search showed me it’s also effective against mosquito larvae. And, done! 

Plus, we still have our last line of defense—the electric tennis racket that we can swing, sportily, at those little suckers and kill them with a satisfying zap.

Update: A week after this post I met the fellow mentioned above—the Spanish/English moderator—walking past our front door. He's much better now, but said that for the first few days of the fever he had a 104 degree temperature and a headache like never before. It turns out he lives in that block behind us. It must have been his case that brought the health department's truck out to spray.

Further update: Just now—about ten days after the original post—a fellow dressed in blue coveralls and wearing a simple respirator over his mouth came down our street preceded by the buzzing of a two-stroke sprayer he had strapped to his back. In his wake the stinky mosquito spray. He briskly walked into our next-door neighbors' house and the whole family of four children and several adults immediately tumbled outside onto la banqueta, the toddler holding his nose. Out back of our place, the stinky spray wafted over our high adjoining wall. Our municipal health department in action to prevent more mosquito-borne dengue fever.

LXXVIII. El Sendero Sagrado a Las Crucitas

The Sacred Path to the Little Crosses

Anyone with an ounce of curiosity who spends more than a day or two in the Mexican village where we live has looked up to the high mountain ridge just north of town and seen a small structure halfway up the nearest foothill. If you look closely, you can see a cross on the top of that garage-sized building. Asking around, you will probably hear that what you are looking at is a small “chapel” to which there is a switchback trail, and along this trail, in this heavily Catholic country, are the Stations of the Cross.

Even if you are not Catholic, you may know that the Stations of the Cross represent the important waypoints from the time Jesus was sentenced to death, to his crucifixion, and ultimately His resurrection. There are 14 stations in all, and on this trail they are represented by small, white, wrought-iron crosses each atop a concrete pedestal with a sign saying which station it represents. Our knowledgeable Mexican housekeeper, Rosie, refers to this location, collectively, as “las crucitas”—“the little crosses”.

If you are in decent shape you can hike up las crucitas in less than an hour; it’s not difficult. The switchback trail is popular among both the town's faithful and those looking for exercise with a sense of accomplishment or even virtue. Only a little further on, along the same trail near the top of this little cerrito, is a clearing and occasionally tended cornfield. This is the first stage in what becomes a much more difficult sendero sagrado—“sacred path”—up to three large crosses high on the ridge overlooking the lake and below the peak of Chupinaya.

On a recent day I made the shorter hike and took some pictures. It was good to feel I had no work to do on the casa, now that the Housewarming party was several days in the past. It was great to have seen so many of our friends and received their compliments both on the house, and on the food and drink we had prepared, but now I could take the time to stroll into the mountains and simply enjoy the day. 

You can barely see the "capilla" as a whitish A-frame structure on the hillside in the very center of this photo, about an inch below and just to the right of the string hanging from the powerline.

The seldom-used trailhead at the end of Calle Colón. I returned to this point on my way back down from the "capilla"
after beginning my hike at the end of Calle Galeana. This is the first station of the cross and reads, "Jesus is comdemned to death."

A number of wildflowers adorn the pathway. This one, possibly a wild hibiscus, was especially photogenic.

There were a lot of caterpillars like this one crawling on the path. I'm not sure what it will turn into, but even in this form its pattern is striking.

The last station, "Jesus is taken down from the cross." The thirteen wrought-iron crosses on concrete and rock pedestals are all the same in style and located about every 50-100 meters along the path. In the background is the "capilla". Rosie, our housekeeper, calls this place "Las Crucitas", or "Little Crosses".

I'm not sure who is memorialized here as the "Last of the Red Hot Papas" (a new take on Jesus?), but it looks like someone has taken exception to its location in front of the little "chapel". 

I couldn't read the sign lower left. The other one asks us to please take care of this place, it is the work of everyone.

The words on the mural inside the structure recount how Jesus was brought down from the cross and rose from the tomb.

This view looking out to Ajijic in the foreground, and Lake Chapala, is opposite the mural pictured previously. The recently planted tree rising above the fence in the middle of the vista looks to be a Kapok, or Ceiba. Others were planted along the path. Perhaps it was chosen because the prominent thorns that cover its trunk recall Jesus' crown of thorns.

LXXVII. Una Fiesta Para Presentar Nuestra Casa Nueva

Housewarming Party

Invitations were emailed to one and all.

The idea for a housewarming party came about before we even took up residence here on Calle Encarnación Rosas. The idea gained steam once we did move in, and when friends asked about our place we said we’d love them to see it when we had our party, to which, of course, they would be invited. For me, the idea of a party to present our casa nueva was especially compelling because not only am I proud of what a great place this is for us to live, but it's also the first house I’ve ever owned. 

I also came to see the party as marking the end of a nearly three-month period during which we have been planting and re-planting the garden, painting here and there, repairing the patio lights, buying cushions, sofas, rugs, and one last pair of chairs, having dirt and broken pots hauled away, the oven fixed, getting a table cut down in size that we had made for the printer but turned out to be too big—stuff like that. I came up with a line to describe our situation that I once thought was clever, but have repeated so many times it’s become stale. The past couple of weeks I’ve been saying it with an I’m-weary-but-there’s-light-at-the-end-of-this-tunnel intonation: “We’re almost to the point where the house has become less of a project and more of a home.” 

The housewarming party is meant to mark that turning point. It’s on a lot of friendly people’s calendars for this coming Saturday, now only five—and there's so much yet to do!!—days away. I’m in charge of completing aforementioned projects, making and sending out invitations, putting together the party music playlist, hustling around town on errands like picking up a case or two each of beer and soft drinks and another of wine; my culinary wife has come up with a list of nearly a dozen tasty hors d’oeuvres (that’s botanas in español) and begun making six dozen meatballs, a half gallon of peanut sauce, a quart of blue cheese/walnut dip, etc., etc. We’ve enlisted several friends to help each of us.

The invitation list ran to nearly fifty; right now we have thirty-two confirmations, about half and half gringos and mexicanos. The invitations were emailed two weeks ago and I just sent out reminders. 

As the fiesta day draws near my obsessive-compulsive tendencies have kicked into high gear. Correspondingly, my stomach has become chronically acidic, and neck muscles have begun to contract from the tension. The smallest details have assumed monumental importance in my middle-of-the-night wakefulness. Painted-over nails in the wall from which pictures had once hung have become unshakeable irritants. This pre-dawn I was trying to remember where I had put the architectural plans for the house that we had found in a cupboard when we moved in, convinced that the “success” of our party depended on its recovery.

I found the plans after this morning’s coffee. While my spouse was just out in the village I pulled one of the smaller nails, patched and painted over the hole. What mostly remains to be done is simply remember what my wise wife says is the reason we are doing this: “The party is not only to present and welcome friends to our new house, but to thank them for helping us, over the past year, feel at home here in this sweet little village”. 

I’ll try to keep that in mind next time my neck tenses up bad or I start thinking crazy shit in the middle of the night...