Jack D. Deal Business Consulting, Santa Cruz, CA

Elma died last Friday and today we went to the funeral.   There were a good number of people in the church but most of them in their eighties.  Elma had a lot of friends.  There were some tears and some sniffling but mostly there were smiles and warm greetings.  Elma left little in terms of material possessions but she left a full story and lived a meaningful life.  Elma was 97 when she died.

For over 20 years Elma was our neighbor down the street.  In the last years when she used a walker and couldn't get out much the wife would visit once or twice a week.  I didn't stay long as they liked to talk lady chit chat but Elma would always want me to sit down and have some ice cream or cake.   Elma was a big woman that loved to eat her own home cooked food. 

Elma was born in Montana on a dairy ranch in 1910.  She had eight brothers and sisters and she was the last to pass away.  Growing up on the ranch she had to get up at 4:00 in the morning and either milk or fix the food.  Her job was baking bread and with a dozen ranch hands that required a lot of bread.  

I always kidded her about the Montana winters and she said she would never go back in winter; she went back several times in the summer.   She said back in the old days they had to wrap their legs with cloth to keep them from becoming frostbitten and she said she would never do that again.  And she didn't. 

Elma was smart and had she been born in another era she would have gone to college.  She was also smart enough to want to leave the farm for a better life.  After finishing high school she moved to Butte against her father's wishes where she worked as secretary in a doctor's office.   One day she met a nice young man, she married him and they moved to California to seek a new future.  

As Elma was taking her last trip in her casket to the cemetery I remembered that although she believed devoutly in God she was not the biggest fan of the church.   Somehow God wasn't the problem; man was.  She often complained that her relatives were too religious...maybe that came from growing up way out on a ranch.   

She lived through the depression and two World Wars.   Unlike her neighbor Helen, she came through the Depression a bit wary and shaken but without a broken spirit.   Helen on the other hand was obsessed with each nickel and dime though she had more money than she needed...Helen was afraid the Depression was going to return and she wanted to make certain she would not go hungry this time.   Her greed possessed her.

Elma wasn't worried about any Depression.  Elma worried about Helen coming over to mooch food, even when Elma was in her wheelchair.   Helen would stop by every evening at dinner time to 'check in' on her dear friend Elma.   Funny.  Helen's family couldn't stand her and they didn't even have a service for her when she died; greed is its own reward or something like that. 

What Elma couldn't get used to was the continuing rise in the cost of living and the changing social norms of the day.   Elma wasn't a prude by any means but she just could not see how some of the modern relationships worked and why people would ever live their lives that way; she thought the California mix and match mates style was simply foolish.  Back in Montana folks just didn't do things that way; no need to.

For one thing, the Montana folks worked very hard and Elma liked working and staying busy.  For many years she worked down the street at the soda fountain at Fred's Mission Pharmacy.  It's a guitar store now.  Elma loved people and she loved being out amongst them.   The only thing that slowed her down in later life was her wheelchair. 

Elma also had an edge; always friendly but with an edge.   She would get upset and show it; always containing her temper but readily expressing her disapproval.   She and the wife would play Crazy Eights and Elma would invite me to play but I usually declined.  Elma seemed to understand.  She always thanked me for allowing the wife to spend time with her as if it were an imposition on her part.    

But funerals are for the living, not the dead.   Elma left us but life continues and Elma's grandson Mark and his wife are expecting.  Elma's certainly smiling over that.

There were a few sniffles but no real sobbing tears.  Elma lived a meaningful life of 97 years and died surrounded by the people she loved which is about all any of us can expect out of life.   All that matters is what comes between birth and death. 

As the saying goes, do not take life too seriously because you will never get out of it alive.  

Good-bye Elma, rest in peace.

Posted by Jack D. Deal at 02:16 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

To say the USA is in a health care crisis is an understatement.   The United States is the only First World nation without some sort of universal health care coverage.   The reason that countries like Britain and Canada and Germany have universal coverage is that it is the right thing to do.   Beyond that as we are finding out in the United States, it also makes great business sense.  

In the 1990's Bill and Hillary Clinton spoke about health care reform but did little.  Since being elected in 2000, George Bush has been an outspoken critic of universal care and a major supporter of the high margin health care industry.   Under the guise of quality of care, the Republicans have steadfastly maintained that any universal care would result in reduced quality of care.  

Although John McCain has yet to specifically spell out his policies on health care reform, it is doubtful that it will contain a universal coverage component.   Unless McCain can somehow manage to fool folks like the Bush administration has done, he will lose on this issue.  And if he loses on this issue, he will lose the November election. 

The health care system is broken and everyone knows it except the Republicans.  A system that tries to deny coverage as standard business procedure and rates physician productivity by dollars billed simply cannot be tweaked.  It must be replaced. 

The dichotomy of America and the two political parties have created this gridlock.   The Republicans focus on big corporations and the affluent or upwardly affluent.  The Democrats focus on the disenfranchised, poor and compassionate.   The problem with this political model is that it leaves out the fat middle and in this case the fat voting middle.  

Both parties have clearly abandoned the working person and the small business owner.    The one issue that is killing incentive and discouraging small business is the escalating cost of health care and the decline in coverage.   Neither employer nor employee is winning this battle and ultimately society at large will lose by not realizing this huge economic potential.   The current health care system is draining the United States dry.   

What both parties fail to acknowledge is that government does not create jobs; all government can do is help develop the optimal conditions for business to develop and generate employment.   When too many obstacles and barriers are forced in the way, potential businesses never develop.

Employee wage and contract increases are offset by employee health care insurance "contributions".   When workers see little room for advancement and improvement they become less interested and productive.  Employers see a tenuous future if they see a future at all. 

In our house we have two Democrats and one Republican.  All of us are somewhat centrist not tending toward any extreme.  Sometimes the two Democrats vote with the Republican though not usually vice versa.  

In the California primary we had two votes for Obama and one for McCain.  As it turns out we did pretty well and it looks like our respective candidates will become the nominees.   It is important to mention that California has closed primaries so you can only vote for your registered party.   In the general election there are no restrictions.  

Fast forward to November, 2008.   Obama beats McCain by a narrow margin largely by picking up middle class white votes.   The exit polls show universal health care as the reason the middle and working class voted for Obama.   It comes down to the pocketbook and what the Republicans don't seem to understand is just how big a pocketbook issue universal health care is.   

Universal health care is long overdue and America knows it.  There is no credibility left with attempts to reform the current system.  With all due respect Mr. McCain you need to come up with a universal care plan or hope you can pull lots of rabbits out of hats.  

Oh, and by the way, in the new household poll; unless McCain comes up with universal care, it's 3-0 Obama.

Posted by Jack D. Deal at 02:18 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Can you imagine coaching Kobe Bryant: Are you healthy? Are you rested? Wanna play? That's it. For the rest of the players it's 'feed K the ball'.

The problem is with salary caps you can't give all your money to K because that means the other guys won't get paid very much and it might be hard to attract players that can do things like catch the ball. But there is another way; another strategy.

It's called Nellie ball. Who can forget last spring when the Warriors blew out Dirk and the Mavs? Blow out time! The team and execution coach Don Nelson put on the floor stunned the basketball world and especially delighted the jaded Warriors fans. Of course if you remember, Don had done it before with the Warriors.

Understanding the coach is the team's foundation, GM Chris Mullen knew that Don was the man. During the off season the biggest anxiety was Nellie's return. Without Nellie there is no Nellie Ball. What a relief when they broke the news that the Warriors would be back with Nellie.

And this year is a bit different from last. Nellie could pick his own players and from what it appears Mullen did nothing to interfere. Think of what this means. Few people know basketball like ex-NBA star Chris Mullen yet Chris says Don is the Man. That takes guts and smarts and points for Chris who is in the running with Danny Ainge of the Celtics as the NBA's best GM. Ainge is betting on the superstars; Mullin on Nellie and the Team.

The season opening went flat, partly because catalyst Stephen Jackson was serving out a suspension. It was one loss after another and not a good start. But with Jackson back in the line up the combination was ready to roll again and as they did in Oakland by crushing Shaq and Company in the fourth quarter.

Here they go again was what it looked like in that fourth quarter and you could hear the buzz in the crowd. When they get into their zone the Warriors are capable of putting together strings of runs and demolish opponents.

So what does Nellie do that other coaches don't?

First I remember seeing him play with the Celtics when I was a kid. I always felt players should make the best coaches because players know the game the best. Nellie knows the game and the inside report is that he is a stickler for the fundamentals, which comes directly from being a player.

Also Nellie can look a player in the eye and see if they really want to play. Nellie fills his team with players like that. They come cheaper than Kobe but can be highly productive. They seem to have quirky characters and personalities like Stephen Jackson and Baron Davis. But they come together under Nellie. Boy do they ever.

Mark my words...Nellie is getting ready to pull the big one. His boys are fast, quick, determined and good. They work like a team and play defense like it's half the game. Last night they were down 18 to Dwayne and Shaq and blew them out in the fourth quarter. A couple years back the Heat were champions. Go figure.

The Warriors all scrap and shoot good free throws. They all seem to have a good work ethic and love to play. When they get moving they can steal the ball in so many ways and score in so many ways. If they stay hot with the threes they could be unbeatable.

Unbeatable? Spurs and Celtics? You bet. The team model for the Spurs and Celts is superstars with supporting cast. If one of the superstars gets hurt, a big cog in the wheel goes down. If a Warrior gets hurt, odds are his replacement will be just as good. A solid bench pays off all season and especially during the playoffs. Please spread the money, honey.

What me worry? Nobody worries as much as Nellie. To see him work the sidelines you would think he was getting ready to have a Miminsky and he always is on the verge. If Nellie expects his players' best efforts he is no less demanding of himself. The worry edge goes to Nellie.

Will the recipe work? There are no guarantees in life and even fewer in professional sports. But one thing is for sure, Nellie Ball is here and it is going to stay here and this just might be the year. After all, what does that smarty Chris Mullin know that the rest of us don't?

Hmmm. Maybe something...

Posted by Jack D. Deal at 10:33 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Fremont Peak State Park in San Benito County, California offers the best view of the Monterey Bay Sanctuary. 1n 1846 Fremont led an expeditionary force into what was then Mexico to survey the current state park area. At 3100 feet Gavilan Peak, or Fremont Peak as it is now called, splits the Bay in two; Santa Cruz at the northern tip and Monterey and Pacific Grove on the southern tip.

On the other side one can see the dirt bike hills of Hollister, the fields of Watsonville and Gilroy. On a clear day you can see the snow capped Sierras.

Why Fremont Peak and what does the name John C. Fremont, 'The Pathfinder', mean to California and U.S. history?

In 1842 Fremont scouted the Rockies and many areas of the West helping produce the first actual map of the Western United States. Through his explorations he became friends with another well known frontiersman, Kit Carson. Carson would later become Fremont's guide on his expeditions throughout the Rockies.

It's hard to say what effect years of wandering in the wilderness can have on a young man's mind. But one thing was for sure; Fremont explorations taught him not to be shy. In fact throughout his career Fremont was often beyond the point of being brash. And in the end his brashness led him to become one of the founders of modern day California.

In 1845 just prior to the Mexican American War, Fremont led a 'surveying' party to what is now Central Coast California. These surveyors were actually a mix of soldiers, mercenaries and bandits and Fremont did not have surveying in mind when he went to what was then Gavilan Peak. Fremont knew the Salinas Valley and the Pajaro Valley were unbelievably rich. As was California. And so far from Mexico City.

With 60 brigands Fremont was going to take California from Mexico or at least foment the rebellion to do it. He courageously, or foolishly, raised the American flag at Gavilan Peak which was essentially an act of war. He picked Gavilan Peak because he could see any 'enemy' soldiers coming from miles away. He might have even imagined Carmel and Pebble Beach but there was no record of such. Even though a dreamer, Fremont was imminently practical.

Soon the U.S. Consul delivered orders for Fremont to leave and he did. He took the Stars and Stripes down with his ego and retreated. One can imagine his pouting as he brings his men down the mountain. His timing was not right and there was nothing he could do about it. Except return, which he eventually did.

In 1846 he was a leader in the Bear Flag Revolt against Mexico. And in 1847 during the Mexican American War Fremont led the California Battalion. Eventually the U.S. won the war but Gen. Kearney censured Fremont for his conduct. Fremont was arrested, court martialed, and convicted of mutiny. Mutiny? Fortunately for Fremont President Polk commuted the sentences.

In 1848 Fremont began a series of five unsuccessful attempts to find a railroad route through the Sierras. One can only imagine what a frustration this must have been for him. To know there had to be a transcontinental railroad route somewhere and that route would literally break out the West. But he never found it...

In 1856 Fremont became the U.S. Senator from California. Such is proof that bad boys can sometimes win if they just hang in there long enough. Also in 1856 Fremont became the first Republican Party candidate for President of the United States. His campaign slogan was "Free Speech, Free Press, Free Soil, Free Men, Fremont and Victory." He lost to James Buchanan 16 states to 11. Fremont was close to becoming President of the United States.

In retrospect it was probably better he wasn't elected. There is something to be said for moderation and voters back then like now were mostly moderates. Though qualified to become President, voters were not certain how he would react under stress and quite probably voters back then saw him as tending a little bit to the extreme...extreme being an understatement. As President no telling where he might have ordered soldiers to raise the flag...

Today we can drive through the East Bay city of Fremont in between Oakland and San Jose. We can be reminded of John C. Fremont; surveyor, frontiersman, scout, soldier, patriot, visionary, military officer, U.S. Senator from California and Governor of Arizona. Also bandit, mercenary, brigand, traitor, mutineer, loose cannon and insubordinate.

That's what it took. That's what made California. It was not the time to be shy and follow the rules. It was a time and place for bold, decisive action. Every time I see Fremont Peak towering over the fog from across the Monterey Bay I think of him.

And I wonder what Fremont would think about his California today...

Posted by Jack D. Deal at 10:26 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Marilyn wasn't my favorite actress growing up.  That heartache went to Grace Kelly.  Good choice.  Grace Kelly married a prince and Marilyn died of an overdose.  Or so it is thought. 

As a collectibles devotee my wife comes across various and sundry pieces of art and frames and such.  This particular picture had a cartoon type cat in it with a nice frame.  The wife didn't especially like the cat and neither did I.  So she goes to replace it and takes out the cardboard backing.   The backing is actually a photo of the full length portrait of a young woman in a somewhat skimpy outfit. 

The wife took out the cat and put the picture in, a good decision I must agree.  Real men are always pushing for progress.  She asks me who is in the picture and I said I don't know.  It was a very shapely and beautiful woman but I did not recognize her. 

"That's Marilyn," she said.  I looked and still didn't see it.   This woman looked to be nineteen or twenty. 

"Look at her mole," said my wife getting frustrated with my apparent lack of perception, "it's Marilyn's mole."

"But the hair is dark brown so this was a photo of her way back before she was a famous Hollywood blonde," I reply. 

All would have been fine and dandy had we left it like that but sometimes wives like to rub it in and then do it some more.  It's their job.  It's what they do.   

Every time we would come across any picture of Marilyn she would point the mole out to me.  Stupid me.  I never before had even noticed Marilyn had a mole.  I guess the truth of the matter was I probably wasn't looking at Marilyn's face.  Subsequently, I have asked a number of men about Marilyn's mole and no one claims to have any such mole knowledge. 

To make matters worse one day the wife points to a picture of Marilyn and glares at me.  I smile back.

"Marilyn," I say pretty sure and proud of myself.  This one was even blonde. 

"Men," she muttered, "the mole, look at the mole.  What do you see?" 

"I see it" I agreed, "there it is."

"Men," she muttered again, "it's on the wrong side of her face." 

I was sure at this point our intellectual conversation was going to cross into the abyss of the utter unknown.  I was speechless.   Marilyn Monroe said nothing.
 
"Okay,' then it must be a beauty mark and she changed it to shift her chakra balance," I reply. 

"That's really stupid.  A beauty mark supposedly would enhance a woman's looks...mostly white women.  Mostly pale white women.   Maybe men considered it beautiful and that's why she did it.  Maybe it was in her contract.  Whatever her reason she switched sides."

I was speechless.  There was nothing I could add to what had already been said.  Sherlock Holmes wins again.   It was if each time the dear wife would have to physically point to the mole for me to actually see it.  Men.  And to eventually verify that yes indeed the mole had jumped from one side of Marilyn's face to the other. 

What to make of it?  Well, my quick and immediate reaction was not much.  It would have to be classified as belonging to that department of totally useless information.  The wife was not pleased and being a sensitive husband, I could tell she was not pleased.  She felt offended that I would not take such a thing as Marilyn's moving mole very seriously.  I was speechless. 

There was no way I could sit there and explain just why Marilyn's mole was insignificant in the total scheme of Marilyn.   I knew that if I would ever attempt to enter that minefield I would for sure face rather harsh consequences.   I was in a marital bind and not looking very good any which way I looked.  Finally, it came to me. 

"It could have been a retouched photo," I offered, "a mole probably isn't such a big deal to switch.  Maybe we should look for more moles," I suggested. 

Silence.  That was a good sign.  It was a good sign in that maybe, just maybe the frustration level would get so high the wife would let it go.  Let go of Marilyn's mole that is.   I'm sure Marilyn is snickering from heaven, and she must be there for sure, at such silly attention to detail.   She would probably let out one of those blondie laughs for which she was famous. 

That laugh and now her famous mysterious moving mole.

Posted by Jack D. Deal at 11:30 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

As a tyke I remember Santa Claus and the big to do at Christmas. Maybe it was more important back then...today the affluence and indifference of our modern angst has probably diminished both Christmas' and Santa's influence.

If marketers in fact invented Santa then they did one heckuva job. From the earliest times I could remember 'what is Santa bringing you this year' or 'did you write Santa a letter yet? 'Have you been a good little boy this year?' My relationship with Mr. Claus was certainly not atypical of my time and space; all the other kids bought into the same argument. I also understood that Santa's gig was unconditional and even if I had done a few naughty things he would most likely overlook them. Ho, Ho, Ho...which if we are to understand, means something totally different now.

As I got a little more world wise and got out and about, especially starting to play with other kids and go into their homes and see whole new families, I began to wonder. Some of the kids said Santa was a fairy tale and others said their parents didn't believe in Santa so they didn't either. Others said it was stupid to write a letter to Santa because parents buy the gifts anyway.

Not believe in Santa? Not write the obligatory wish list? My God! As a four year old it was hard to imagine how anyone could not like the guy...what was there not to like? But there were always those smart aleck kids that would say things like 'we don't have a chimney here in Florida, is Santa going to leave us out?'

Of course not I would reply defending his scruples, Santa didn't leave anybody out. Santa was an equal opportunity distributor. But there was something fishy as the evidence slowly came in that it was in fact ma and pa who went to the store and bought the gifts; not Santa making them up at the North Pole with a bunch of elves and delivering them in an anti-gravity delivery sleigh.

Then, like millions of other baby boomer kiddies, I came to the stark and unbelievably cruel conclusion that Santa did not exist. Upset and shattered, I cried to ma that it looks like my man Santa was a cruel hoax hoisted on me by those that thought it funny to tell little boys lies. Oh, cruel world!

Thank goodness for ma. Had it not been for her I would have lost all faith in humanity for ever right then and there and become a hardened cynic. Creating something like Santa and then taking him back, especially from four year olds, just did not seem like the American thing to do. It wasn't fair play.

It was clear to me back then that little babies came into the world not knowing anything and pretty much everything they know is taught to them by their loving families. Why would these loving families tell them such a lie?

Ma finally confirmed the news that Santa did not come down the heater vent. In fact, Santa did not bring any of my presents. People invented Santa because they needed him and needed to believe in something like Santa. It was a nice story in the old days and we keep telling it today; sort of make believe to make us feel good.

Whew. Thank goodness for ma setting Santa straight for me. I was beginning to wonder if I was wrapped right which is a bit much for a four year old that has just started to get out into the world.

Things changed with my son. By the time he came along everything was hip and cool and Santa was becoming even more popular. But my son never came and asked was Santa real. He knew the answer already.

Sure the concept of Santa has changed over the years. The sheer amount of commercialism has made even Santa a bit trying at times. Santa as a concept sort of faded into the background as I raised a family and traveled the world.

A Santa concept. Hmmm...

The latest brain research lends great credence that concepts created by the mind can in fact become the mind's reality. Hmm... Does that mean that if the concept is accepted by the mind it in fact becomes reality? Depending on which cognitive behavioral expert you ask, the answer is a 'probably so'.

So at this point, Virginia, we can say that Santa probably exists, at least in some people's psyches. That is a big step up from sheer myth and fantasy. If people way back created Santa because they needed him maybe we can do the same. And maybe we need to.

So here Virginia I have evolved full circle from total belief, shocked disbelief, reality assessment, and on to conceptual integration and assimilation. Or something like that.

Maybe it's the crazy idea of some gone cat unconditionally handing out toys to every kid in the whole wide world. Maybe it's the hope that someone like Santa could do such deeds and not have a hidden agenda or secret business plan.

Yes Virginia, Santa exists in the frontal lobes and cerebrum of every child that lets him go there. So don't forget to write your letter to Santa and hang your stocking near the heater vent. And don't feel badly when your insensitive intellectual friends make fun of you for believing in fairy tales.

Just tell them fairy tales are culture and culture is us. Rest assured that our dear friend Santa Claus will always exist as long as we need him to.

Ho, Ho, Ho!

Posted by Jack D. Deal at 07:53 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

"That lady Madalyn O'Hair got murdered because she took prayer out of schools," said the man on the news. I once interviewed Mad Madalyn. I also knew she got murdered because she was cheap and exploited her employees at the Atheist Center in Austin, Texas, not because of prayer in schools.

Mad Madalyn hired and exploited one too many rehabbing felons and paid the price. Madalyn wasn't murdered for prayer in school; just like Jesus (gasp) she was murdered for pieces of gold that she kept in a storage locker. Mad Madalyn didn't even need Judas to betray her and The Grand Jury never got around to indicting God.

But it didn't matter. You can't argue with the faithful anymore than one could argue with Mad Madalyn while she was alive, RIP. She was no more murdered by intelligent design than natural intelligence. She was murdered because she was greedy. Too greedy. And stupid. Stupidly greedy.

Out here in pagan coastal California we have another religion sprouting up: Natural Intelligence. Natural Intelligence asserts that there is an intelligent force behind nature that makes it all work out the way it does. In other words, the final result is due to the dynamics of natural intelligence. This system implies that natural intelligence is also smart and can override anything left up to chance, like the effects of mutations on evolution.

Similarly intelligent design attempts to prove that certain aspects of "creation" are structured so that they had to have popped out completely done and could not have evolved slowly over many millennia.

The problem is that intelligent design and natural intelligence are concepts that can never be empirically tested. Big surprise. That is because both concepts depend totally on faith and belief as opposed to science and reason. In fact one can say that a lack of science and reason have led to the formation of these grandiose concepts themselves.

We humans simply cannot stand a knowledge void. When our caveman ancestors could not understand something they developed whatever explanations they could imagine to 'explain' it. That 's how humans developed myths and religion, of course not including 'your religion' which is special and the Absolute Truth.

Intelligent design attempts to explain how we got here and natural intelligence attempts to explain how things work right now.

One of the last words I heard my grandma say were 'be sure you take that son of yours to Sunday School. Don't want him growing up to be a heathen.' RIP, grandma. (What 's reassuring is if she just googles my name up in heaven, and that is most certainly where she is, she would be pleased to see that I still fondly remember her.)

Intelligent design is the culture I grew up in; Grandma. Natural intelligence is the culture I now live in; The Confused.

While the intelligent design folks call the natural intelligence folks heathens, like my grandma, the natural intelligence folks call the faithful 'the Stupids.' That is simply because all of the natural intelligence folks rebelled against their parents and part of that was rebelling against religious dogma. Anything that smacks of religion is 'mind control' yet natural intelligence is not.

The funny thing is the heathens have unwittingly helped the intelligent design cause. All the intelligent design folks have to say is that natural intelligence equals God or gods. Boy are they sure smart proving that intelligent design exists, no? Find 'God' and Replace with 'Natural Intelligence' and everybody goes home happy.

All the heathens, mostly affluent youth rebelling against their bourgeois parents, strut around so proud that they no longer are bound by the mental chains of religion. The fact that they are now bound by the chains of natural intelligence seems irrelevant.

In fact this is another common attribute held by both: everything that does not support the cause is irrelevant. Like the faithful say, "if it doesn't support what I believe than I don't want to hear it because it does not exist."

In turn, the heathens say that if it doesn't support what I believe than I don't want to hear it because it does not exist.

Ah those rebellious young heathens! They go all out to get away from the restricted thinking of their parents and yet cannot see they are exactly the same. All they have done is swap one premise for another and in fact as we have seen here the premises are exactly the same. It all comes down to a question of faith...

In other words, Junior may sit up in a tree protesting the environment but he is the same as Good Old Dad who protests the progressives protesting. The formulas and equations are the same for both and with Find and Replace they interchange 's eamlessly'.

Well there you have it. Now that you are totally confused congratulations. At the end of the day ours is not to reason why because if we put too much of our reason in, it just won't make any sense at all.

But watch out. If you start thinking intelligent design and natural intelligence were fabricated by cavemen that didn't know better, you are in big trouble amigo.

Beware! You are certainly headed for sure down that disastrous path to a free and inquiring mind...

Posted by Jack D. Deal at 08:42 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

As the year draws to a close, we Democrats must take stock of where we do and don't stand.  2008 is the year that the Bush's leave; thankfully as otherwise we would probably lose again.  Assuming it all means anything and makes any difference, we Democrats have a great chance at winning in November of 2008.  Of course we thought the same in 2000 and 2004 but managed to self destruct. 

Will history repeat itself?  Let's see...

Frontrunner The Clintons are dropping faster than a speeding bullet.  Around Thanksgiving female columnists began blasting Hillary and it was just one in a series of stinging jabs that has left her campaign reeling.  There was the planting questions issue but the key was when female journalists started to turn on her.  With Hillary it's not just a woman thing.  In just two weeks she dropped ten points.  The combination of her gaffs and Obama's turnaround has the race leveling out nicely for the primaries.  Very bad news for The (sagging) Clintons as they will have to re-whiteboard their 'look presidential' strategy.   Just whose idea was it?  And is Obama actually more 'woman' friendly?    

In my view the worst gaff came when asked about whether she preferred diamonds or pearls.  The question was loaded for the flip-floppedyness factor and her answer was surprising; she replied 'both'.  God forbid.  One or the other would have been fine.  But not wanting to offend anyone she straddled the line and shot herself in both proverbial feet.  Time to fire somebody's campaign manager.   

But give credit to Obama.  In foreign affairs he questioned whether Hillary's experience as first lady was any more relevant to his living abroad when he was 10, which she publicly criticized as not being real experience. In one fell swoop he destroyed half her credentials while weakening his resume from ages 10-14. Some trade.   

The other was the smoking pot question.  Obama admitted he had smoked it and inhaled.  In fact, he stated that inhaling was the idea.   This in direct contrast to The Clintons statement that it was smoked but not inhaled.  The problem is this can be juxtaposed with the 'I did not have sex with that woman' statement.   

Two issues have apparently been resolved in the revived Obama campaign.  The first is Obama himself has taken the initiative and it has paid big dividends...and Oprah is going to hit the campaign trail for him.  The other is that his advisors are clearly whupping the Clintons right now and don't be surprised to hear Hillary announce a major campaign housecleaning. 

The analysts observe that as the primaries approach we Demos are pondering whether a third term for The Clintons is advisable.   The dagger survey of the week showed her losing to all the Repubs but both Obama and Edwards winning.   The two stunners are that many voters won't actually cast their vote for her at crunch time and that Edwards is any factor at all.   Go figure.  Democrats.

Edwards in my play book is toast.   His main problem has been his inability to shake his own image.  On his front he wears a sign 'By Day Proletarian' and on his back 'By Night a Trial Injury Lawyer.'   John needs to muss up his hair, put on a dirty T-shirt and go out and shovel manure.   But John will be stuck where he is in 2008 unless he changes his look and feel and he's clearly too in love with himself to do that.

Several side observations.   Hillary's insistence on playing all cards at once, 'I like both diamonds and pearls' is a big negative.   The electorate always wants someone that agrees with them, with us rather, but really does not like someone that doesn't have any opinion or waffles; 'both' or 'I voted for it but really didn't.'   

Another Demo party weakness is our frontrunners have little and poor experience.   All count the U.S. Senate as experience and with public opinion pretty much anti-Congress that might be a liability.   'I would have voted for you but I found out you were a Senator'. 

The two most qualified Democrats, Biden and Richardson, have no chance.   Hopefully whoever wins the nomination picks one of them as VP.  The Repubs are sure to pounce on our candidate's lack of experience, as well as any Senate experience in a dud Congress.  We know it's coming. 

Right now it's Obama's race to win or lose.  Hillary has flubbed and let him back in and it appears he has made his move.  Edwards has not been able to hit a nerve and his campaign has plastic written all over it. 

But mark my words and remember you first heard it here; watch out for a real late surge by Darkhorse Dennis 'Da Man' Kucinich.  Da Man's braintrust is currently working out a Vice Presidential running mate between Pee Wee Herman and Hugo Chavez.  The advantages are swinging toward Chavez with his 'free gas for votes' strategy.   But Pee Wee has the really cool name.   

As for me, I remain unchanged from last month.  Oprah and I are still for Obama...

Posted by Jack D. Deal at 03:30 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Back in 2001 in the spring and summer I worked a project that took me all over Northern California.  Coming back home for the weekend the wife and I would often stop at the Cattleman's Restaurant in Livermore.  We liked it because the atmosphere was cowboy and the food good and plentiful and there really aren't any steak houses in vegan Santa Cruz.   On this particular August evening we were late getting in and the place had filled up.   We were told it would be a half hour and we could wait at the bar and they would call us. 

The bar was already pretty full and all the TVs were on the Giants game.  I got a beer and the wife a bloody Mary.  A steady stream of folks entered and asked the bartender 'when is he up?' 

The bartender would answer next inning, third up or whatever the situation was.  As Barry went on deck the bar suddenly began to fill and I realized the patrons had left their meals, purses, infants and whatever else and had come in to watch Barry. 

As usual in the sport of baseball there was first a ball and strike and then a very loud crack and we could see the ball sail out of the park.  Everybody jumped up, including me.  We were high fiving and doing all the idiotic sorts of antics baseball fans do when their team hits a home run.   This particular home run was one of a record setting 73 Barry hit that season.  What excitement!  

At that very moment the last thing any of us was thinking was 'golly gee, this home run won't count.' Had I mentioned that thought to anyone in the bar they would have thought I was nuts and not a prophet.  Maybe even thrown a punch.

I have watched baseball for about 50 years but had never seen anything like Barry.  The defensive shift to pull was like no other in the history of baseball.  It was more like four outfielders and three infielders.    During that time I also remember several times remarking that Barry at times looked stiff and almost waddled.  His neck seemed especially stiff.  I didn't know that his shoe size would increase over one whole size too. 

Having read about his extensive training and nutrition program I immediately attributed his increase in bulk to training.   Barry's off-season rigor was well publicized.  I even once remarked that Barry was such a hard trainer he actually grew muscles on his scalp.  Barry shaves his head so when he takes off his helmet he had what looked like muscles.  Later we were to learn that he increased one whole head size. 

But steroids weren't just what made Barry great as any minimally informed baseball fan will know.  Barry hit that many home runs because he seldom swung at bad pitches.  He walked more than any player in history.  What was so incredibly amazing about his 2001 stretch was his average nightly box score would be a home run, a single and three walks. Repeatedly that season Barry was walked in situations that no other player had ever been walked. 

Who can ever forget the home run race between McGuire, Sosa and Bonds?   It had to be one of the most exciting times ever for baseball fans and for that we are thankful.  Ironic how all three have been linked to juice...but not guilty until proven. 

Barry was a competitor despite his unpolished character and arrogant demeanor.   Barry always played to win and for that we thank him for his entertaining show.   So now the greatest man to ever play the game has to wait and watch as he enters a no-win trial.  I hope he gets off.  Barry played to win and he did whatever it took to get that edge.  And he knew other players were doing it.  Barry just couldn't let them have the edge. 

If he's guilty, and he may not be, slap him on the wrist, give him probation and let him age in peace.  Barry has to live with Barry and we have to live with the letdown.   Of course there will be those that want blood and those that want justice for all those records he robbed. 

My guess at least some of Barry's home runs will be disallowed taking him back down below Hank and the Babe.  Quite frankly whatever the commissioner decides is fair and just won't sit well with the fans.   No matter what he does the boo birds will be following him around for some time.  I wonder if he will also disallow the walks as well as home runs.  No one wins here.

Say it ain't so, Barry.  If you have to go down may as well go down in a blaze of glory.  Do whatever it takes to make amends and get back on that field one last time.  Let's not leave it like this...it's too personal. 

And I know there will be a number of us standing and cheering once again when you do.

Posted by Jack D. Deal at 10:21 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

U.S. Congressman Tom Tancredo made the statement today that all of the country of Mexico is a drug cartel.  I wished he would have emailed me before he made that statement and wish also he would lay off the sinsemilla.  It has to be affecting his judgment as evidenced by his making a goofy statement like that. 

Had he only contacted me I would have told him that my mother-in-law and sister-in-law aren't involved with El Chapo, Los Hermanos Arrellano Felix or La Reyna Del Pacifico so at least he would know his declaration was false.  By definition folks involved with these groups are 'narcos' or involved in the drug trade.  Those that aren't, aren't.  Hopefully Rep. Tancredo puts down his bong long enough and lets that simple fact sink in. 

My mother-in-law and sister-in-law belong to an extremist group called Los Testigos de Jehovah or in English, Jehovah's Witnesses.  These radicals are trying their best to get rid of beer and cantinas and mota and everything else the good Congressman does and more.  But that's not the half of it.  Furthermore they are against all fiestas including Cinco de Mayo and Christmas.  Needless to say you can imagine what a hoot it is New Year's Eve at their casa. 

I'm sure if El Chapo himself came up and offered a lucrative drug territory to my relatives they would start telling him about the Mark of the Beast and Armageddon.  El Chapo would not know what to say when they describe the beast rising up out of the ocean and coming on land to take care of business. 

El Chapo could be talking about great big bags of cocaine and they would be quoting Bible verses.  They will wear him out.  And they don't tire.  Once they quote the whole Bible they don't feel the least bit embarrassed about doing it all over again.  Day after day.  Week after week.   They don't do drugs; they quote the Bible.

And then there are my Maya pals.  Yes, Rep. Tancredo, I do have a hut in a Maya village with my Mexican wife of 35 years who didn't know who El Chapo was either until I told her. 

Now my question to the mentally compromised Rep. Tancredo is this: if everyone is involved in the lucrative drug trade, why are all my Maya neighbors so poor?  Not one has a Mercedes, jet, pool, spa, bodyguard or small arms firing range.  Not one has a Swedish trophy wife that lounges around the hut in a bikini.  Not one of their kids is a spring breaker.  Que pasa? 

So much for the facts.  The problem is that irresponsible statements can actually hurt bilateral relations.  The Congressman is portrayed as somewhat brain damaged by all three Mexican parties: the PAN, the PRI and the PRD.  To get these three groups to agree on anything is next to impossible.  But they did all agree to denounce the mental faculties of the good Congressman. 

Santiago Creel and Ruth Green Macias of the Mexican Congress in La Cronica newspaper characterized Congressman's Tancredo's statements as odd since many of Congressman's constituents are drug users.  In fact, they make the point that if the Congressman's constituents stopped consuming drugs, the drug cartels everywhere would just go away.  Reduced demand means reduced supply. 

Is it any less righteous of me to accuse the good senator of snorting a few lines in the Congressional loo then it is for him to accuse my relatives and every other Mexican of being a drug trafficker?

What is truly ironic is that just as the Congressman's accusations were hitting the Mexican websites another story broke about how armed drug cartel assassins killed four police in an ambush.  I'm certain if these police had been members of the drug cartel then the cartel would not have killed them.  In fact, the feeds were saying that two cops were slain as they innocently tried to stop the killers in another town. 

Now, if I'm the mother or father of one of these slain cops and I read what the stoned Rep. Tancredo is saying then I get a bit ticked.  I get angry at Rep. Tancredo and all his drug using constituents that support the cartels that killed my son in the line of duty. 

So, fare Congressman, not all Mexicans are drug dealers.  And I'll even bet not all your constituents are drug users either.  When you accuse a neighbor and friend of something as strong as being a drug dealer you damn better well have proof or somebody is going to call your bluff. 

Because sooner or later that great big sea monster at Armageddon time is going to come up and take care of all those that spread malicious lies and rumors about their good neighbors.  My Jehovah's Witness mother in law would say that if the good Congressman apologizes and promises to mend his ways then we should forgive and forget.  That's what Jesus wants us to do. 

But as for me, I think it's sea monster time.

Posted by Jack D. Deal at 09:37 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

One of the last remaining operating drive-ins in California will soon become an upper end health clinic. The historic Skyview Flea Market and Drive-In in Santa Cruz,California will close after a 51 year run. Everything has its price and clearly the price for health care has been steadily rising. After all, what are the margins for a drive-in and flea market and why should anyone care?

Obviously not Sutter Medical who bought the property.  The fourteen acres in question is private property, Sutter bought it and end of story. Well, not quite the end of the story. The flea community may soon be dissolved but the people will still continue. These are the small business people, collectors, farmworkers, recyclers, junk men, families, hobbyists, lonely hearts and the mentally borderline who want or need something other than ball games and political TV gossip on the weekends.  Folks that make the world go round.

Folks like Lupe, a 41 year old farmworker mother that sells to make ends meet yet always wants to give us free stuff. And Sam, a 62 year old retiree that dislikes his wife so he spends flea market days flirting with anyone that will pay him attention. And Marvin, a 44 year old mentally disabled man that visits the market to socialize since almost all his time is spent by himself in his room.

And Carl, an antiques dealer who for 20 years has been shopping the flea for antiques and collectibles for his store. Sara, an antiques dealer that started liquidating her inventory ever since the antiques and collectibles market started to slip. Nguyen, a student at San Jose State who sells cheap goods out of a box van to pay his way through college.

Josefina, a Salinas mother of two, sells fruits and vegetables to augment her family's income from the fields and teach her children a strong work ethic.  Jacobo works as a custodian for the flea in the winters when there is no field work. Jake works as a market security guard to support his wife and three children.  Cindy works in the concession stand to pay her way through Cabrillo Junior College.

Laughing John, a reseller of curios and collectibles, drives each Sunday all the way from Fremont. Bartolo, a locker buyer from Castroville who has been dealing junk for over 30 years, will have to find a new line of work. Arn, who visits his ex-students and stops to talk art with those he meets, will no longer be able to regularly see so many of his old friends. Bill, an artist and furniture maker who buys old and damaged furniture, fixes it up and sells it to supplement his social security, will obviously have to find a new source.

Intellectual Pat, one of the most knowledgeable antiques dealers around has been instructing his 'students' at the flea market for decades. No mas. Bob and Julie drive from Turlock to sell almonds from their orchard. Linda the hat lady arrives in her VW rabbit with hats stacked to the roof. Amanda sells cheap LA warehouse surplus so she and her husband can go to Reno and gamble.

David, who sells designer pants and shirts at about the best prices around, drives from Milpitas and has a wife and two kids. Bill from the Westside has been selling tools, music and just about anything else at the flea for over 25 years. Elvy, just about the sweetest lady you will ever meet, buys stuff at garage sales on Saturdays that she resells on Sundays to help pay for clothes and expenses for her three school-aged daughters.

Jack, whose witticisms and art BS often made my day, will have to take his small talk somewhere else. Trevor, an antiques dealer who would fight to the last peso and then some, can't get any more good deals. Dean, an old locker auction buddy who taught me lots about junk, people and how to make the best of a lousy situation, will survive. Like most flea folks, Dean is a survivor.

So is Maria, whose sole source of support is the flea, who will now have to drive to Hollister or San Jose with her box van of goodies. And Joe, whose easy going demeanor and people skills helped him sell truckload after truckload of junk, will have to find another way to finance his kid's music lessons.

And there's Frank, whose mental instability, persecution complex and short temper, have recently made him only a part time vendor as his flashbacks and sense of reality have started to merge in his senior years. No doubt he will show up one Sunday and not realize or remember the flea has closed. I guess maybe Sutter Medical will have to deal with him.

Managers Anna and Carlos will have to find new jobs.  Mike, a daguerreotype photo collector and electronics tinkerer, will have to go elsewhere to buy parts for projects he builds with his sons. Adrian, who sells at the flea when not working at the carwash, sells CDs with Aurora to support their three sons in school. Tom, who makes his living selling flea stuff on EBay, will have to go elsewhere. Juan, a local chef who brings his daughter Daniela to the flea as family entertainment, lets her stay with us when she gets tired. We've watched her grow up.

And of course you, who want to find a place to sell off your stuff, make a few bucks, add to your collections, meet old friends, meet new friends and search for treasures, will now have to drive to another county. So will we. 

These are just a few of us from a community that will be no more. Perhaps, amigos, our paths will cross again and we can recount old times.  Thanks and gracias.  Until then, adios, farewell and good luck dear friends from Skyview!

Posted by Jack D. Deal at 08:56 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

All of us can't be beautiful. God knows.

Take me for instance. I'm nondescript. You see me in a restaurant and it's as if I'm not there. On the one hand that's good because no one is pointing at me and making faces. I can also spill food on my shirt and no one will pay any attention. Or care, except for a stray comment like "Look John, there's another idiot with food all over his shirt."

Yet on the other hand my modern angsted ego is bruised when no one looks at me and says 'what a handsome guy.' So be it.

Now I know immediately some of you gals are going to be upset and cry sexist pig and start nagging me because I'm only talking about ugly women and not ugly men.

As a writer I write about what I know and I know a lot about ugly women but don't know much about ugly men. Most men for me are non-descript too. I will hear women remarking about how handsome a particular man is but I don't see it. I don't understand the appeal of the rough look.  To me, the rough look is ugly in both men and women.

Be that as it may I do have a much better aptitude for determining what is attractive in women. Like most men, I can readily spot an ugly woman or a pretty woman.

Don't ask me why I know this or how I know this. I just know this. It's a guy thing and has something to do with the hippocampus in the brain. No one is exactly sure why but everything else goes one way or the other through the hippocampus so it is one heck of a good guess.

Besides, we guys know about a woman's look. We may not know much else about her, but we ace the looks category. That's our job. It's what we and our hippocampuses do.

Really pretty women are now getting little tiny, discrete tattoos sometimes on little tiny discrete parts of their pretty bodies. You know, the butterfly in the small of the back type of tattoos. The risk these women run is that the tattoo will detract from their beauty even when put on a particularly discrete part of their anatomy.

Not so with the ugly woman. No way. The ugly woman will get the most bodacious tattoo she can finance covering her arms, head, neck and anything else when possible.  Double King Sized is her order.

The key here is to imagine the viewer's reaction upon seeing this massive tattoo, which is really the only reason anyone gets tattooed in the first place, with the possible exception of those that get large Nazi themed facial tattoos. Those with Nazi themed facial tattoos get them almost exclusively for their own self gratification.

One's first reaction is "man, something's really ugly here so it must be the tattoo." Aha. We are in the hunt now. Our tenacious research has finally led us to the crucial clue as to why ugly women get super grande tattoos.

Like Sherlock Holmes once said it's all right there in front of your nose. Ugly women get large tattoos to hide their ugliness. At least that's the strategy.  The ugliness gets blamed on the tattoo and not well, the underlying ugliness or real cause of the ugly effect. In the process the tattered ego gets a facelift.

In certain urban and suburban areas of California, tattoos and body piercings have gone to the extreme. On many bodies now it's hard to find a place that is not tattooed or pierced, including major and minor body orifices and canals creating a whole new specialty branch in applied medicine.

In this attempt to create a new look the user opts for the total tattoo remake and body pierced mutilations: in short, cover up all that ugly. One of the immediate psychological benefits is a dramatic improvement in self esteem. Beware the devil you don't know does not apply to the permanently very ugly. Any change is an improvement for the desperately ugly. God knows that too.

It really doesn't matter that as these tattooed clowns age they will look like those angry aborigines in New Zealand. They probably won't remember who they are anyway or won't care even if they do remember. At that point even tattoos are secondary.

Quite frankly nobody is going to pay any attention to Granma's wrinkles if she has Hells Angels Bakersfield tattooed in Gothic letters across her forehead. And initial research shows that such tattoos are actually often viewed as attractive by those with senility, dementia and the more common senile dementia. "By golly I think I used to belong to the Bakersfield chapter - you must be my kinda girl! I can almost remember you..."

Keywords are Hells, Angels, Snake Oil, Deception and Bakersfield. You do see the logic behind all this, no?

On some level it must actually work or why in God's name do they keep doing it?

Posted by Jack D. Deal at 11:10 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

Grandpa collected a series of 350 or so photos, reprints and postcards from World War I when he was an American soldier.  For some reason he wanted to save all the pictures and they fill almost two albums.  

Maybe it was knowing that one day someone like me would look at the pictures and reflect on the true nature of war.  Who knows.  But whatever his reasons I'm glad he saved them.  The effect of looking at the albums is sobering.

Not much glory there in Grandpa's photo.  He looked like he could have been any young kid from any state.  Or any country for that matter.  It was his soldier's photo album and World War I was the event of his life.  It was like that for many that survived.

The war ended in 1918 and grandpa died in 1960.  Almost everyone that fought in that great war is now dead.  That much I do know.     

The first album is full of soldier buddy shots and shots from towns and cities in Europe, mostly France.   The pictures also include numerous shots of the battlefields at Rheims and Belleau Wood, two of the war's bloodiest battle sites.

The second album is almost entirely battlefield scenes.   

It was a war not fought in the air or sea but on land and in the trenches.  Funny how 'in the trenches' is still with us today.  World War I will be remembered as the last trench warfare or the last war where one could literally see the whites of the enemy's eyes, though maybe a couple of hundred yards away.  

One side charged and would capture the other side's trench.   The other side would make a hasty retreat and leave everything behind, including their dead and wounded.  After a while they would counterattack. Day after day.  Week after week.  Month after month.

The casualty rate was off the charts.   The battlefields were often littered with the dead as they did not have time to bury them.  And it was not safe outside the trenches.

There is a photo of a soldier in a trench behind barbed wire.  The barbed wire was supposed to help stop the other side from charging right into your trench.  He is barely visible behind the tangle of barbed wire.  The constant attacks, the poison gas, the bombardments; it all added up to a trip to hell.  Not much to smile about.  The face is not real clear behind the barbed wire but it's apparent he is not smiling.

The Germans looked so much like us.  How long does it take a corpse to become a bare skeleton?   I imagine somewhere a German is looking at a similar album and remarking how they 'look so much like us -- how long does it take the meat on a head to rot and leave just a skull?'

In between the trenches was 'no man's land' or the area that no one controlled.   There are numerous photos of no man's land and dead soldiers and mostly destroyed countryside.   Aerial shots show it wasn't just no man's land that was leveled, much of the surrounding countryside in a battle was also destroyed.

It was standard military strategy to bombard a trench for days to loosen it up and demoralize the troops before charging.  The intent was to destroy morale but it also destroyed most of the surrounding landscape. Charging was often done by letting out a yell, standing up and running straight for the enemy trenches, just like it had been done for centuries.

Horses were used to pull wagons and artillery.  There is a photo of U.S. troops headed to battle pulling their artillery with horses.    A lot of horses also died.   One photo shows a dead horse that was blown up into a tree. 

Supposedly WWI was the last war that poison gas was allowed.  Oddly enough the countries that used mega bombs and gargantuan artillery felt gas was too deadly so it was outlawed by treaty.  I'm not sure if technically it is more humane to kill by bullet or by gas.  As a result only renegades like Saddam Hussein use poison gas.  

The real problem was poison gas was heavier than air so it would sink into the trenches.   If a gas canister filled your trench the best defense was to get out and of course right into the line of fire from enemy snipers.  That was part of the idea; your choice, whiff of gas or a bullet through the head. 

Potent gases like chlorine gas and mustard gas would either burn the lungs out or instantly destroy the central nervous system.  One whiff and it was over.   

After the war the world was mad so it made Germany pay war reparations and the German economy collapsed.  In the early 1920's inflation wiped out any hopes of an economic recovery and the conditions were set for Adolf Hitler and the Nazi party to take their turn.  And they did.

I felt a bit queasy after viewing all the photographed carnage especially knowing this wasn't a Hollywood set.  No Charlie Chaplin or Tom Mix in these pictures.  Just the boys next door, ma'am.  And the boys next door from another country, too.

Of course WWI did not end all wars and there have been a number of bad ones since.  Or rather it might be more correct to say that there have been no good wars since.  Maybe. 

It all depends on our perspectives and what we learned from Grandpa's war. 

Posted by Jack D. Deal at 10:47 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

I was trying to think of the year when this happened and I figured it out because the baby was maybe a year old  then.   We had driven down from El Paso and crossed the Eastern Sierras on some very sketchy roads to spend Christmas or Navidad at our home in central Veracruz on the Gulf Coast. 

For some reason I have always enjoyed Navidad in Mexico; it's definitely not as commercial at least among the limited income people we knew.  We lived on a farm.   Gift giving was usually left for the sixth of January or Day of the Wise Men so there wasn't a lot of gifts anyway...

What I enjoyed were the Posadas or  Rest Stops the Magi took to find baby Jesus.   On each night of the twelve days of Christmas someone would have a party.   These were fun affairs with maybe some tamales and atole or corn drink.   Everyone was in a festive mood and of course there was the ubiquitous pinata; a must for every posada. 

It is perhaps not so easy for foreigners to understand just what a pinata does but very often it is the highlight of the party.   The pinata is strung up by rope on a  pole or tree and the rope is pulled by someone while the blindfolded participant swings wildly with a stick and the crowd jeers.   Everyone likes this merriment and the pinata always draws a large crowd.

On this particular night we were going to an ejido or communal farm for a Posada, the three of us in our VW.   As I approached the center of the ejido I realized this was not the small Posada we thought we were attending; the whole community was out in masse for this one.

I turned off the lights and parked.   We got out and were sitting on the hood watching the fun; there were maybe four hundred people there.   One after the other, adult and child,  took their turn at the pinata while the onlookers hooted.   The mood was festive and the cool Veracruz air made it quite a night...

As we watched two men took the stick and began to walk toward us.   My heart sank, oh my god...and they kept coming walking through the  crowds as the onlookers stepped aside.   They came right up to  me and handed me the stick.  My turn.  My turn to make a fool out of myself and have everyone laugh at me.   

Of course I stood out; I look like a German.   Everyone else around me including my wife was mestizo and Indian.  Time to have some fun with the Gringo...

I knew I had to take it.   It was a matter of being a part of the community; we knew a lot of people there and my wife had some relatives too...so it  was a choice of being a fool or a poor sport.   I knew the poor sport was not in my behavioral repetoire in Mexico so I took it.   They escorted me to pinata, blindfolded me and spun me around several times so I would lose my bearings.   

They would tease me by allowing me to touch the pinata with my stick but they were not  going to let me hit it.     That was OK.  I had to show I was making an effort or the fun would be dampened.   So I swung wildly and floundered and the crowd roared.   Finally it was over and they stopped me and took off the blindfold.   All were laughing and nodding approvingly and I felt the mission was accomplished.   

These are the people that 'adopted' me as a teenager when I drove a motorcycle to Mexico.   They were my friends, family and community.   And if they realize I'm a good sport and they get a few laughs that's fine...I don't mind and I bet my wife was laughing too.   

I accepted the culture and it in turn accepted me.  For that I am eternally grateful...and watch out for the pinatas...

Jack  D. Deal

Posted by Jack D. Deal at 03:46 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

The other week at a collectibles show I  bought a Charlie McCarthy toy puppet and actually confused him with Howdy Doody.  The guy standing beside me thought Charlie McCarthy was Howdy Doody too.   Subsequent viewers of my puppet have also made the same mistake and I didn't find out until I checked him out on Ebay.  Some newer viewers think Charlie is from a recent horror flick that was, as they say, very scary.   One went so far as to say he would not be able to sleep with Charlie McCarthy in the same room.   What's this bizarre world coming too?  Go figure...

Charlie McCarthy was of course the puppet from ventriloquist comic Edgar Bergen;  hence, Edgar Bergen and Charlie McCarthy.   I remember as a very young lad listening to Edgar and Charlie.  Charlie was always a wise donkey and always saying the wrong thing.   Edgar would call Charlie a dummy and Charlie wouldn't like it and make a sarcastic reply. The audience would roar.   Charlie would bicker constantly with Edgar and the dialogue was a bit edgy for back then but somehow Edgar could pull it off by blaming it on the misbehaving puppet.  Edgar would  act upset and embarrassed by Charlie and we all felt badly for poor Edgar.  It was zippy and even my mother laughed.   A few years later my attention changed focus and I fell in love with Candace, Edgar's movie actress daughter, but then again so did every other male adolescent at that time so the competition was pretty stiff...and she eventually married someone else.      

Howdy Doody was partners with Buffalo Bob.   They had a little kiddie show with Howdy doing most of the antics as if he were all wired up on speed...a nervous kind of guy,always jumping around since of course Howdy was a marionette.   Buffalo Bob, a real person, would dress in a buckskin frontier suit...sort of like Daniel Boone without the hat.  Buffalo Bob would always tell the kids in the studio audience 'No comments from the peanut gallery' when they would laugh or heckle.   It's a term I still use today and I wonder how many in my age bracket use the same expression.   The Howdy Doody show was nonsense and all us bright American kids knew it was nonsense but we loved it anyway.   Which was good, because not too many years later we would be faced with life's cold realities where many of us would wish we were back in the peanut gallery with our old pals Howdy Doody and Buffalo Bob.   

Through the years Howdy and Charlie have come and gone.   As time passes we even confuse the two. But somehow we came away with a cultural legacy by growing up with these guys.  They were our heroes, our friends and in a way our first introductions to the outside world.   When Buffalo Bob died a few years back they ran clips of the shows on TV and pictures in the newspaper and somehow I could still identify with it after all those years.   No one can live forever, not even Buffalo Bob or Howdy, but their legacy as culture goes on through all us kiddie fans from years past.         

But of course that's how culture works.   It comes and it goes.  It is the partnering of the ego with society.  And maybe at some point in the future when folks are a lot smarter than we are and can figure things out a lot better, they will analyze what effect Howdy and Charlie had on the development of Modern America.    And kids will catalogue Howdy and Charlie in their cultural icon database.  And watch video clips and write reports on what it might have been like to be sitting in the peanut gallery, no comments and all.    

We all need a sense of belonging, of having a cultural home...and when I saw the clips of Howdy I said 'yep, that's my culture all right.'   That's me.  With Buffalo Bob and the participatory peanut gallery who needs  kings and epics and revolutions and all that sort of heavy tradition?  Howdy and Charlie give me a cultural place to hang my hat...and in some strange way I take comfort in being able to do that.  It must be we all need a place to hang our cultural hats.   It gives us a sense of who we are, even if we still are only the adoring fans of a couple of wooden dummies...      

And really, how can any snob dare say America has produced no culture when we have such cultural icons as Howdy  Doody and  Charlie McCarthy? 

No comments from the peanut gallery?   

Jack D. Deal

Posted by Jack D. Deal at 08:11 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

I recently began work with a new client in the computer industry. As with any new company one of the first steps I take is interview key employees to get their perspective. After several interviews I began to notice a surprising pattern. All of the employees stated they were with the company because the owners were honest. Honesty and integrity were more important than compensation or job descriptions. The fact that some of the employees were "Generation Xer" techies opened my eyes even further. To create a sense of loyalty and belonging among a group notorious for non-loyalty was nothing short of astounding. Despite its faults, many of which were common to most businesses, this company has been able to attract and retain a number of good employees. Needless to say this company has been expanding steadily and is poised for exponential growth.

The concepts of honesty and integrity are not new. The actual application of honesty and integrity in the new business environment is. As results, earnings and growth-at-any-cost have become standard tactics, honesty and integrity have to a certain extent fallen by the wayside. Ownership often sees better short-term margins by micromanaging and delegating more and more to fewer and fewer. In my employee reviews I hear this as a common employee complaint. When conditions deteriorate and ownership sees margins vanish they call someone like me to find out what is wrong.

I point out the problems and they reluctantly go for the painful cure.

Pain is the motivator until conditions improve and they are able to go back to the short-term gains of micromanaging and exploitative delegation.

When employees feel micromanaged and exploited they naturally take it out on the customers. We all experience this on a daily basis. This is often the first sign of terminal business illness. Customers perceive the business to be rude, incompetent, exploitative and micromanaged.

The dynamics are obvious to an outsider like me. In short, the values expressed by ownership filter through the employees to the customers.

The businesses that do nothing eventually die - customers simply take their business elsewhere. Those that give lip service and half-hearted corrective measures may extend the funeral by beginning a cycle of boom-or-bust.

Unfortunately most businesses adopt these strategies and never reach their potential. Owners become bitter, employees become bitter and eventually the customers become bitter. More and more effort and resources are required to keep the business operating.

I hate these kinds of businesses. Sure, I can get improvement but the improvement is temporary and as soon as the cashflow crises are averted a comfort zone is attained and the cycle repeats itself. These kinds of businesses never reach a "superior" status and are always struggling to maintain the status quo. Having worked for a number of superior businesses, I have perspective and see the potential. Owners who have insisted on micromanaged exploitation have little perspective and cannot conceptually grasp any other strategy.

When our political and business leaders lie, cheat, mislead and otherwise manipulate we become hardened and willing to accept less. We almost expect employees to be rude. Our standards are lowered and so are our expectations.

In the business world the results are mediocrity and pettiness. A mediocre, petty business can be many things but being successful is not one of them.

In reality the old values have never left us. Concepts like honesty and integrity have been with us since we evolved socially enough to understand what they mean. In the old days, if you cheated your neighbour you met the wrath of a non-sympathetic community. Today the consequences are often settled by "impartial" courts.

Even though the new business markets have changed that does not mean the cherished values of the past have also changed. The old values can provide a competitive advantage that can send a business to the forefront of a market. The paradox is that deception may be easier in the short-term but much more difficult in the long-term. I know. I may hate these kinds of businesses but I make a good living fixing the consequences!

Jack D. Deal

Posted by Jack D. Deal at 07:14 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Corporate culture is important but it tends to be elusive, corporate culture is loosely defined as the attitudes, behaviours and personalities that make up a company. In other words, it is how we view our work and ourselves. If we accept this general definition, the next thought is: how does it apply?

Through my consulting, articles, web site and radio show, I have been asked the question, 'Yeah, we know what it is - but what does it do?' Fortunately, and unfortunately, I have been an eyewitness to a fascinating case study. My case study involved two similar businesses, about the same size, and in the same industry. Both were struggling financially. Upon my initial analyses, both businesses had good potential and both retained me to help them grow, create wealth and sustain profitability. Both had very similar problems and both had owners that were ego-driven and hard workers. There was never a question in either company of the willingness to work hard. There was, however, a great deal of difference in the results.

After my analysis and employee interviews, I determined that both owners were holding their businesses back. Both owners acknowledged they were a problem in their own companies. The owner of Company A became convinced he was such a problem that, for his business to grow, he paradoxically had to leave it. He turned his decision-making and management over to me. The owner of Company B also acknowledged he was part of the problem, but decided that by working harder, he could overcome the problems he created.

The first thing I did at company A was to fire some minimal employees and hire some better ones. I then turned the company over to them. The absentee owner of Company A expressed his concern at doing this but accepted it. He understood there was no alternative. I walked the managers through some tough decisions and encouraged them. They made mistakes but I made certain the mistakes were small ones and I encouraged them to learn and move on. After several months, some very interesting developments occurred: (a) a fierce company loyalty developed among all employees; (b) they would not let the absentee owner make any decisions; (c) my intervention became less and less necessary - all employees constantly discussed how to improve productivity and deliver more value to the customer; (d) profitability increased to the point that all employees got raises; (e) morale steadily improved; (f) Company A began to gain market share. Company B took a different route. The owner did not want to fire any minimal employees because he had become a friend and "father-figure" to them. The owner began to work longer and longer hours. He began to distrust his best people.

After several months, some interesting developments occurred: (a) the stress level of all employees went up; (b) several key people quit; (c) Company B was not able to attract good employees; (d) employees began to resent the micromanagement style and looked for ways to get back at the company; (e) more and more intervention was necessary on my part to keep the status quo; (f) profitability decreased and customers were lost. Six months later, the results were not surprising. Company A was growing steadily, morale was high and their employees were the highest paid in the industry. Employees enjoyed coming to work and worked very hard. They constantly were looking for ways to improve and look for new customers and markets. Company B downsized and filed for protected bankruptcy. Employees were discouraged and many began looking elsewhere for work. Customers noticed that Company B was in trouble and took their business elsewhere.

These two examples are extremes and I was most fortunate at having the opportunity to carefully examine both. I think about them both quite often and have resolved to make 'corporate culture' an even higher priority in my work. Since people drive a business, corporate culture has become the vehicle to get to the desired destination.

Jack D. Deal

Posted by Jack D. Deal at 02:04 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

The highway out of Chetumal is under construction and one of those new superhighways that is connecting the major points on the peninsula. I wonder why we can’t build such roads in Veracruz, especially since there is only one route down the Gulf Coast. Campeche, Yucatan and Quintana Roo states are very serious about development and the required infrastructure to do it – maybe that’s the answer.

      We pass through poor Maya towns and it is obvious the countryside remains poor. There is some agriculture but not much. We see a few cane fields and a few cattle ranches but eventually the jungle wins again and it is impenetrable and impossible…

      There are a few rolling hills as we go along and it’s certainly not as flat as the Merida – Can Cun route. It’s green and greener and I imagine in 500 years will be populated with German eco-resort zones and Maya communities. Maybe it will only take a 100 years.

      We zip along and I can see the double tractor trailor beer trucks headed to Cancun and Playa del Carmen. Those Germans must drink as much beer as we Mexicans, ha!

      Angelica says it’s finally time we visit some ruins and we pull over at Xpujil. Sometimes I have to give in and admit she is right. Although we didn’t come for the ruins; we can’t go back without seeing some. Such is life. We park and go through the entrance and she asks the ranger if the ruins are worth seeing – as if he will say no. She sometimes says the strangest things…

      We walk down the path and see some of the same trees we have back in Tierra Blanca, but they are thinner and go straight up before they branch out. Such is the jungle. Everything fights for the sun. We see some mounds that have not been excavated and she takes some pictures of me standing by them…I tell her I am going to tell my gullible California friends these are some ruins I discovered while hiking through the jungle. We goof ball Californians will believe anything, ha!

      The ruins are actually nice and well done…not sure how many more ruins we will visit along the way. Except for Palenque. We climb up some very narrow steps in the narrow temple. The Maya were, and are, certainly a short people – am curious about how we will get down. We do it but have to back down…maybe it’s some sort of sacred ritual.

      The odd thing is these ruins were discovered in the late 1930’s by you guessed it, a German archaelogist. Such is life. How the Maya could live so close by in villages and not know these types sites existed is beyond my simple comprehension. They must have been a very provincial people that were very afraid of getting lost in the jungle. The Germans may be afraid of many things but getting lost in the jungle is not one of them…

      We head back onto the highway which begins to curve through some low lying hills. We can see cutoffs to other ruins and even some eco-tourism resorts…the Germans are already here. I should have known and will have to reassess my development estimate…. The countryside is lush and green and supposedly protected…we get out for a stretch but don’t venture far into the bush – once lost it would be hectic!

      About halfway to Escarcega the highway construction begins and it’s clear this will be a major highway route very soon. It must be a faster route to Can Cun than the Campeche - Merida route. We pass through a string of small towns with names like Xbonil and Conhuas – Maya names. And then El Centenario, La Libertad and my favorite – Justicia Social. I didn’t stop to find out how they got their names but it must be an interesting story and a task for the next trip…

      We stop for a bite to eat in Escarcega and can see the construction all around. Because of its strategic location it is set to boom big time here. It is the crossroads to the peninsula. We head out of town and even more highway construction. It’s hard to tell if the highways will be four lanes or the Texas-style large two lane ones; but they will be fast and well made. I wonder if the progress will touch all the residents on the peninsula or just make life more difficult and expensive for many. The influx of euros and dollars will make it interesting…

      We hit some dark clouds and downpours and it’s hard to see so I have to slow down…the wind also picks up. Fortunately our beleaguered car will get a much needed bath and a freshwater rinse of all the Riviera Maya salt. I feel like I need a rinse too.

      Outside of El Aguacatal we stop for some queso de hebra or string cheese. Angelica has this obsession for this type of cheese and we are constantly stopping for it.   The seller pulls out a few pictures of some exotic birds his ‘friend’ has for sale and asks if I would be interested. Everybody living in the jungle has to hustle something on the side…

      We cross into Chiapas and the road changes and I will miss those great Campeche highways. At the same time the countryside becomes more dense and it starts to rain so the effect is highlighted. We can see all kinds of small lakes and ponds and swampy areas…lowlands that must be filled with mosquitoes. We see some large sugar cane farms and even some with airplanes…so not all in Chiapas are poor. But from the stats, Chiapas is Mexico’s poorest state – the very bottom.

      We turn off the road to Villahermosa and head for Palenque. The hills become more pronounced and there are signs for hotels and tours and the things that tourists like. Just as it becomes more hilly we enter Palenque and I am surprised at how big it is. I can aleady see some Germans so we must have arrived…

      We find a hotel and settle in. I turn on the movie channel and by coincidence it’s a Tin Tan movie where he plays an Indian from Chiapas. In Mexico, the stereotypical Indian in the movies and TV comes from Chiapas or Oaxaca. As I fall asleep I wonder just what coincidence is all about…maybe it has something to do with irony and destiny?

      Right now I’m sitting on the fourth floor balcony of the Hotel Maya Chan in Palenque. I’ve slept my requisite five hours. The sun is coming up and the mist on the surrounding mountains is burning off. It’s cool and I’m glad to be back to a climate more similar to coastal California…we Californians are certainly spoiled. All the tour guide books and Internet sites pan Palenque as a dull place whose only redeeming feature are the ruins but what do they know…it’s an interesting place where tourism meets Maya Mexico. Tortilla shops are in between the souvenir shops and the mix is pleasant…there are plenty of Germans here but there is no beach so things won’t change as quickly as they have in Playa del Carmen.

I see lots of European backpackers and the only difference I can tell over the 35 years since I was one is that some actually carry two backpacks – a second one on their stomachs. What they can be filling two backpacks with is beyond me…maybe they brought the kitchen sink along too…or maybe it’s ballast for balance…ha!

      Across the plaza I can hear the mournful music of the first Mass of the day…Catholocism is so sad compared to the Evangelicals and such that sing and shout with joy…somehow the Catholic God is a much more serious type of guy…what with all the sacred blood and agony and such. But then again I’ve never really been able to get a handle on religion anyway so what do I know…

      The plaza below has come alive and I can see the barefoot Maya women stirring and getting ready to peddle their wares. It’s Sunday, Super Sunday at that, but we will be heading deeper into the mountains and missing the game. It’s also Mexican Constitution Day – a national holiday and they are having a flag raising ceremony right below us.

      The only Super Bowls I’ve missed were when I was traveling or in Mexico…such is life. All has it’s priority. The mournful church music also saddens me and I just hope it’s not a close game so I won’t miss much…ha!

      Silly gringos…and we think the Germans are a bit odd …ha!

Jack D. Deal

Posted by Jack D. Deal at 02:32 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Can Cun is easy to get around…there is Avenida Lopez Portillo that leads out to the projects and out of town; Avenida Tulum which is a turista spot and Avenida Kulkulcan which is the Zona Hotelera or hotel strip. We follow Avenida Lopez Portillo out to the ferries that go to Isla Mujeres and drive on past the docks to the beach. It’s Sunday and the beach is packed…

      The sun is going down and there are families everywhere. There are number of beach restaurants with music blaring and people dancing. There are no Gringos or Germans. Everyone is Mexican and most of the men are carrying a plastic bag with beer…just as we saw in the morning. Several inebriated guys shout out at me and invite me to their table for beer…I remark to Angelica that I just have friends everywhere I go. She whacks me and we walk down the beach. We can see Isla Mujeres off the coast and the big hotels of the Zona Hotelera across the other side. Families are eating their roasted chicken and ordering fried fish from the restaurants. I still see no Gringos. It’s Sunday and most workers only get Sunday off, so they try to stretch it as far as they can. It’s almost dark when we leave and the fiesta still continues…I’m sorry I have to leave my amigos behind, ha!

      We drive back into town and out on Avenida Kulkulcan to the Zona Hotelera. What is amazing is the strip runs maybe 20 kilometers long and almost all the hotels are luxury ones…some under construction, some shut for hurricane repairs but all upper end. I keep wondering what is the attraction…the beaches are okay but nothing really special, especially after Hurricane Wilma. There is no gambling and Avenida Tulum is obviously a tourist trap…but somebody is staying here and paying lots of pesos to do so. Most of the California Chic I know look down on Can Cun much the same as they do Las Vegas; maybe the turistas are just all those snowbird New Yorkers and Chicagoans. And maybe the airport and reality are just too far from Valladolid for them…

      It’s after 9:00 and we want a pizza so we stop at a Pizza Hut. The pizza is hot and delicious as is anything after not having it for months…they have a dozen or so motorcycles for deliveries and I look at the local map on the wall. It’s filled with hundreds of fraccionamentos or blocks that form a massive grid. The delivery boys are constantly referring to the map for their deliveries. They have far more deliveries than in store sales…

      We drive back to the outskirts and the projects. We see young men on the street corners talking and gesturing to the passersby just as they do in projects back in the States. They are wearing imitation rap outfits and it looks out of place but all culture is relative and who am I to say?

      When we get back to the apartment Paco is still at work and Pancha is ready for bed. She puts up hammocks for us, turns on the overhead fan and wishes us good night. I have napped in a hammock but never slept an entire night. I fall asleep thinking this is just one more in a log string of new adventures…

      Later we buy some cochinita pibil, pork meat cooked in mild sauce, and have breakfast with tortillas and onion habanera salsa. Delicioso! Then it’s back to the Zona Hotelera by day.

      I look hard at the luxury hotels and all the construction; some of it new, other repairs from Hurricane Wilma. As opposed to New Orleans, the locals seem to be doing most of the clean up work. No one has complained here about there being no jobs and everyone we meet works, works, and works some more. Usually six days a week; ten hours a day. One of the huge spin-off industries is feeding all these workers; even the women don’t have time to cook. What I first took for poverty in Pancha’s refrigerator wasn’t poverty so much as not having the time to cook. And we noticed the families are smaller, usually only one or two kids. A number of folks here have told us how hard it is to make it economically and that is the number one reason, not so much I think, as those that don’t work and have nothing to do all day but make babies. Those that work also want better for their children. And just like in California, the wife has to work.

      I finally see my fill of tourists here in Can Cun. They seemed stressed and are not smiling. Maybe it’s the room rates…ha! Maybe the Americans flock here because of stress and all they want to do is lie on the beach, sleep and be tended to. So that may not be an accurate assessment of my fellow countrymen…but the contrast is stark. The post hurricane tourists are coming back and the Can Cun engine is cranking up again.

      As we drive along the main drag, Kulculkan, I notice there are no places to pull over or park. Most of the hotels have guarded gates. There are a few shopping center type spots with parking but there are no parks or rest areas. Everything is geared to keeping the dollar paying tourists in and everyone else out. Near the end of the zona, a good ten miles away, we find a spot where the public can go to the beach. No Americanos.  The families are Mexican and they are laughing and playing in the surf. The beach is nice but not spectacular and down the beach we can see the monster hotels a la Vegas. We stayed here many years back but it wasn’t as built up as it is now…

      We drive back out of the Zona Hotelera and past the dour faced tourists and back into town. I want to go back to the beach near the ferries going to Isla Mujeres; the Mexican beach. It’s Monday and the locals are back at work; those at the beach today are Mexican tourists.

      And once again the difference is striking. Entire families are on vacation; laughing playing, drinking beer and eating fried fish from the restaurants. A backside Can Cun holiday…I take some pictures and we go for a swim.

      It’s nighttime and we drive back to Pancha’s. Paco is still working and she says one of the waiters is sick and he is working double shifts. I don’t even want to try and calculate how many hours that is…

      It’s late but the kids are still out in the street playing and laughing and doing the things I did when I was a kid. They all have TV’s and probably video games but prefer each other’s company as the night brings lower temperatures. I am entertained watching them play.

      Pancha introduces us to her sister Elena and says we are going several blocks over to visit her sister’s house. Elena works as a hotel maid and her husband as a busboy at a restaurant at the airport. To our surprise Elena shows us how to lock the doors of her matchbox house and gives us the keys. We will be staying here tonight. Paco and Pancha felt embarrassed at us having to sleep in hammocks in their tiny living room; I protest but to no avail. This is my Mexico; folks we don’t even know are giving us the keys to their house.

      It’s warm and humid and we have the fan on full blast. Angelica is asleep in the hammock but I can’t sleep so I’m writing this. Some would say Can Cun is an obscenity and others would say it’s an economic development zone. Without Can Cun I’m sure there would be another several hundred thousand Mexicans crossing the border illegally. The purists would say that paying service labor 600 pesos a week while tourists pay $600 US a night is exploitation and maybe they are right. But folks like Paco and Pancha and Elena have work and would disagree; work, be it ever so humble, provides dignity and raises one out of poverty. One may be underemployed but at least one is employed…

      We have run out of land in My Mexico and it’s also time to get back. It’s barely light and the workers are beginning to scurry out of the projects and back to the tourist areas. I step outside and hear music several houses down; two men dressed as waiters are clutching beer cans and fast asleep in their car. The heat and the sun will wake them up…

      I’m already sweating and Angelica is up and it’s time to head back to Pancha’s for breakfast. Our road is calling and today it will be the Maya Riviera and more turista sights… I can’t wait to get back into the interior.

Jack D. Deal

Posted by Jack D. Deal at 02:25 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

We drive back out to the highway and I realize how hungry I am. I’m certain the Maya must have had big feasts after going into the cenotes. It’s late afternoon and we come into the town of Nuevo X Can and I see a number of tractor trailers parked along the side of the highway…a good sign.

      We pull into a restaurant called Las Tres Hermanas – the Three Sisters – another good sign. There are a dozen truckers eating and drinking coffee and all indicators point to a good meal…often the food is not so good where beer is the primary attraction; another pointer I’ve learned over my many years of road travels. One of the Hermanas comes and asks us if we are going to eat and we say yes. She says they have beef steaks or pork steaks; we order pork steaks. She brings me a soft drink and Angelica a cup of hot water with slices of lemon…the truckers are laughing, smoking and ordering more coffee. This is my kind of place.

      She brings us our plates with tortillas, a bowl of refried black beans and a saucer with slices of lemon and habanero chiles. They don’t each much salsa here on the peninsula…The food is superb.

      Good choice, says Angelica.

      So was the cenote, I reply. She smiles. Some days on the highway things just go right…I pay the bill and we are off to Can Cun.

      The sun is starting to set and we can see a brilliant rainbow…a fitting end to such a day. We drive on the Libre and through small towns with many unmarked topes or speedbumps…all a driver has to do is hit one of these things and they slow way down…

      It’s Saturday night and we can see several parties starting outside the huts…it must be a birthday or quince anos. I suggest we stop and Angelica said they would probably invite us in…and they probably would. But it is getting dark and we are still a ways from Can Cun…

      It’s dark when we get in…once again the black night turns into suburbs in a kilometer. There are all sorts of large warehouses and trucks and I am reminded that more than a half million people now live here and there are some estimates that put it up to 700,000; not the sleepy little village it was 30 years ago. I can see graffiti scribbled on the walls and building and am reminded we are in civilization once again. What a contrast from the Cenote.

      We drive into town and stop at the first hotel we find…it’s certainly not fancy but has a place to park the car off the street. At the front desk counter they sell chewing gum and candy and condoms and I think we have arrived at one of those hotels again; but I’m just too tired to drive around anymore. They don’t take credit cards so I have to go out on the street to an ATM. It is definitely a bit on the seedy side but not like the Tenderloin in San Francisco…I look at the street sign and it says Jose Lopez Portillo. Appropriate I remark to Angelica, Lopez Portillo being one of the more infamous Mexican presidentes in recent history. There are drunks and nightclubs and our hotel is right next to the Cocobango Club and we can hear live music blaring out. I don’t see any tourists…

      We stop for some ice at a convenience store and the door is locked with an open service window, just like the liquor stores in New York City. Can Cun was at the very bottom of my visit areas for this trip and this is why…

      We go back to the hotel room and can hear the Cocobango Club music. A couple is arguing in the hallway and he is trying to convince her to stay…several cars enter the parking lot as several leave. Life goes on despite the lover’s quarrels, condoms and locked convenience store doors. We fall asleep listening to the music and the hum of the overhead fan…it’s hot and so is the Saturday night.

      We sleep late and I am so lazy I don’t get out the laptop. Besides it’s Sunday and we spent most of Saturday in a sacred hole…we both need a day of rest. We finally get up and head back out onto the street and the daytime has transformed it all…it doesn’t look seedy at all. We look for some breakfast and decide on a spot that is filled with locals…we have been in Can Cun for almost twelve hours now and haven’t seen a single tourist yet. We sit down at a table with a family…Mexican style. It is common for restaurants in Mexico to seat different customers at the same table…

      Of course Angelica strikes up a conversation….she just can’t help herself. She asks what is good on the menu and the lady tells us…her husband offers his opinion and we order. The husband is a taxi driver and goes up and down the Maya Riviera and Angelica asks him where is a good spot to spend several days on the beach. He mentions a spot near Akumal. He says that Xcaret and Xel-ha now charge $50 U.S. entrance fee…and I cannot believe it. Those damn Germans. We have previously been to each spot and they were nice, but not great. He explained they have expanded them somewhat but they still are not great…he tells us how to get to his favorite spot. Angelica looks at me and I don’t say anything…after the Cenote No Name tip I better stay quiet.

      The family wishes us ‘buen provecho’ or good eating…a polite custom when one leaves the area where others are eating. The waiter brings our food and it is very good. Actually most of the food on our trip has been good to very good…with only several meals that have been not good. Eating out is a always a roulette wheel and we have done very well so far. I pay the bill and we walk back to the hotel room. It’s hot and humid and I notice everyone is wearing shorts and flip flops. Turista City… It’s Sunday and I notice many men are buying beer and putting it into large plastic bags. Later we would see why…

      We have several contacts in Can Cun and we get on the cell phone. My North American call plan works well here… The first is an old pilot friend that I haven’t seen for many years but he is out of town and his new wife is not very friendly so we say we’ll call back another time. The second is a cousin of Lencho’s, Paco, and he says, sure, come on out and we can stay with them. The house is small but they will find a place for us to sleep somewhere, he laughs. My kind of people.

      We drive to the outskirts of Can Cun into what is one massive housing projects area. I realize this is where the service workers live. We have only been here a short time but have noticed many ‘help wanted’ signs. Housing workers has to be a major problem here…these massive projects are an attempt to solve the problem.

      We get lost and call him again on the cell. He says to stay put and he will come get us…it’s hot and I buy some beer at an Oxxo convenience store. He meets us there and greets us warmly and warns us the house is very small. That’s okay, I say we can even pitch our tent tonight. There is no ground, he laughs, but we have some extra hammocks.

      We drive to his apartment and would have had a lot of trouble had he not come to get us. He introduces us to his wife Pancha. I could not believe how small his apartment was…my guess was around 225 square feet. There were no beds and I could see the hammock hooks on the walls…there was literally no place for beds. I offer him a beer and he declines saying he has to go to work soon. I ask if it’s okay to put the beer in the fridge and he says it’s okay; the fridge is almost empty.

      We work all the time, he says, like most of our neighbors do. Pancha has no time to cook so we almost always buy prepared food…she works 60 hours a week at a day care center. She makes 1400 pesos every two weeks, he offered, plus she has to pay the bus each way to work and back. I work right in the tourist area. I made really good money before the hurricane and we are actually buying this place, but now we are struggling. Until the tourists come back, we will continue to struggle.

      Paco excuses himself and leaves. I ask Pancha where is a good place to get food and she says at a stand near the project’s entrance. I go and buy a kilo of pork ribs and a chicken…included are rice and beans, salsa and tortillas. I take it back to their place and we eat…the chicken and ribs are delicious.

      Pancha is tired and takes a nap. Angelica and I go for a drive back into town…we are on the Backside of Can Cun…the place where no tourists go. That’s fine with me…I don’t really care to speak with any New Yorkers or Germans yet.  Little did I know...

Jack D. Deal

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The waiter at breakfast, a young man about 30, looked very Mayan but spoke very good Spanish. Angelica asked if he were Maya.

      Si, Senora, he said nodding his head.

      But your Spanish is very good, she replied.

      I had a boss that told me I had to improve my Spanish if I wanted to work in his restaurant, he said, so I had to improve my Spanish. I was lucky he told me to do it or otherwise I might not have a job…and I like being a waiter.

      Well, your Spanish is very good…are you from Valladolid?

      No, senora, I come from a rancho about 70 kilometers from here. I first went to Cancun and didn’t like it…it’s too much pressure and too hectic. I never got used to the traffic and tourists…I’ve noticed a lot of people moving her from Cancun…they like it here. They say it’s much more tranquil…you should move here too…there is plenty of land around here and the people are nicer here…like me, he laughs.

      I like it here and my husband does too…we were here some years back, she continued, he says it reminds of him of the smaller cities in Spain. We took a walk in the Zocalo last night and he kept saying Valladolid is a city in Spain.

      The waiter laughed and politely excused himself. I’m sure there have to be rude Maya somewhere but I haven’t met one yet…the waiter returned bringing us our coffee.

      I would like to see a cenote, she said, maybe one that isn’t full of tourists. The Cenote Zaci is nice but my husband has this thing about not wanting to be around Germans and Americans, she said with a smile.

      Perdone, senora, is he not American? he asked very politely.

      He keeps telling people he’s from a town called Zacamixtle, she said with a chuckle, they must think he works a little too hard.

      I don’t know why she has to interrupt folks that are trying to do their job. She must think it is part of their job to be asked a barrage of questions…all I want in the early morning is my coffee.

      Perdone, senora, I know a very nice cenote – where are you going?

      Cancun.

      We Maya call it Can Cun – two words, he said laughing.

      I shake my head. Now we’re going to have an early morning history and cultural lesson…

      There is a nice cenote out of Chelmax…I have been there once. It is on a side road going to Can Cun.

      Don’t even ask, I say standing up, I will get our atlas from the car.

      I return and they are still talking. Soon the other customers will get start getting angry and he will lose his job. I put the atlas down and she picks it up. He soon returns.   

I would like to learn English but the words confuse me, he says putting down my longaniza and eggs. I started to say something but she kicks me.

      We get more and more Americans now and soon I am sure we will start getting some from Zacamixtle, he laughs. She thinks it’s funny too. I think our waiter is playing a serious game with his tip…

      We finish our meal and I notice she leaves an extra ten pesos for the tip. Not only did he learn Spanish but also how to sucker turistas.

      I don’t say anything but she circles a town on the map and we return to the car.

      Onward, James, she says. The early morning sarcasm of our waiter must be contagious. The day is gorgeous and the sky a dark blue. The white Yucatan clouds are forming their customary patterns – it must be because the Yucatan is so flat – the highest points have to be the Indian pyramids. Everything is green and I think life must not be too bad in the outlying suburbs of Valladolid.

      A half hour later she sees the cut off to Belmax.

      You have to be kidding, I laugh, the road was paved but filled with potholes. After five minutes it turned to dirt which was a relief. Fifteen minutes later at a fork in the road she asks me to stop and a campesino points to the left. Another five minutes we arrive at a sign that says Cenote…half of it is broken off so she calls it the Cenote No Name. Somehow I have a feeling the day is one that will be filled with overwhelming cynical humor…little did I know. She sees a young boy and asks him if he can take us to the cenote. He answers in Spanish and I am thankful for the Mexican public school system.

      Do you speak Maya and English? she asks.

      Maya yes but only a few words of English, he laughs, mis Gringos don’t come too often here and I don’t have a good chance…when I get bigger I will go to Cancun.

      We park the car off to the side of the road and take a path down through some thick underbrush. At least the Germans haven’t been here yet, I think. We come upon a hole in the ground, maybe 10 meters across. I’m wondering how we are going to go down and the boy points to some rocks that taper down to a path. I stand there for a minute looking at the scene. The brush around is not very special…at least to the untrained eye. But I can look down into the cavernous hole and see beautiful dark blue water surrounded by stalactites and stalagmites. Once again I’m reminded the entire Yucatan peninsula is one big cenote.

      We climb down the rocks and onto the path. It is like we are in some sort of cathedral with the sun shining through stained glass. I can see the path leads down to a sort of beach and the boy says he has to go back. He laughs and said don’t drown as there have been tourists in this area of cenotes that have drowned. The Maya aren’t so stupid…I ask him how deep it is and he replies 20 meters…I ask him if there is current at the bottom and he says yes, but not much. Yeah, right. If all of Yucatan is a cenote than all of Yucatan is sitting on top of an underground river. The boy is gone and the only sound we hear is the water dripping down from the top…slow, steady drips. I see some footprints in the mud but other than that, there are no signs of human life. The locals must not come down here very often…my guess is they must be very sensible folks.

      We take off our shoes and put our feet in the water; it’s cool but not cold. Small, black fish come to near our feet and we can see them clearly – the water is very clear. Even though it is clear, I cannot see the bottom in the middle. Nor can I detect any signs of currents…but the fish are an obvious clue that the water is running somewhere. Angelica says its time for a swim and I take off my hat…it’s wet with sweat. I guess if we are both going to be swept away we may as well be swept away together. I keep wondering where all the Germans are…

      We strip to our underwear and carefully walk out from the shore. Natural terraces or ledges let us gradually get into deeper water. I can see several more terraces below me but the water is over my head…I’m a decent swimmer but Angelica is not so we stay where we are. I dip my head underwater and wonder how many ancient Maya have done the same before me…this is a real sacred immersion!

      We look up at the top and cannot believe how beautiful it is…the bright sunlight filters through the green outside trees giving it a dazzling stained glass look – the sun’s rays coming straight down into the azure water. We look around the walls and see all sorts of stalactites and stalagmites and large limestone formations…it’s as though someone filled Carlsbad Caverns with water and we are taking a bath. In fifty years there will be a hotel outside and Germans will bring their buckets of Coronas and go skinny dipping…the Coronas will be part of a package tour. But for now, we are the only ones in this amazing spot.

      We splash and float in the water and the fish nibble at our legs and arms…maybe they are licking the salt off us or maybe feeding on some kind of small bugs we bring from civilization. The only sound is our breathing and the steady dripping of the water that has obviously been doing the same for tens of thousands of years to form this wonder of nature.

      We stay in the water for several hours and finally get out on the beach area and dry off…the water has cleaned us better than any soap and hot water shower could do. Finally and reluctantly we put on our clothes and start the walk back up, stopping every ten feet to glance back and admire the view. It has to be one of the most beautiful natural sites I have ever seen and I have seen many…

      We stop at the entrance and look down into the hole.

      Guess I shouldn’t talk so much to the staff, she said sarcastically.

      We’ll let it go this time, I said smiling at her. Sometimes I have to admit she is more than all right…

Jack  D. Deal

      

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I tell Tio the bad news about his lost nephew. All the numbers were disconnected. I could do an Internet search but most likely the search would turn up hundreds of names and it would be a needle in a haystack situation.

      Tio takes out a bottle of Anis and puts two shot glasses on the table.

      I wasn’t expecting you would find out anything, sobrino, but thank you for trying. And it’s time we had a man to man talk before you go, he says seriously. He fills the glasses and hands me one.

      To your successful journey, he says.

      To my successful journey, I reply, and click my glass with his.

      We should all work harder, he continues, I regret not working harder when I was younger. I’m too old now, he laughs, and besides I’m Mexican. We can work hard but our government takes it all. It’s all for them and the people pay. Look at those Pemex workers with houses in Switzerland…how did they get that money? And look at Fox…he turned out to be like the rest. The government gets in the way…many of us work from gallo to grillo…from the rooster crowing in the morning until the crickets come out at night.

      Our government allows those super rich to get richer…the politicos go to visit them and they do them favors, he continues. Look at Camarena and the color TV patent…he tried to get a patent in Mexico but all the government did was want more mordidas…so he took his patent to the U.S. The superrich just get richer…look at Telmex.

      But isn’t that what you aspire to Tio? I ask.

      I want to see my country progress and get out of the mess the politicos have taken us to. I want to see us work harder and for our young people to have opportunity…but look what happens…we invest in their educations and they go to the United States. Isn’t that a great loss for Mexico? And what happens when the government and the corrupt bleed the small businessman of his profits? Corruption and the government take their chunk and those of us that produce and do the work have to be content with what is left…do you see what I mean?

      I nod my head in agreement.

      We lack culture and a work ethic, especially here in Campeche, he continues, look at the economic boom happening in Cd. Carmen. Why isn’t it happening here? The other day I went to a parts house to find an air conditioning part…the employee said maybe they had it and maybe they didn’t but he didn’t have time to look. He told me to come back the next day. I had to go to Merida on business and I stop in a parts house there. The employee said they didn’t have it but he gets on the phone and finds it. He asks me to have a seat, offers me a cup of coffee and ten minutes later the part arrives. Why can’t it be that way everywhere?

      But it’s that way in Carmen and Merida, I reply.

      Yes, but that is also rare. It never happens here in Campeche…maybe we are too Mexican, he laughs. Our system keeps us down…and our government keeps the super rich taking it all. And no, I don’t want to be super rich, I detest them. Let me tell you a little story…

      There were three compadres drinking on a Sunday afternoon and they started talking about what they would do if they were super rich. The first said he would buy a mansion and a dozen new cars. The second said he would buy a beautiful new wife and travel around the world and stay in the fanciest hotels. The third said he wanted to eat well, sleep well and go to the bathroom well. The others were confused and asked him why…

      First, the rich don’t eat well because they eat pre-packaged foods that are frozen or out of cans. Secondly, the rich don’t sleep well because they are constantly worried someone is stealing their money. And thirdly, the rich don’t go to the bathroom well because they don’t eat or sleep well and they have health problems. And how can one enjoy all that money if they have health problems?

      I laugh. Tio is a funny guy…

      We Mexicans aren’t very smart, he continues, we think someone’s worth is determined by what they have. I have this young employee that works very hard and he is my best technician. One day his mother and father come to visit him in the shop – they are Maya and don’t speak Spanish very well. He doesn’t introduce them to me and I ask him why and he says he embarrassed…

      Embarrassed about your own parents? I ask him, they put you through school and fed you and gave you love and helped you get to where you are today…

      Yes, he replied, that is true…but people look down on them and I don’t want people to look down on me.

      Go figure, sobrino, said Tio, we are losing our values with this modern world of ours…Parents like my employee are not teaching their kids Maya and the day will come when no one speaks Maya. Maybe one day we will all speak English, he laughs.

      Many of the small business owners I know say business is good and then it goes bad…that’s not progress. But we are the problem too…not just the government. I get young men that come in every week and want me to pay them to learn the air conditioning trade…imagine that? I tell them you need to pay me for teaching you, he laughs. So between our government and this modern world where one wants things for free and even get paid for it, no wonder we are not progressing…when we aren’t going backward, we are going in circles, no?

      I’ve got more questions than answers, I laugh, I see less in black and white and more in gray.

      Tio pours us another shot of anis and we click our glasses.

      Tio of course is right even though his views are simplistic. But there has to be a way to break this vicious cycle…

      How did you learn all this, Tio? I ask.

      It was hard on me, he says wistfully, when I was 15 my older brother took me off the ranch to live in a whorehouse. The owner was a Pemex director and there were maybe 40 or 50 women there. At first I thought it was great since I could have almost any woman I wanted…but then it was not so much fun. I would take the aborted fetuses and put them in a bucket and dump them in the river…does that bother you, sobrino?

      Not much bothers me anymore, I answer.

      I would see fathers bring their young daughters and sell them to my brother, he continued, and he would set them up in a room. I never forgot how sad that was…or how sad it was to see the children they had suffer. I saw it all or at least all I could stomach, he continued, maybe that is why I am the way I am…eventually I saw things I didn’t want to see anymore.

      Every now and then there would be gunfight and I saw men killed right in front of my eyes…I used to dive under the table whenever I saw a gun, he laughed, and to this day even a policeman’s or security guard’s gun make me want to get down. One night I saw a man get shot in the head and the blood just drained out of him and made a pool on the floor. He ordered more tequila and put the bottle to his mouth and drank big gulps maybe going through half the bottle before he fell backwards dead. I left the next day and never went back. I worked every minute of the day so I would not have to live like an animal…when I think about it my stomach turns.

      So you see sobrino, I have no sympathy for the weak and pathetic. There are no excuses for failure and success needs no explanation. That’s me and who I am…and I make no apologies. There are those that don’t like me but I don’t care. It doesn’t matter to me what they think…I’ve had a hard life and managed to get out…today, we Mexicans are too weak and want it all without earning it…don’t you think that is the case? he asks.

      If you say so, Tio, I nod, if you say so…

Jack D. Deal

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It might surprise you to know that diabetes is our number cause of hospital visits, says Lazaro, so you are right about it being a worry.

      Amazing, I remark, I never would have guessed that. I would have thought hypertension or something like that…

      Diabetes is a killer, maimer and drain on our system, he adds, and we also have a high incidence of blindness.

      Is is hereditary? I ask, the Latinos in the U.S. have a higher rate.

      Certainly, he replies, but it’s also diet and appears also closely related to physical activity. The combination of factors creates such a deadly etiology that it often seems we are fighting a hopeless battle. That and the mental part – the fear…

      What do you mean?

      Many of our patients perceive it to be like cancer or a tumor…something terminal. They take it very hard and often come in when the symptoms are severe…and of course then once it’s onset there is no real cure…only treatments. We don’t do the implants like they do in the States…but I don’t think implants are very common there either.

      Since medicine is subsidized here, I reply, you would think the government would be all over the prevention angle.

      Ah, government’s are run by politicians and managers and numbers and budgets are what matter…I think it is similar in the U.S. But it’s also us…we are our own enemy here. We like our soft drinks and sweet bread and coffee while we live in a paradise of fruits and vegetables and fish. I have noticed there is a much lower incidence rate in the extreme rural areas where they have a better diet. So even if we know the cause and effect; we often won’t do anything about it…so we get a steady stream of blindness and foot amputations…I read the medical journals and the same happens in the U.S.

      There’s that cause and effect again, I reply.

      What’s that? he asks.

      Oh nothing, just a little concept that has been bothering me for the last few months.

      You haven’t changed that much, amigo, ideas always used to put a furrow in your brow, he laughs, and it looks like they still do.

      But the medical system has always worked pretty well here, no? I ask.

      For what we have to work with, the answer is yes…of course there are those with means that always get better care, just like in your country. Those that can afford the best specialists get better treatment…

      I’ve never really understood the hospital system here, I reply, I’ve never had much need…

      That’s because you have that guardian angel always looking down and protecting you, said Lazaro, I remember even sometimes when there were fights in the cantinas…the bottles always missed your head and hit somebody else, he laughs, but getting back to medicine, the poor here in Mexico actually have better care access than many poor in the U.S. do…it’s because you are all a bunch of capitalist pigs, he laughs, just look at you, Mr. Entrepreneur – I bet you drive some European sports car, no?

      Actually not, I laugh, it’s a Honda that has taken a beating on this trip…sort of like me…and like me it doesn’t leak, at least very much.  Yet. 

      Lazaro pulls out a napkin and takes out his pen, just like in the old days.

      For those under social security here, we have the IMSS, he says, and by and large this is better care and based on whether an employer participates in the social security plan…

      For those that don’t, there is the SSA, it has a slightly lower level of care and the patient has to pay for hospitalization, which can be expensive. But you have to remember here a surgery might cost 3,000 pesos and not $30,000 dollars. Then there is the ISSTE for government employees and of course the PEMEX hospitals for oil workers.

      The cost of medicines has gone way up as the subsidies have been reduced…many patients that had access to the IMSS didn’t use it and instead used private practicioners, but since the cost of medicines has gone up, they are now going to IMSS. There is also a Seguro Popular, sort of like your Medicaid, that helps defray costs for the most indigent…but it is controversial and sometimes they won’t release a patient until the bill is paid…much like privatized medicine. There are holes in any subsidized system and as you must know medicine is usually a matter of how to pay for it…even though the government still subsidizes medicine. But it is still socialized medicine even though there are more copayments…and we doctors still subsidize it too…

      What do you mean? I ask.

      A new doctor has a very hard time finding a job, especially in urban areas…there are jobs in the rural areas but who wants to work there? Ride a horse from village to village, he laughs, I did it for two years and many doctors do…but as soon as we can we move back to the city. That’s why many doctors move to the U.S….

      But it’s tough to get a license, no? I ask.

      Sure, but many don’t work in medicine…they work in construction or something else…anything is better than starving as a doctor here. All that time and money wasted when they cross that river, no amigo? He looks at his watch, asks for the bill and stands up…

      I’m already late for a department meeting, he says shaking his head, I wish we could talk. He pulls out a business card and jots down some numbers…Here’s my cell and e-mail. Let’s stay in touch…

      Who’s the big shot now, I laugh, remember when I used to call you Che Junior?

      Sure, he laughs, I remember drinking tequila and smoking those horrible Cuban cigars at your wife’s rancho…say, that reminds me, I didn’t tell you. I’ve gone to Cuba maybe a half dozen times and have been involved in some medical research there…you ought to go…you would find it fascinating.

      Me? I’m not a leftist anymore, I laugh.

      No seriously, amigo, you should go. Take a look for yourself…the people and system are interesting even if you don’t agree with it…I saw some Gringos there…call me on my cell and we’ll talk about it.

      The bill comes and he plops down a 200 peso note. We shake hands and look each other in the eye and then he turns and leaves. He opens the door to a taxi and turns back to me…

      Viva Che! he shouts laughing. And then he is gone.

Jack D. Deal

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It’s time to make a goodbye zacahuil and it is quite a project. First, we took a large bucket of nixtamal or corn that had been soaked in lime for about a week. We took this to the molino or corn grinding store to be ground. It made about eight kilos of masa or corn dough.

      The clay oven was fired to a really hot temperature and the wood allowed to burn down. Then more wood was added until a bed of coals about an inch thick covered the bottom of the oven…this took about three hours.

      While we waited, we cooked six kilos of pork meat and bones in a large pot and set it aside to cool. Later the meat and bones were taken out and the broth was left. Then we toasted a kilo of dried ‘chile seco’ afterwards adding some of the broth to make a chile paste. The paste was then added to the meat and bones to make a thick soupy goo…to the paste was added ground garlic, salt and onions.

      Several dozen long banana leaves were laid out on a table and a long piece of plastic laid over that. Then another layer of banana leaves. This made a bed for the masa that was two meters or six feet long.

      The broth was added to the masa dough until it was liquid. Some like their zacahuil soupy or runny; I tend to like it firm. Next the meat and chile goo was added and thoroughly mixed with the masa. It looked like some sort of paint mix with swirls; the masa mixed until it was all one color. More banana leaves were added until all the masa was covered. Strips of henequen and wire were used to tie the whole big tamale up…great care was taken to make sure none of the masa was exposed or would run out.

      In a bucket near the oven some light brown clay was mixed with water to form a runny type of clay paste. The fire was ready and we were ready to put it in.

      The large tamale was placed on a metal strip about six feet long. Then the sacahuil tamale was placed in the oven. Very quickly metal strips were placed over both the oven door and the air vent; this has to be done very quickly or the sacahuil will burn. Once the door and vent were sealed, it was time to take a break. The oven was hot and the clay mud steamed until it dried, but no air got in or out.

      And there the sacahuil stayed for 16 hours. It steams and bakes and does not burn, if one seals the oven quickly enough. It would have been possible to add several more of these giant tamales to the oven and that is exactly what the commercial vendors do; firewood or lena is expensive so they make as much as they can get in their ovens.

      We then took a drive to Poza Rica to get Angelica’s voter credential like we were told to do. It took almost three hours waiting in line and to her disappointment the credential was not ready as promised. Some things have not changed in Mexico… The employees were gruff and checked on their computers but did not know if the credential had been sent or when it would arrive. There was nothing Angelica could do except come back another day or week or month and wait in line again. When she explained she had to go back to the U.S. they said too bad because she had to return back to Poza Rica to get and could not get it any other place including the Mexican Consulate in San Jose, California.

      Later we spoke with others that said they had to wait up to six months to get their credential. We certainly didn’t have six months to wait and poor Angelica was very disappointed…it did not make sense. If democracy depends on citizen participation, why does it take six months to get a voter registration card? Something certainly did not seem right and I had my suspicions but I kept them to myself…no need to make poor Angelica more frustrated then she already was.

      Later on I kept thinking about it and how the parties are split across socioeconomic lines and was wondering if some really sharp political advisors could figure out a way to make it so frustrating that certain groups would simply get too frustrated and not vote. I would like to think that were not the case but it certainly seemed that way…if not, why would it take six months to get a simple voter card?

      In this case, the government of change did not complete its promise. The government of change must know that six months is not acceptable for a free people…Mexico is not Cuba. The transparency that has been promised is not fully transparent, though it tries to give that impression. Such is progress. One can only hope the problem gets fixed so that the process is less complicated and more open…progress sometimes goes sideways.

      Not only that, the lines were so long because the last date to register was approaching, a full six months away from the election. I’m not sure if this has always been the case or was it just for this election…it doesn’t matter. Millions of Mexicans won’t vote because they got frustrated or didn’t register in time. Such is politics and the slow march toward democracy. One can complain but one has no recourse…

      We stop at the market in a small town called Tihuatlan and I’m surprised at how many young men are chatting idly on the streets. It’s the first of the year so maybe they are still on vacation. Or maybe they are waiting until March when construction and agricultural jobs pick up in Texas, California and Alabama.

      I ask one young man about the local job situation and he laughs. My father sold tacos at the bus station and that was my family’s only income, he says, is that what you would call a job? If so, yes, there are jobs. I can’t do that and won’t do that and I’ll do whatever it takes to get back to Louisiana for the farm season, he smiles. I believe him…I’m not sure a career selling tacos at the bus station holds much promise for anyone…

      We drove back to the farm and could smell the sacahuil and wanted some right then, but had to wait until the next day – a metaphor for voting, ha! Hurry up and be patient…sacahuil like democracy takes its own sweet time…

      It’s not that tainted politics doesn’t play a role in the U.S….we see some sort of complaints in every national election…polls closing early, bad ballots or something like that. It’s human nature and a fact of life and the reason politics often keeps back the march of human progress…hopefully in the coming decades politics will start to catch up to social evolution. It’s certainly not a fast process or an easy one.   

      If not, politics and governments will become even more alienated from the citizens they supposedly serve…

Jack D. Deal

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Ah Vera Cruz! It’s great to be back! I have some very fond memories of Vera Cruz over the years and it is one of my very favorite cities in all of Mexico… It was near Vera Cruz where Cortez first landed and it has a bloody war history with periods of malaria and disease when there was little fighting. It seems like all foreign invaders came through here once or twice as well as pirates of all types…maybe this history has a lot to do with its current character…

      The big annual event of course is the famous Carnaval or Mardi Gras held each year…you have to check your calendar for the dates as it involves the moon and Lent and so many weeks after this or that…just look it up. It’s sometime in February or March and runs for a week and a half. It is Mexico’s biggest fiesta and one of massive proportions…avoid the parades as they are second rate, held in the heat of the day and are mainly for the locals – unless one of your relatives is in one, ha! The real party begins at night and what a fun time it is! And a great place to practice your Spanish as well…

      The streets are packed and there are bands playing all kinds of music. The music used to be free but as with most things, Carnaval has become commercialized. The traditional music is called Jarocho and is danced by men and women wearing white outfits…but that is becoming less common now and is usually relegated to the folklore nightclub shows. What you want to do is get near to a tropical band that plays cumbias – that’s where the real party and dancing goes on. We Mexicans just love cumbias!

      Of course there are all kinds of food and drink to be had and sometimes, like in New Orleans, the revelers drink a little too much. But that’s to be expected and part of some strange thing having to do with sins and penitence and getting your fun in while you can…but unless you are Catholic that doesn’t matter anyway…so just dance away and have a good time. You might not want to get too soused and as usual, be courteous and behave yourself. There are cops everywhere and no one likes those that are too unruly – especially those Ugly Americans! Ha! And Mexicans really don’t appreciate those that interfere with others having fun…

      Also watch out for the old confetti in the face trick. One of the big thrills is to walk up and down the street and throw confetti in the face of non- suspecting passers-by…sort of like the snowball fights up north. Keep your mouth closed and if you wear glasses definitely put them on! You might even buy some confetti and try it yourself, ha! But don’t get angry if you get a mouthful…

      One of the things best things about Vera Cruz is its cosmopolitan nature…visitors from all over the world come as well as from all over Mexico. I stayed up many a night on the zocalo portales or covered cafes ringing the town square and drank café con leche or café lechero with the international intellectual crowd. A true bohemian in a truly bohemian place! What animated conversations! You can practice your Spanish, French, German, Italian and anything else you like…what fun! Or discuss art, politics or the failed Zapatista rebellion. Or just watch the people…a favorite pastime of mine.

      See if you can guess where the people come from; I usually have no trouble with the French, Germans and Americans. I’ve gotten pretty good at picking out the Chilangos or Mexico City folks…if your Spanish is good enough it’s easy to detect their sing-song rhythmical speech patterns. It’s a great place to get back into mainstream culture if you’ve been out in the rancherias for several months…the contrasts are striking. A lot of small town Mexico remains somewhat conservative but Vera Cruz is as liberal as Mexico gets – with the possible exception of Cancun.

      There are blacks and out of the closet gays…two rarities in small town and rural Mexico. And whatever your sexual preference you can ogle until your heart is content or until your wife whacks you one…ha. Vera Cruz is a very open and liberal city and except for it being truly tropical, reminds me of San Francisco, California. Though not much chilly fog here, ha!

      And as cities go, it has to be one of the most ‘bearable’, even for me that doesn’t care much for urban areas no matter where they are. Ask for directions or information and the locals will go out of their way to help you. I had numerous offers of help operating my cell phone in a local café…It’s that tropical climate, great seafood and of course the cumbias…what else could anyone want?

      On the second night Licho didn’t get back until after midnight so Angelica and I stayed up late watching a Tin Tan movie. It was a little silly but I liked it…and would recommend the Mexican Golden Age movies to those learning Spanish. Mexico had its Golden Age just like Hollywood and the films were considered to be higher quality…something analogous to the opinion of many in the U.S.

      There are all types of movies from that black and white era; drama, humor and tragedy. I like the humorous ones but sometimes, like Tin Tan, they are silly…but a great way to learn more Spanish and get your ear adapted. Also, with a narrative you can usually follow the story line without understanding 100% and that helps your positive reinforcement and your Spanish language self image.

      Many of the Golden Age movies were charro or Mexican cowboy movies with Pedro Infante and Jorge Negrete. Sara Garcia played matronly roles and was in what must have been hundreds of movies. Maria Felix and Elsa Aguirre were in the forties and fifties and very popular starlets. And be sure to take a hard look at the scenery; both urban and rural. I was fortunate enough to catch some of the really older Mexico on my first visit and I like looking at the way things were in the very ‘old’ days…

      But like Hollywood the Golden Era passed and there was a time in the 1980’s when Mexican movie production nearly stopped. Imports and a desire for the new and modern made the old plots seem obsolete; violence, sex and modern angst became the market. If you like violent movies with lots of blood, you’ll find many movies with an actor named Mario Almada. He made hundreds of super violent shows and has become synonymous with shoot ‘em ups…But be wary…the blood runs in the streets! Ha! In between the shooting and killing he struggles with some form of modern angst and something or other he has lost…but then in violent movies, the plot is secondary.

      In the States, most DVD and video rental stores have Spanish titles and also I’ve seen them on the pay per view services. There are of course some stores that only have Spanish titles and cater to Mexican clientele. I would avoid the dubbed movies but that is up to you…Spanish is Spanish and the more you are exposed, the better. Certain regular and cable Spanish networks, such as Tele Azteca, Galavision, Univision, Televisa and Telemundo, have regularly scheduled movies and you can get the schedule and see what they have. But my preference is the older black and white movies: little violence, obscenity and understandable plots. And sometimes scripts that rival any ever produced in Hollywood.

      We are awakened at 4:00 A.M. by a clanging and banging down the street …lucky us! Today is tianguis or market day in Colonia Lomas and all we have to do is walk out to the end of the street. Our car is blocked in so we aren’t going to do much driving around anyway. In the larger cities of Mexico different colonias have tianguis on different days of the week. If your Spanish is good enough, you can ask the locals where the markets are being held throughout the week and even go to a different one every day. The Mexicans frequent these markets and many buy their food staples and household goods there. I like going out by myself and seeing the looks on the vendors faces when I ask ‘a como el medio de chicharon?’ Ha…

      The markets are much more fun than the department stores but then if you’re a Saks or Neiman Marcus regular you might not be interested in the tianguis anyway. Listen to the vendors hawk their wares and listen to the gossip and bargaining and learn the names of foods and other items. Don’t worry – no one will be blasting out their deepest secrets in public, ha! It’s a great way to listen and practice speaking Spanish at the same time…you may as well take advantage!

      I did and still do…and the food is great, too…by the way, a half kilo of chicharones or fried pork parts runs about 25-30 pesos…

Jack D. Deal

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It’s late and we’re hungry…we go to a restaurant called El Farolito or Lighthouse near the Malecon or waterside boulevard. We order atole de coco to drink…a hot liquid drink made of corn masa and blended coconut. We also order empanadas de queso or fried cheese turnovers; panucho or a type of tostada or fried tortilla with beans and seasonings; and sopa azteca – a soup with tortilla chips, avocado, cheese, cream and epasote – a seasoning herb. Delicious!

      We continue our conversations about anything and everything – a free-for-all discussion. My Spanish is now at the point where if I can think it in English, I can say it in Spanish…without translating. I have reached the point that all non-native language learners want to reach. I can express myself almost as well in Spanish as English and in some cases, such as feelings and emotions, better in Spanish.

      Even in legal, technical and scientific terms that come from the same word roots…for example the word innovation. If I know a legal or technical word in English, which I should – ha, I can convert it into Spanish with 80% plus accuracy. There are of course some words that don’t fit this pattern but it is surprising how many do…

      I can tell that Licho is enjoying our conversations as well…I’m sure you have at some point spoken with someone that is bored with what you are saying. This can especially be true if you are struggling with a language and trying to translate in your head. The feedback you give shapes and reinforces the short term behavior of the person you are talking with. If it gets too hard for them, they lose interest. Conversation is a two way street and if it does not flow; there is little interchange. With someone that is highly educated and polite like Licho, they will endure until they can find a polite way to back out of the conversation. It’s just not fun for them and they can’t express the way they think and feel because the conversational partner is unable to comprehend and reply easily….

      Maybe this is why languages such as Spanish, are often taught in either written or verbal/conversational formats. In my opinion, I don’t think languages are actually constructed that way and that is not the way they are learned. A word is a word whether it is written or spoken and the serious learner simply has to learn both.

      It’s getting late and we are both tired and we have stayed up late three nights in a row. I have to hit the road and he has to get some sleep and go to work.

      We’re up at dawn and pack the car. He’s just leaving for work and I thank him profusely for all he has done…'al contrario’ he replies, it’s not often I get to have such interesting conversations. Me either.

      We agree to stay in touch and off I go.

      We pass through the southern part of the city and Boca del Rio. Once again I am surprised how quickly the urban changes to the rural…

      We stop for gas in Alvarado and hear the famous accent of the locals. It’s even a bit tough for me to understand though like any accent one can acquire it with time…ha! And Alvardo is famous for its foul language and I can hear a lot of that too! We decide to take a side trip to Roca Quebrada on the coast. The scenery is spectacular…lush jungle vegetation and clear streams running out from the mountain. What is unusual about this area is the mountains run right down to the coast, something that is usually seen only on the west coast.

      We stop for bread and snacks and the people are friendly and look at us as though we are tourists! They are a bit shy and speak in a slower and more deliberate mode. We stop for some fish in Roca Quebrada and are amazed at how beautiful it is. A young man takes us to a restaurant and even refuses a tip; what are you tipping me for he asks? Someone recently made a movie in Roca Quebrada with Sonia Bragga, a Brazilian actress I haven’t seen on TV or movies for years. She was very popular in the ‘80’s and I’m sure looks older…but don’t we all…

      This area is trying to promote what is called eco-tourism – a combination of environment and tourist access. Many tourists don’t want to see littered beaches or strip cut mountains…it’s a delicate balance …but it’s a great idea and the area will soon be filled with Germans when they hear about it. I’m just not sure how the locals will take to nude sunbathing but it seems to have worked out okay on the Yucatan, ha!

      We head back to the highway and drive through the Tuxtlas, Santiago Tuxtla and San Andres Tuxtla. These are busy small cities and great places for those wanting to immerse themselves in a Spanish speaking environment. The countryside becomes distinctly tropical and as we approach Catemaco, more touristed – I guess that’s the word for it.

      We drive into Catemaco and several young men on motor scooters drive up beside me and want to take me to cheap hotels, restaurants and guided tours. I shake my head and tell them I want to see the dancing girls and Angelica whacks me…but they agree anyway and are willing to go until they realize it’s only a crazy joking Gringo…they somehow figured out rather quickly that Angelica was not my sister, ha!

      We find a quiet hotel near the malecon and take a walk. It is beautiful and a full moon is on the rise. There are lots of crows in the trees yakking away and I remark all the brujos or witchdoctors must be out tonight…the birds are everywhere as are their droppings. Angelica does not appreciate my humor in calling it Caca- maco…caca being the slang word for popo or poop.

      The hawkers are out everywhere wanting to sell us anything or take us anywhere and Angelica will not let me get into a conversation about dancing girls even for fun…sometimes wives are that way I guess…We walk to the zocalo or city square and into the very large, ornate Cathedral with a green neon cross on top. One has to know that the green neon cross has to be a sign the area is special for something…

      We find some back streets and take a walk…there is an obvious civic pride here as the houses are well kept even though somewhat poor…we walk back along the malecon and the full moon has risen across the water. It is beautiful and I can see why the brujos have their annual convention not far from here…it certainly is a lovely setting.

      It’s early morning and I’m sitting at the ADO bus station working on this – the first customer of the day. I saw the bus drivers eating here last night…it’s an old traveler’s trick to eat where the bus and truck drivers eat. The tropical birds are chirping away and the mist is beginning to rise off the lake. The busses come in one by one and the restaurant is filling up. I drink my fill of coffee and order huevos a la mexicana or scrambled eggs with onions and tomatos…very tasty! I can’t believe this is the same state as Tierra Blanca and Poza Rica and Vera Cruz. Veracruz State is like California in that it is so big and it contains so much. Maybe that is why both are my favorites.

      But today I will hit the road again and soon leave my beloved Veracruz. Like California, I will miss it as soon as I leave and always plan a return trip.

      The locals are starting to stir and the loudspeaker cars blaring out ads are starting to come by. I could certainly stay here a few more days but the longest part of the trip still remains. Besides, I’m not really a tourist but more of a researcher on this trip. Mel Gibson is supposedly making a movie here and I haven’t even had a chance to speak with him yet…ha.

      But I didn’t come to talk to Mel or other English speakers…I came looking for something else….

Jack D. Deal

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The rolling, lush green hills of Papantla gradually give way to a more sparse coastal brush as we pass Tecolutla and head toward Costa Esmeralda. The Emerald Coast is a strip of development maybe 15 kilometers long that is right along the beach. It reminds me of the beach areas in South Carolina or Florida. The last ten years have seen a real construction boom in Mexico and a lot of that development has been along the coast. Let’s just hope that nature is kind and spares this area from any major hurricanes…the development goes right down to the water’s edge.

      But still there are huge tracts of undeveloped land along the coast. There is some agriculture but a lot of the land is pasture for cattle. I do see signs in some of the fields that the land is for sale and development…it will only be a matter of time. One of the real plusses for central and southern Veracruz is the water availability; so much runoff comes from the eastern Sierras and the rainfall is so plentiful that it seems there will always be a plentiful supply of water. That is one advantage of the tropics as opposed to Mexico’s arid, dry northern tier.

      Even just north of the city of Vera Cruz there is still plenty of open space. For the ‘foreigner’ this contrast is striking and I can only imagine what a Japanese developer must think, ha!

      The highways are much better now and we make better time than I anticipated. We will be staying with Licho and Carmela in their house in the suburbs though the Mexican suburbs are not what we think of as suburbs in the U.S. Licho lives in a nicer section of Colonia Lomas with a great ocean view.

      But life is good in the suburbs! Licho is not back from work yet so we park outside and take a good long walk…a pleasant change after a good long drive. What is odd about this area and many suburban areas is that there will be some very nice homes as well as homes that are run down. There is a greater mix of socioeconomic types and not as much homogeneity as in the U.S. There is also a lot of trash on the streets and some of the smaller parks are filled with trash…city services are expensive and as with most of Mexico, there is a limited tax base to support those services. We walk past a soccer field where youth teams are in colorful uniforms getting ready to play. But the field has no grass…it is packed dirt and dusty – another reminder that services come at a cost.

      We walk to a nice view overlooking the ocean and can see the lighthouse and island in the harbor. I remind Angelica that Cortez landed on a nearby island called Isla de Sacrificios about 500 years ago. He called it that because of evidence of cannibalism he found there and it is still a popular tourist spot. I always take the opportunity to chide her for her Indian ancestry and she counters with ‘if you go far enough back in your family tree you will find they were eating each other too’ –‘todos nos comemos’ she comments.

I have a good laugh on that one and suppose she is right…As Americans many of us don’t particularly care to go back more than several generations because we have an immigrant history of poverty and crime and so on…why dwell too much on the past? ha! And the further modern man goes back the less savory the tradition…at least from my point of view…I’m more a modern person looking at the present and future…ha! At least we don’t eat each other…

      When we get back Licho is glad to see us and is excited! I am too because most of my Mexican friends are poor and he has a nice big house with three floors, five bedrooms and three baths…tonight we will not be sleeping on a dirt floor, ha! For the past few weeks all sorts of critters have been biting my legs and arms and back and it will be nice sleeping in comfort tonight…

      But Licho isn’t tired after work and wants to go out and show me the sights. He insists on driving and I don’t argue…I haven’t had too many guided tours since leaving Dr. G’s… ha! We drive downtown to the old section and much of it has been redone; though I can still recognize certain streets and landmarks in the very center. There are more modern buildings than I remember and he suggests we take a ride to Boca del Rio along the coastal boulevard.

      In the old days, and I’m beginning to realize just how old the old days are now, there was a stretch of land south of Vera Cruz before hitting Boca del Rio, which was a sleepy little village best known for it’s inexpensive and delicious seafood. That has all changed…it’s all one city and now looks like Las Vegas or Cancun. Many of the major hotel chains are there now and there are nightclubs and restaurants to match. We take some side streets off the boulevard and see luxury homes and condos – this is the most expensive area now in Vera Cruz he explains. I can believe it…it’s very upscale. Costco, Office Depot and a lot of the same stores in California…

      Many of the tourists here are Mexican, especially from Mexico City which is only three hours away. Especially during Christmas and Easter, it’s packed he explains. Everyone that can wants to get out of the Distrito Federal, he laughs. Sometimes it’s so busy along the boulevard the traffic just stops…but that’s how we like it, he says, especially in Semana Santa or Easter and Carnaval or Mardi Gras. All of Vera Cruz changes during the big fiestas…

      We drive back to the city center and he suggests we stop for a traditional café lechero – or two. We have some catching up to do…

      Licho is a full partner in a law firm and has had some interesting cases over the years.

      I still do some work for the Laguna Verde nuclear power plant… but that work has tapered off in the past few years he laments. It was great when things were hot…he laughs. That’s actually been the best our firm has ever done. The problem was when the plant first opened, there was no one that could explain how things were done – they all tried to write out these complex chemical formulas. And that created a lot of apprehension. Now things have calmed down and no Chernobyl type disasters have happened and even the ecologists are much calmer now.

      When the plant first opened it received world wide attention. It was part of a larger power grid network plan that also involved thermoelectric French plants such as the large ones in Tuxpan. He explained that the thirst for electric power is exponential and keeps growing…I tell him I understand and that when the power goes off in our area, everything stops. He said the power plant actually has a lifespan of 40 years but because of the increased demand the production has been stepped up and the lifespan decreased.

      In another dozen or so years they will have to build another reactor at the same location and our business should go up again he laughs…I won’t retire until after then, he laughs again.

      Since then he has traveled numerous times to Texas and New York on business. He said that one of the odd things he noticed was how a number of Latinos or Chicanos were anti-Mexican.

      I thought they would be big on La Raza and all that, he said shaking his head, but they don’t speak Spanish and dislike everything Mexican. What’s going on there, amigo? Just what is their problem? And their politicians seem to feel the same way…I think those Latino businessmen didn’t like me either…maybe they thought I swam across the river too, he laughs.

      I answer I truly don’t know why but the issue exists…maybe it has something to do with immigrants wanting to forget their past.

      A strange thing was what happened here in Vera Cruz some years back, he continued. As you know, the state of Veracruz is one of the richest in Mexico but also one of the poorest…how can that be? Well, the simple answer is that it has also been one of the most corrupt…

      There were a number of business groups that wanted the U.S. to annex Veracruz State in exchange for writing off some of the foreign debt. Many of these groups were serious because they were so desperate…they figured that it was the only way Veracruz could develop. As you well know, we Mexicans and even we businessmen are ambivalent on how we feel about the U.S. but we do admire your business expertise…just look at all the U.S. corporations that we saw tonight building in Boca del Rio. You Americans analyze and study and look at the markets and so on…we Mexicans just invest and build and hope things will turn out…and often they don’t.

      He looked at his watch and it was almost 2:00 AM. I have to get to work by 7:00 tomorrow he says, we have some big cases and I’ve been putting in massive hours…you know how it is, he laughs.

      We drive back to his house and he parks on the street…put your car in my garage, I’ll leave the SUV inside, he insists…I have to leave very early and you can sleep in. I won’t get back until late but we can have another conversation then…it’s been great talking with you!

      I protest that no one is going to steal my beat up Honda with a bunch of books and camping gear but he insists. He has a huge two car garage and plenty of room for the Honda…

      I don’t argue because I’ve learned a good guest never insults the host, right?

Jack D. Deal

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Tia is waiting for us. She is going to fix us a fish dinner and calls Tio on the phone. He has an HVAC company in an industrial park and an air conditioning storefront in the city center. A great business for the heat and humidity and this isn’t even summer time…

      They live in one of those mixed neighborhoods that we homogenized Americans have trouble figuring out. They have a nice three story house and a two car garage where they tell me to park my car. Their car is better than mine but they insist…around them are several nice homes but at the end of the street is and empty lot filled with trash and two jacalitos or shanties. Above them on a hill are more shanties and it looks like it must be a squatter’s development…

      Tia gives us a fish stew with half a fish in it. It’s delicious. She also fries for each of us a whole red snapper or chakis – the first of many Maya words I would encounter. She shows me the fish before frying it – the eyes are crystal clear, a sure sign the fish is very fresh. She also has fillets in a garlic sauce baking in the oven. This is what I call a real fish dinner! Tortillas, black beans, cucumber salad and a type of radish salad round out the menu…with green, red and habenero chile salsas to go with it. The salsas are very hot but fortunately the beer is very cold…this is probably one of the best fish meals I have ever had. This was one fabulous meal! After we have eaten our fill, Tia brings out dessert. I simply can’t do it…if there were any room left in my stomach I would eat more fish….

      We stand up and Tio pulls me aside.

      I need to ask you something and maybe a favor, he says.

      Oh no, I think, hopefully it’s not a man-woman type question or another gripe about Yanqui imperialism.

      As you know, we Mexicanos are very close with our families, he says.

      I nod my head in agreement.

      We have a problem, or rather my brother has a problem, he continues, he has a son that went to Chicago about four years ago. He went to work with a cousin and found a good job as a welder – welding is not easy and a good welder can get plenty of work and make good money.

      I nod my head again.

      The problem is we have not heard from him in almost two years. The recent news about the immigrants getting killed has been worrying us and we wonder if he is still alive…his wife cries thinking he may be dead. He has two young sons as well…for the first two years he would call every week and send money regularly…then it just stopped. We tried calling the construction company where he works, but since we don’t speak English very well, we weren’t very sure what they were saying. They would give us a number and we would call but it always ended up with leave a message and we’ll call back. They never did…would you do us a favor and call them for us? Maybe you can explain it to them and see if you can get through…it’s a very big company and we have five or six phone numbers.

      Sure, Tio, I answer, but it’s Saturday and the offices will be closed.

      No, no sobrino, next week sometime, he laughs.

      Sure, Tio, I can use my cell…but Tio, it’s not very likely he was killed, I add.

      Why do you say that? he asked.

      Sure accidents and bad things happen, but it’s pretty rare, I say lowering my voice and when it does happen they get hold of the family and let them know…and he probably had friends that would make sure you got the bad news, it’s more likely he found another woman.

      My brother and I discussed that too, he replied, but it’s not like my nephew was that kind of man…he left to go work in the U.S. so he could send his children to school. Why would he not call or send money, even if he found another woman?

      I can’t say, but I promise I will call and try to help find out, I answer, but I’m not sure if they will give me much information, but I will try…

      Thanks, sobrino, that’s all you can do…and we want to thank you so much for your help. Let’s have another beer.

      I am very full but agree – anything to get off such a sad subject. I’ve seen and heard this immigrant tale before and I can almost bet he found another woman…just as Gabriel’s widow crossed the border and quickly found another man, leaving her children behind. Necessity and the search for opportunity can sometimes rip families apart…a sad fact many of us in the U.S. never consider. We don’t know what it’s like when a loved one crosses the river or walks across the desert and is not heard from. And it’s hard to say why one leaves ones family completely behind and starts a new life, but it’s not uncommon – it’s much more common than accidents or murder.

I will try my best to help but am certain that even if I can find something out, they will not like it. Whatever the answer it will not be a pleasant one…but ultimately knowing is better than not knowing…what joy is there in finding out he is alive but has abandoned his family? But if it were my son, I would want to know too…being a father, I can identify with a father’s pain. But being an American, even for me it is hard to identify with the problem of one’s children leaving and illegally entering another country. That is a pain most Americans will never know…

      The conversation turns lighter and I’m glad. Tio kids me about my lack of hair and said he had the same problem but an herb doctor fixed him up. I tell him he looks pretty thin on top too and should ask for his money back…he laughs. All the Gulf coast folks like a good laugh. He asks me if I would like to go to the museums or visit the Indian ruins which are everywhere. I tell him no; I prefer to visit with people and socialize with them. He doesn’t really understand how it could be one’s job to do that but he’s glad too. He’s seen all the local museums and been to all the ruins many times.

      I’ll take you to the country tomorrow but be careful of the chenchen tree, he warns, you don’t want to go near it.

      Why? I ask. I can’t remember anyone ever telling me avoid getting near a tree.

      I’m not sure whether it’s the resin or pollen or what, he answers, but if it gets on you, you will get stained with sores and they will irritate you for weeks. The only cure is like an antidote; a special salve the Maya prepare from herbs.

      Maybe I’ll just take a picture then; I laugh, and not get too close.

      He laughs and pours me more beer. We talk of other oddities, like pan de cazon or fish bread. He laughs when I tell him I couldn’t imagine such a thing let alone ever have seen it.

      What is striking is his Campechana accent and the many Maya words that he uses. Tia too…they think nothing of these Maya words as they have become part of their vernacular. Once again I see the very strong regional differences in accent and vocabulary and in this instance, the very strong influence of the Maya language. Again I think it most odd that the Maya language is so well documented and the grammars established but how so little is known about how it has been regionally integrated with Spanish. I know it’s all a question of language usage and regional influence but I can’t help being curious…

I make a mental note to come back some day and find out more…. There has been a great deal of resurging interest in Indian dialects and languages and hopefully more interest in the vernacular as well…I have never made an effort to learn an Indian language but find it very odd that so many words have been integrated into Spanish; just as English has been integrated into the Vera Cruz Spanish.

      And Tio can speak some Maya too. And he grew up speaking Huasteco. And of course Spanish. Once again not only proof we can all speak a language but also more than one…

      For instance, he says, huich in Huasteco means flower, but in Maya it means dog urine.

      I’ll be careful on that one, I laugh, I wouldn’t want to tell someone their flowers are dog urine…they might take it the wrong way. He says a lot of the words are very similar and I ask if they come from the same roots, maybe Nahuatl. He says he doesn’t know…

      But I bet they do, just like English and Spanish. But it will be some time before I integrate huich into my active Spanish vocabulary…ha!

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Buenas, says Martin loudly outside the hut.

      An older woman appears at the door.

      Pasate, compadre, she says with a smile.

      He introduces me as an old and dear friend. She shakes my hand and says she will fix me something to eat.

      No, gracias, says Martin, Gloria is preparing us something back at our house. How is Ramirito?

      Ah, compadre, she says shaking her head, he is better some days than others. Last night he was up most of the night. The neighbors complain sometimes but most are used to it by now.

      Gloria sent him some enchiladas, says Martin.

      She brings a plastic plate and empties the enchiladas on them. No fork, she laughs.

      We pass through the hut and into the back yard. At the back I can see a figure lying on the ground near a large tree. We walk toward Ramirito and he begins to stir…I can see his leg is chained to the tree.

      Como estas, Ramirito? asks Martin.

      The man begins to move and slowly sits up. He smiles at Martin and then at me.

      I’m fine, he replies, and just about ready to find my treasure.

      Next to him is a hole maybe a meter wide and half a meter deep. It looks to me like he is trying to dig a grave.

      Not too close, Martin warms me, he’s usually fine but sometimes he gets angry and has sharp fingernails.

      Martin puts the enchilada plate on a block of wood near the hole. Ramirito grabs one and stuffs it in his mouth and smiles…getting the sauce and bits of tortilla on his beard. We sit down on a log just outside the chain’s length.

      Ramirito looks at me and points his finger…

      I know that cabron, he laughs, and he is the one that stole my cows near Coyutla.

      Martin looks at me and grins.

      You are staying busy these days, amigo, he laughs at me. When Ramirito was younger, he explains, he was a bright kid and hard worker. Then he started going to the cantinas and from there things went downhill. He’s not always like this…and sometimes he can work in the fields for months at a time. But when he gets like this, they have to put a chain on him.

      Did he ever see a doctor? I ask.

      Of course…at first his mother took him to the curandero but nothing worked. Finally they took him to a doctor in Poza Rica and the doctor said he was crazy. He said there were some pills that might help, but there was no guarantee. The doctor said that if the pills did not work he would have to go to the hospital for the insane, which is a bad place according to the doctor.

      His mother got scared and said that if Ramirito was going to die, he would die surrounded by his family. So she brought him here…sometimes he gets happy and sometimes he won’t eat for several days.

      I thought it sounds like manic depression but I’m not a psychiatrist. Ramirito stood up and I got a good look at him. He looked healthy and his clothes were relatively clean after having slept on the dirt. There was a slight odor to him but not what one would expect from one constantly chained to a tree. It was clear he was being well cared for.

      They put the chain on him so he doesn’t wander, explained Martin, when he wanders off he can get into all kinds of trouble and could get hurt…people are afraid of crazy people and some throw rocks at him…

      Ramirito smiled at us and ate the rest of the enchiladas. Martin stood up and told him we had to go, that Gloria was waiting for us back at his house.

      Gracias, como siempre, said Ramirito’s mother, thank you for not forgetting about us.

      Como no, comadre, said Martin, you know I will never forget you. I’ll come back in a few days.

      We didn’t say anything as we walked back to Martin’s house. Within an hour I heard of a young boy that died of dehydration and a young man whose future is chained to a tree. Such is the third world. People do what they can to survive and sometimes even that is not possible. They sometimes go to the U.S. to escape their misery.

      We Americans are so ethnocentric and think these folks that come up to work in the U.S. are criminals, even as we admit we have no one else that will pick our vegetables or wash our dishes or tend to our babies

      We get back to Martin’s hut and I realize the best hope is development… something that has been bothering me all day.

      Some say that Ramirito’s mother went to a spiritualist when she was pregnant with him and the devil made Ramirito that way, says Gloria as she serves us coffee. What do you think, amigo, she asks me.

      I’m beginning to dislike that question, I reply back to her, it’s not like I have any special insight into the mysteries of life…

      But you are a Gringo and have read books and gone to school and traveled, she laughs…I think it was the devil disguised as spirits…she said.

      I could not discount that as a possibility, even though remote. There could be a power of suggestion involved, but I doubt that too…I’m not sure even the brightest among us can always determine the exact cause and effect. Hence all or myths and neuroses…

      Poor and isolated folks often want a cause and effect and cannot understand anything else. The Greeks, Romans and other ancients did it through mythology. Many modern folks do it through their religion and culture. The Jehovah’s do it through the Old Testament and Revelation; the Catholics do it through the Virgin and the Saints. Modern secular man does it through capitalism or communism or politics or poetry. It’s simply a matter of perspective...

      We want the easy answer and feel uneasy when there are unknowns. But unknowns are a part of the modern life…there are so many things, like language and thought, that will be decades or centuries away before we begin to understand. Then as we know more, we realize there is more we don’t know and that too makes us uneasy. When will it ever stop?

      The answer is it doesn’t. We try to create feeble links between what we know and what we don’t know, just like the ancients. We create fables and myths and prejudices and art. We try to filter the new and unknown though what we know, our experiences and our perspectives. Sometimes it fits nicely and sometimes it doesn’t. When it doesn’t, we retreat back into a defensive position and feel threatened with anything that is different. At the first sign of cognitive dissonance we retreat to the figurative caves we build inside our heads…

      So the liberal becomes more liberal and the conservative more conservative. The fundamentalist becomes more fundamental. Those that believe in the Virgin become more certain that those that don’t worship the devil. The curanderos think modern medicine is quackery and doctors exploit the poor for their own advantage. The doctors feel that anything not involving surgery and prescriptions is voodoo. The mediocre feel threatened by those that have ambition and the ambitious feel the mediocre are lazy and hurt progress.

      It’s not a very pretty picture that we humans paint. It’s as ugly as a kid dying of dehydration and a young man being chained to a tree.

      The late afternoon sun is shining in all its glory on Gloria’s Garden of Eden. I remark how beautiful it all is and she smiles with pride. Martin and Gloria may be poor but they live in paradise.

      I apologize for having to leave but I don’t like to drive at night. They understand and we hug and are once again I am again off down my endless road…

Jack  D. Deal

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I saw Castro on the news and he was complaining that the U.S. was building a wall just like in Berlin. I thought the Russians were his ally back then, ha! He never said anything back then about the Berlin Wall. Now he wants to ‘help’ Mexico…some ‘help’. I also saw in the newspaper where Marcos of the Zapatistas is against capitalism…but just what he is for remains to be seen – other than hiding out in the jungle. Odd that those two giant egos never get together…probably they are afraid of stealing each other’s thunder, ha!

      We decide to go to some rancherias way out and visit some friends near Coyutla. The town square or plaza of Coyutla is its best known landmark; the large, old tree in the center of the square is a point of reference for all. It is said that many a man was hung from the tree during the Revolution; their bodies were swayed and impaled on machetes. I can’t say for sure this is true, but then again I can’t say it wasn’t…

      It’s market day and we do the customary tour and eat sacahuil. I have eaten so much sacahuil I’m beginning to get my fill, ha! I keep thinking of communism and capitalism and how towns like Coyutla are the immigration feeder towns for illegal labor to the U.S.

      I wonder again about the local economic base. As in most rural areas that base is nearly entirely agricultural and internal consumption. As with agriculture everywhere, mechanization has reduced the need for farm labor so ag employment has in fact been going down. Construction is one of the largest employers and many ex farm hands are now working in construction; it also pays better. Folks have to eat and buy clothes, but there can only be so many vendors before the market becomes oversaturated. Or until Wal-Mart comes to town. I saw in the paper where Poza Rica will be getting a McDonald’s and Holiday Inn and a hundred years from now they will be in Coyutla too.

      But how to go from third world to first is a problem worldwide; we certainly have that problem in California as well. So many things have to come together to make that happen that it seems to be a futile task; but it is the only solution to slow down the rate at which thousands of Mexicans illegally stream across the border each day.

      Education is always touted as the answer but it’s more than that – if schools were the total answer most of the planet would be first world. Until a people understand and own the concepts of individual initiative and the entrepreneurial spirit, no amount of capital and infrastructure will work. Imposed economic development projects are a dime a dozen worldwide and are often nothing more than lip service and politics. Changing individual, group and community economic behaviors is a clear key but usually overlooked. Often projects designed to raise the economic base treat the participants as if they are retarded or disabled….the bureaucracy claiming folks just need more education and there’s not much that can be done beyond that.

      In Coyutla I hear the omnipresent rap music and see the English language T-shirts and wonder about that effect as well. The simple exposure to another culture and the hundreds of locals now working in the U.S. has certainly changed behaviors; many youth see going to the U.S. as their career ladder.

      The folks are more Indian in Coyutla; speak Nahuatl and Spanish, though the Spanish I hear is often simple present, past and future. They shake hands by lightly touching the finger tips, never a hard grasp. That hasn’t changed in the last 30 years, though the rap, T-shirts and mass migration to the U.S. has.

      I know that simply teaching English and setting up computer labs is not enough.  Behaviors are very slow to change and as I look at the good people of Coyutla I wonder if anything other than going to the U.S. can create significant change. It’s a complex and frustrating issue worldwide, and today it appears particularly frustrating to me here…

      We head out of town and head toward the ejido of San Bernadino. Along the dirt road we see men staggering and their women and children following behind. I’m careful not to hit them as they stumble along. I remember seeing men lying along the side of the streets outside Tierra Blanca after payday, their women and children waiting patiently for them to sober up so they could go home. As in the U.S., beer and liquor bottles now carry the warning that excessive drink can be hazardous to your health. And clearly to one’s family as well…

      We reach Antonia’s hut and she is so glad to see us. I hadn’t seen her in many years so we catch up on all the latest developments. She has two daughters living in Reynosa now; once again evidence of that border Reynosa Syndrome. And also two sons living in North Carolina. A cousin took them there, she explains, and he is a house painter. Neither of them knew painting before since they worked as campesinos and ranch hands. One married an American, has two kids and now has his papers…the other is still a ‘mojado’ or wetback she laughs. We say adios and are off to Martin and Gloria’s house.

      The road is horrible and I’m sure impassable in the rainy season. But in any season one really needs a truck. Infrastructure is a key to development and without good roads, electricity, water, etc; regions remain isolated from the mainstream economy. Mexico is full of these regions and it remains a huge problem for rural development.

      Martin and Gloria give us hugs and Gloria starts to prepare food. It’s a custom and the first thing folks feel inclined to do when having visitors. She hands him a plastic bag with enchiladas and he asks me if I want to go for a walk. Angelica frowns thinking he wants to take me to the cantina, which are everywhere, even in the remote rancherias.

      We walk out his back yard and I comment how it looks like a Garden of Eden…and I comment that only the wealthy have such gardens in California. He laughs and says Gloria has always loved plants and everywhere he works he brings her back a plant…much cheaper than gold or diamonds he laughs.

      We walk past several huts and he says ‘buenas’ loudly and the folks inside respond. That one was a sad case, he said pointing to a hut with blue painted mud walls. Several weeks ago one of their children died; Gloria helped dress the body. The little boy had diarrhea and was vomiting and he just died. They are very poor people and took him first to the curandero but the boy just got worst. They were taking him to the Red Cross in Coyutla and he died on the way. If there is a God, he certainly hates the poor, no amigo?

      I mumble something stupid and think it was a case of dehydration – a simple IV drip may have saved the boys life. The kind of IV drip they give football players after a game on a hot day…cheap, common and easily administered. Something is not right when a child dies because they cannot get five or ten dollars worth of medicine. It’s a hard, cruel word and especially so for the poor…We stop outside another hut and Martin touches me on the arm.

      This is not very pleasant what we are going to see, he says, you can wait outside if you like.

      No, Martin, you know me, I laugh, and I’m not one to shy away from things…

      I know amigo, I know, he says touching me on the shoulder, I’ve always liked that about you – you’re like one of us.

      I’m not as sure as he is about that. And I certainly was not prepared for what I saw next...

Jack D. Deal

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We left Axtla at the very crack of dawn – roosters crowing and the stars still out. There was a mist along the river and it gave the jungle a surreal early morning effect. It was Christmas Eve and there was lots of traffic and busses and folks waiting to go see their families. In Mexico it is traditional to have a late night Christmas Eve dinner with the family and it seemed as if everyone was going at once.

      We stopped in Matlalpa to get a coffee. In the countryside, coffee is ground and boiled and ‘pilon’ or raw sugar cane added. I like coffee very hot and this coffee was both hot and delicious.  The lady called Angelica commadre. 

      The whole issue of compadres and comadres is a confusing one for the foreigner. Sometimes it is confusing for the Mexicans as well. Technically speaking, a compadre is a godfather. When children are baptized, non-blood relatives are designated as compadres and comadres. This special relationship lasts a lifetime. Over time, the terms have become common when used to designate a close friend. The purists may not like the way the terms are used but the vernacular does not ask for permission and usage is usage. It is also good to see folks that are very interested in the politics and governments that affect them…of course there is some indifference but there is also passion. We Mexicans are a passionate people.

      At Tamazunchale we ran into a Christmas Eve traffic jam and sat for a good 45 minutes before crossing the bridge. Tamazunchale is situated in a series of steep hills with narrow and congested streets. In these poorer cities there is little urban planning so development goes ‘naturally’ and wherever it can. New developments and ‘colonias’ are always on the fringe of the urban areas and end abruptly. In less than half a kilometer the development stops and fields and pastures begin. It is a common occurrence in poorer areas and somewhat striking.

      The reason is transportation. Poor people see no sense in living in remote areas if they can help it. It costs more by bus or taxi to get to town. And it takes longer as well. Usually a farmer will sell his land off as parcels for housing; often mud wall huts or simple rooms made of cinderblock. Of course there is usually no water, sewer or electricity until the colonia grows and gains some political clout. Poor areas have traditionally had little clout.

      We continue on the road to Huejutla. The countryside is very pretty and there are no tourists – not even Germans, ha! All the towns and ranchos have Indian names such as Coacuiclo and Orizatlan. Some have 15 or 20 letters.

      The weather has finally broken and I’m feeling the best I have in weeks. My head cold left with the cold and damp of the nortes. And the smog of Monterrey. Some say this clear winter weather of Mexico is the best in the world – hence the tourist season…warm in the sun and cool in the shade. Very blue, cloudless skies with a bright sun that brings out the green/blue in water and the many shades of jungle green. Stellar is the best word I can use to describe it. It is truly spectacular.

      As we drive along we see pick-ups with as many as 25 passengers standing in the back. These trucks come from the ranches and small villages and the residents take advantage of the ride. By necessity these trucks go very slow and we drive along behind several of them on this highway…the passengers staring at our Accord wagon and funny license plates.

      The streams and arroyos are crystal clear and we see women washing clothes along the banks. It is reassuring for me to know there are still many areas that are relatively untouched by urban blight, smog and rap – an easy lifetime of exploration for all you adventurers still out there. I make a vow to myself to come back someday with a truck and explore the remote valleys and mountains and the Indians that live there. But that is another trip for another day…reassuring for this veteran wanderer.

      We are hungry and pull over at a road stand selling sacahuil, the traditional Huasteca food known throughout Mexico. The two younger women speak a type of broken Spanish, though easily understood. They are of course bilingual in Spanish and Nahuatl. A bit shy and without that hard edge of city civilization. Proof again that folks anywhere can learn multiple languages.

      At Huejutla we hit another traffic jam and it takes us a half hour to get to the center of town. Maybe someday Mexico will become less centralized and the traffic spread out to outlying areas…it’s dusty, hot and tempers are hot too. Ah, civilization! We stop at the huge downtown market and wander for several hours. We buy some fruit and sparklers but we could have bought pretty much anything; stoves, clothes, stereos and medicines included. We go into the stone church and I am once again reminded of the strong influence of Catholicism. As is typical with most churches, there are the faithful praying fervently with tears down their cheeks as they ask various saints or the Virgin for assistance. Tragedy and sadness are a part of everyday life and it never stops.

      It takes us another 45 minutes to get out of town and once again immediately into the countryside. It’s warmer now and the climate is much drier and considered to be subtropical. We take the back road to Tantoyuca and decide to stop and see my old friend Arturo. It has probably been at least 15 years since I have seen him and since he often works in different parts of Mexico, Christmas Eve would be a great time to catch him at home.

       But how Tantoyuca has changed! It has now developed on both sides of the highway and is now a small city. I am amazed….

      We find Arturo’s colonia but don’t recognize his house. Then I see him standing in the doorway of a larger house and realize it is his…I see that over the years he has built a larger and larger house for his extended family just as I have built mine of experience and adventure. He gives me a big hug and starts to choke up…

      Ah, amigo, he chokes, the older one gets the less sure one is of seeing long lost friends. I was not sure if I would ever see you again and you don’t know how happy I am that you came for a visit!

      He brings in beer and we catch up on the many years that have passed since we last spoke. It was from him I first heard about Xilitla.

      Ah amigo, he laughs as we drink more beer and the conversation loosens up. There are bonds in this life that can never be broken and you and I will have that bond until we die and maybe after that, he laughs. It goes so deep it runs to our very soul he adds pointing to his heart. I am a poor man but having an amigo like you makes me rich, he laughs.

      I laugh too. At that moment I felt particularly wealthy…

Jack D. Deal

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When we went to Mexico on our Road Trip La Fea had just started airing.   That was back over a year ago when Lopez Obrador had a 30 point margin in the polls and was considered a shoo-in for Presidente which he ended up "giving away" in one of the most bizarre political crashes in modern hisory.   So much has changed since La Fea began...Mexico has matured politically and we have all gotten older and probably changed some too...   

     In case you have not heard, La Fea Mas Bella, the Prettiest Ugly One, is the most popular soap opera ever to appear on Mexican TV.   Univision carried the show in the U.S.   The concept originally began with a similar show in Colombia and now in the U.S. with Ugly Betty.   The name Leticia Padilla Solis, La Fea, has become a household word on both sides of the border. 

     The Mexican soap operas are famous not only in Mexico but internationally as well.   They have been exported to Asia and Russia and are some of the most popular TV series in all of Latin America.     Go to any city, town or village in Mexico and you will hear the soapers blasting out over the TV airwaves.  Go to a hut in the country with a TV antenna and they will be watching the soapers.  Essentially the soapers start in early afternoon and run until late at night with news breaks.   Many Mexican families, on both sides of the border will sit at night and watch one after the other.   Some families, like ours, get torn between two sagas and channel flip between two and even three soaps.  Go figure.

     I thought La Fea would never end, just like I give up on most of them.   But I'm a man and not a soaperly sensitive one at that, so my sarcastic comments don't really count.   My problem is the soaps get some really good drama going and then they start going in circles as if the writers hit a sweet spot and don't want to let it go.   I  get to the point where I don't care anymore and start saying things I probably shouldn't in front of those that at least on some level do care.   In the case of La Fea and it's stunning rise to fame, all involved wanted to stretch that success out.   

    Being a not so sensitive male I sometimes watch the soapers to maintain household equanimity and some of them are fun.   I like the Spanish and sometimes the accents and as in the case with La Fea, I love it when they go on remote locations and get away from the Mexico City studio sets.   I've been to so many places in Mexico that I can often tell where the scenes are being shot.   

    The plots usually involve a love triangle, as in the case of La Fea where she cannot decide between two hunks; or someone looking for their real father, mother, son or daughter.   Soaper plots leave a convoluted, virtual DNA trail and sometimes one needs a whiteboard to track all the ins and outs of illicit human relationships.   That's not to say there are no normal relationships but happily married couples hassling with raising a family just are not interesting enough to keep anyone's attention very long.   Soapers or Novelas are fantasies designed to take one away from reality; not remind one of it.   

     The audience wants sex and innuendos and all the pain and agony that go along with it.   Almost no one except the old folks are happy in their on screen soaper relationships.   The old folks are happy because they have already had all the affairs and illicit relationships they can stomach for one lifetime and their only concern is where are their long lost children and are there any surprises left.   We love it when one finds a lover/spouse in the arms of another and then tries to explain it was just being friendly...ha, yeah, we know what goes on behind soaper closed doors.   After all, the writers clearly know what we are going to be thinking way before we do...

     My neighbor starts with the novelas in the evening and watches them all  until the late news.   My relatives do the same in LA, often eating dinner with their favorites.  La Fea is just one of many that compete for viewer time and attention and advertising ratings.   My current favorite is Zorro; a dashing swashbuckler that rides a wicked horse and has his choice of hot babes; my kind of guy. Zorro steals from the rich but secretly he's a rich guy as well so who says you can't have your cake and eat it too a la Zorro...and somehow no one can tell it's him since he wears one of those eye masks.   Zorro makes the perfect rich progressive liberal.   

     But at my house Zorro competes with Distilando Amor, a shouting match between arrogant couples who don't want to be with each other anymore; California style love.    The highlight of the show is that a lot of it is shot on location in Tequila, Jalisco, Mexico; one of my favorite spots in Western Mexico.   And the place, by the way, where Tequila is made.   Distilando Amor is translated to Distilling Love, which can have various innuendos I suppose...

    La Fea shot over 550 episodes and several of the actors had to be treated for exhaustion.   After that many episodes, some of us in the audience needed treatment as well.  What carried La Fea was some of the great individual performances, such as Don Fernando by Jaime Camille and Luigi Lombardi played by Sergio Meyer.   Luigi was probably the cutest character as he played a highly successful, productive and openly gay film director.   

     Alicia Ferreira, Paty Navidad in real life, was a favorite among the guys and each episode would compete with how high her mini-skirt and low her blouses would go.   A lot of guys like me watched the show to watch Alicia...Jose Jose, the singer from the vintage years known as the Principe de la Cancion or Prince of Song, was great as Lety's dad even though his voice is coarse and gravely now.   Angelica Maria, Mexico's girlfriend or La Novia de Mexico, tried to play part of a comedy team but Jose stole the show, even though Angelica Maria is Lety's, Angelica Valle's, real mother in real life.   For Angelica Maria the show was a fantasy...

      La Fea emphasized the need to look beyond the superficial outer to the inner to find real beauty; sort of a Soaper Zen strategy.   That's not the way it works in real life but since soapers are fantasy anyway...why not give it a try.   The  success of the show was unexpected by all.  In a post 'grand final' interview, Angelica Maria said her role as Lety's mother was originally only going to be in 14 episodes but La Fea started to get very popular and the writers gave her a larger and more compelling  role especially in the mother/daughter talks.    Throughout the series Lety was very loyal to her family, even though a company executive she still was expected to come home at a reasonable hour.    

     One really bright spot was the humor spread throughout each episode.   Despite the high drama romances there was always time for a joke or two.   The humor probably kept many marginal viewers like me tuned in for longer than we normally would which should give the writers more incentive to add more humor to other soapers so marginal viewers like me will hang around to the Gran Final.

     So the big question in the end was who was Lety going to pick?  Don Fernando or Aldo?   All over Mexico and the U.S. that question has been debated.   The soaper ended about two months ago in Mexico and since I read the online papers everyday I know who she picked there.  But I also read where they filmed two versions so maybe the ending will be different here than in Mexico.  That's to keep savvy viewers like me guessing...

     Who cares?   It's only a soaper...true.   But it's interesting to note that La Fea actually had more viewers in the U.S. than the Oscars, which ought to say something from a marketing standpoint.   One could theorize that the soaper was amazingly well done or the Oscars have degenerated into something amazingly poorly done. Obviously it's a combination of both.   

   Tonight it all ended and Lety went with Don Fernando as predicted.   Aldo played by Juan Soler was too goofy and somehow we all suffered so much with Don Fernando's extended remorse that everybody at my house was pulling for him.   In the end Aldo saves an orphan kid on the beach in Acapulco and is seen looking goofily into space as if to say he did not get the girl but did manage to grab some spirituality.   As usual at this point I didn't care who drowned but my opinion matters little. 

      So we say good-bye to our dear friends that we have known over the past few years.   As is customary,  all the tangled relationships worked out somehow in the end and by and large it's all one big  happy ending, a fantasy if there ever was one.   

     But there are battles that remain and new bonds to create with new soapers.   And maybe, just maybe, she'll let me switch to Zorro during the commercials...

Jack D. Deal 

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Timo starts the day telling me a jungle story that reminds be of a B. Traven story. Yesterday I was Von Humboldt and today Traven, ha!

      The story was about a Mario Cespedes that came to the island from Vera Cruz to fish but did not go back with the other fishermen. He stayed. He went to the most remote part of the island and built his hut and lived there for 15 years. His hair grew long and the only person he would see was Timo and only when Timo would go back into the jungle to hunt or search for a lost farm animal. Whenever Timo and Juana would have a fiesta or special meal he would come to their hut; often the only human contact he would have for months.

      Mario slept under a tarpaper roof that would leak right in the middle. Timo laughs when he tells how Mario would simply spread his legs apart when sleeping instead of fixing his ‘roof’.

      One day Mario’s sons found out where he lived. Knowing his weakness for drink, they took him a case of beer and got him drunk. When he passed out they put him a boat and that was it. He never said goodbye nor ever returned… Sounds just like a Traven story like Macario. I’m sure that’s how Traven picked up all his goodies…sitting at night with some Indians in their chozas drinking coffee and listening to their stories. I now know his secret, ha!

      People ask me how I get to know all these things…well, I just jump in…how else? You have to be an uncomprising adventurer and if you are not, don’t complain. And it’s not just something you can do one summer at college…

      Take fish eggs for instance.  Juana has some hueva or fish eggs she says she will prepare for me as enchiladas. But it’s caviar, I complain, why would you mix other stuff with caviar? ‘Vas a ver, guerro’, she tells me -- you will see white guy. She toasts some hueva on her comal or griddle and gives me a piece. It is very salty. Not caviar, I tell her. That’s why we don’t eat it like that, she answers. What do I know anyway…it’s all part of my journey to see and do it all. Fish eggs or ejidos, it doesn’t matter.

      By now you must have guessed that I am middle aged, ha! One of the strangest things I’ve seen in my middle age is American men that envy me. Why? I ask them…you’ve got a huge house, new cars, flashy wife and your kids all go to Stanford and Harvard and you are insured up the ying yang. What else can you want?

      Maybe so they tell me, but there’s a gaping hole in their life. They climb the social and economic ladders without ever asking why. They join the corporations or become professionals in their twenties and become trapped by mortgages, family obligations and careers. Once they jump in they can’t get out…and they stay in until it is way too late. They then bury themselves in alcohol, drugs, therapies or wild women. And wonder why they keep coming up empty. There aren’t enough gallons of martinis or mounds of Prozac that can ease their pain. What they need is a good dose of fish eggs and ejidos…

      I have little sympathy…to each his own. Sometimes they criticize me and my lack of assets yet can’t see the sadness in their own eyes. They are defensive because they can’t admit they made a mistake. They refuse to change and let go of their hard earned neuroses that cost them so dearly. They search for a non-existent security somewhere out in the ideal… They never realize there is no security. How can one insure something that does not exist?

      Fortunately for me I was able to meet some of these sad men when I was a traveling teenager. I would wonder why they would always envy me even back then and I became suspicious…they had it ‘made’ so why would they envy a poor vagabond like me?

      Over the years I’ve become less judgmental but also less sympathetic. It’s not my fault if you are neurotic, can’t think and constantly worry about your security and possessions. And all you can talk about are your problems. It’s not just me because one of the things I’ve realized is I’m not so special. Folks like Timo have taught me that.

      When I first came to Mexico I suppose I too had a bit of an attitude; a mild one but nonetheless an attitude. The poorest of campesinos would invite me into their hut and give me what had to be the last of their beans and tortillas. And maybe a chile. At first I would refuse and they would feel offended, so later I learned to tell them that I had just eaten a big meal but would love to try a probadita or taste. That way they kept most of the food on their plates, ha! I thought I was pretty smart back then…

      But then they would tell me things that I did not know, things about their life and their universe. I realized I was a fool with a foolish attitude. I lost that attitude and with it the doors kept opening up for me. It was as if by losing my presumptuousness I walked into a new universe of perceptions. Timo may not know what the Internet is but he sure knows a lot about life and living…but not from books or counselors.

      I’m just a curious adventurer that keeps going on the journey…I’m way beyond the point of no return and simply do not care and have no intention of turning back. It’s too late for me to even think about joining the status game…Like Timo says, the journey is my destiny.

      Don’t worry; I tell my distressed and stressed gringo brothers, we’re not in competition. You took your road and I took mine…I won’t even make you feel badly by asking you to compare your stories to mine, ha! My battles are with myself and not you…my measures are internal and have nothing to do with you, your house remodels or your latest sports car. You measure your life in terms of things and status and not what is in your head and heart and that’s not my fault…who can you blame? I have no answers for you and don’t really care about hearing your litany of problems. You and I both know you won’t change. You are up to your eyeballs in it and can’t and won’t get out.

      And besides, you might ask yourself, how many people like Timo do you know?

      Your Prozac is my coconut water and your therapist is my Timo…and after so many years of feeling so superior maybe your chickens are coming home to roost…I wish you the best but there is nothing I can do for you. My Cien Anos de Soledad life patterns have seen your story repeated many times since my teenage days. Over and over and over.

      You can’t help yourself. It’s in your genes. Your cave men ancestors for thousands of generations would take whatever extra they had and hoard it in their caves. Just like you are trying to do…maybe the cave man thought he could hoard away security. Maybe…but starvation and wild animals were always lurking and even the cave did not provide that sought after security…

      But hey, I always want to wish you the best and always good luck! But please, keep your neurotic problems to yourself…that is your destiny...

Jack D. Deal

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In Veracruz it is either dusty or muddy; the sun is so strong it can dry things up in a day or two. Today it is windy and rainy; another ‘norte’ that is bringing with it some cold winter weather. With the extreme change in temperature it’s a wonder we aren’t all sick but that is a luxury I do not have on this trip.

      We pass through Poza Rica, a small oil refinery city I remember as being ugly with foul air and congestion. Today it is a bustling city growing and expanding outward as it grows. It is also part of a new highway system or autopista to Mexico City; a drive that normally takes six hours or so depending on the fog and rain in the high eastern Sierras. The new highway will halve the time.

      I wanted to stop in at Castillo de Teayo and take a look at a different kind of Mexican town. I had read how the locals have begun a civic pride campaign in an effort to bring tourists to the area but also make it a better place to live. I was impressed at the changes that have happened. The town is clean and the streets paved. The park with the Castillo is very well done and there is now a museum with the friendliest of people explaining whatever you want to know. In Spanish of course…

      One town away things were very different. There was trash on the highway, men drinking and hanging around outside the bars and a ‘casa de cita’ or whorehouse in plain view just off the road. I made a few inappropriate comments and Angelica is on me quickly. Over the years I’ve come to understand that it is her job…ha!

      Castillo is considered to be Huasteco in culture but also has Totonaco, Tolteca and Azteca influences. The further way from Tinochtitlan or Mexico City one got in the old days the less influence the Aztecs had. There were no roads, wagons or even horses back then….all communication was by foot runner. The farther the runners had to go, the less the influence.

      The stilettos and stone sculptures were impressive. Angelica liked a very small one of a mother and her baby. It was clearly a different age when nearly everything was different from today. The Huastecos flourished here around 1000 A.D., just about the time tribes in England were intermingling and developing modern English. I had to wonder if we would speaking Huasteco today if the same thing had happened back then. But it didn’t and we don’t. More and more we see the power of language and its impact on culture and thought. At times it seems that language is the whole ballgame wrapped up into one big cultural enchilada ...from whence we come.

      I did have a nice chat with the museum director about some new proposed legislation that would decentralize the management of ruins and artifacts. Some senators want to open up more areas and allow for decentralized control. This would make it easier for intercultural exchanges of artifacts and allow ‘outsiders’ to control it. The director is afraid it would also commercialize the whole process – ‘if we don’t have our cultural heritage – what do we have? The rich don’t care about us – all they care about are having our artifacts in their luxury homes.’ He was being very polite because I knew the reference was about many of my fellow countrymen.

      We passed through Tincontlan on our way to Alamo. It’s a nice little town and today was plaza day so we stopped. I had sacahuil and cow tongue tacos…the tacos were much more delicious than the name implies…ha! Tincontlan was also smart in putting riverbed rock under the entire marketplace so it would not become a ‘lodizal’ or mess of mud. Even so I always manage to get my pants muddy…much to the chagrin of my dear wife.

      Today there were several hundred folks waiting to get paid through the Opportunidades program. This program started by the Fox administration, signs up Mexico’s very poorest and provides them with civic work such as picking up trash. The program is also designed to instill civic pride and instruct citizens how to keep their municipalities and rancherias from becoming ugly and eyesores. It also is linked to grants for students and the dispensing of some basic food items. I was impressed and although not much by American safety net standards, it is a start. Before Fox these folks were left to beg or steal with the subsequent social problems. None of the politicians cared…

      It had been many years since I was in Alamo and it has changed dramatically. It is now a commercial and trucking center and not the small town I remember. Progress. I had trouble finding Gabriel’s house and it is now a ‘colonia’ or neighborhood. In the old days I remember his dad raising fighting roosters for cock fights. Now like many parts of rural Mexico, it is becoming a suburb.

      I suppose I should not be judgmental but I cannot understand how a mother can abandon her young children. I suppose it happens in all cultures but it just does not make sense. Even single mothers that have to work come back to see their children whenever they can. Gabriel’s wife left their kids four years ago and has not been back since.

      The oldest boy looks just like him and we had a good talk. He asked me about California life and Disneyland and American culture. He will turn into a fine young man and I told him he could come to stay with us when he was old enough and his grandma gives him permission. He calls her mom.

      But kids are tough by design and Gabriel’s kids will make it fine without their birth mother and father. Sad, but a fact of life.

      He called me ‘tio’ or uncle before I left and I vowed this is one kid I would follow as he grew up. I kept thinking of all those adults that had an impact on me when I was a kid and hoped in some way my impact would be such a positive one.

      Time will tell as it does with everything as I search for the patterns of life in my Cien Anos de Soledad.

      Hopefully ‘el Norte’ will subside and we can take the boat to the island on Saturday.

Jack D. Deal

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I often get asked, even by Mexican Americans, what it feels like to be truly bicultural. I sometimes think about it and have to admit I don’t fully understand it myself. Culture is a strange thing and hard to understand especially when one is mono-cultural. To a great extent for me it just happened.

      It’s not that I am a split personality. It’s more like different sides of the same coin. My friend Dr. G says that through a strange combination of things I have been able to slip through the ‘hueco’ or opening of the two cultures and come out on the other side. That’s where I get my perspectives. Maybe he is right, I’m not sure.

      Coming back home to Veracruz has made me wonder about it again. As I walk down a street or go to market I feel as if I belong here. That sense of belonging and home is part of it. So is the language. People here are very surprised at my Spanish but after that, they speak to me as if I were a local. And treat me as though I am Mexican.

      But language is not culture although there can be a very clear relationship between the two. There are many Anglos that speak Spanish very well, yet know little of Mexican culture. I wish I could tell you what culture means in a paragraph or two, but I can’t. Maybe that’s another one you will have to figure out for yourself like I have to do…

      I do know I filter my experiences and behaviors through two very different perspectives. I also know I have a hard time expressing business and technical expressions in Spanish though I can often express my emotions much more accurately in Spanish. You figure it out. Maybe some linguist or culture guru out there has an answer. That’s why I would like to set up a language and culture research center here in Mexico…to get some answers to some very interesting though perplexing questions. As well as figure out why learning a new language is so difficult…

      In the U.S., I don’t go to bars. Maybe once every three or four years with an amigo. But Angelica complains I’m not in Tierra Blanca more than 15 minutes and I’m sneaking off to the cantina.   I tell her the culture makes me do it. 

      Here's another example. I dislike foul language in English. Maybe it’s because I’ve dealt with foul language for many years in a business context and see it as a business problem. I certainly don’t hang around English speakers that use profanity in their daily speech. The American in me sees it as redneck or even subclass.

      Yet when I’m around my Mexican male friends, I can let it go with the best of them. I don’t use it around women or children or the Jehovah’s Witnesses, ha! When I tell Angelica it is simply the vernacular and it's a cultural sort of thing, she frowns like the more lady-like Veracruzanas do when they hear bad words. She says my explaination is nothing more than an excuse. When I tell her many women here are also foul mouthed, she asks me what type of women are they, ones that work in the cantinas and bordellos?  And there I am left wondering  why is there this disparity in my two cultures yet I am one person...I think.   

      As an American, I have nothing against the Puerto Ricans. As a Mexican, I think Puerto Rican music, food and culture has little or no appeal. I certainly don’t like prejudice, but there I am. And after many years, I still don’t like salsa music, though it is certainly popular in California. I’ll take a good cumbia or huapango any day…but that’s me. I am from Veracruz.

      As an American, I feel sorry for the Cubans in Cuba. And I think the Cuban Americans are too right wing for the good of the U.S. -– it’s just not healthy. Yet as a Mexican, I not only think Fidel is an insult to all Latin Americans but the Cubans in Cuba are a stupid people. That is pretty strong but if you listen to them speak they seem intellectually like little kids. They can’t think and are unable to do much of anything for themselves thanks to Fidel and his ‘revolution’. All they can do is spout the party line. Stupid is as stupid does…why do I think this way as a Mexican but not a Gringo?

      As an American I feel insulted when someone asks me for a bribe or ‘mordida’. As a Mexican, I feel it is best to not fight the system unless you want to bring lots of problems upon yourself. Why?

      As an American, I feel that young men standing around all day doing nothing is a waste of human potential. As a Mexican, I see these same young men as being much happier than their American counterparts who are often depressed, stressed, in therapy and on Prozac.

      I like to think that I am able to combine the best of both cultures but both Angelica and I both know that is not the case. I know I cannot do it. One cannot pick and chose what part of a culture one accepts and if one does it that way, they are not truly bicultural. The good, bad and ugly are all a part of it whether we or our loved ones like it or not. Sometimes I don’t like it either…

      I don’t fight it and don’t think one culture superior to the other. They form two sides of my coin and I accept both for what they are. It’s not a matter of right or wrong, just as one language is not inherently more right than another.

      But something is going on and being back in Veracruz is causing me to wonder again.

      Maybe Dr. G is right and I was able to slip through the cracks that for one reason or another, others have not been able to do. Maybe it was my curiosity and wanting to see and feel it all…maybe. But that is only speculation on my part…

      Yet I’ve never considered it to be a ‘problem’. It has made my life richer and given me perspectives I could never have gotten in any other way. Many times I’ve been told by Mexicans I’m more Mexican than they are…and I know for a fact I love Mexico more than many Mexican Americans do. And probably many Mexicans too.

      But I clearly sence my perspectives are different. And because of the richness of those perspectives, I consider myself to be one lucky paisano.

Jack D. Deal

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 Even Angelica thought I was her brother’s friend. But it didn’t matter. It had already happened and my destiny was set. I ended up staying for six months in Tierra Blanca and it was no mystery why…

      I worked hard on my Spanish and each day it got a little better. I didn’t care if folks laughed at me and I tried my very best.

      One night I lay awake and heard the pigs get up several times. I couldn’t sleep and it wasn’t the pigs. The next day I drove my motorcycle to my friend’s house, the one that played in the band. I asked him what I should do.

      “You like her?” he asked.

      “Sure” I answered, “but what do I do about it?”

      “It’s pretty simple, amigo. I know her family. They are well respected by all that live in the region. A girl like that won’t last long and you might not ever find another like her as long as you live. If I were in love with such a senorita, I would go tell her right now because if you don’t, someone else will.”

      I got on my motorcycle and drove back to Tierra Blanca. I was nervous and my hands were sweating and I was going through all the pain and agony we men go through in this type of situation. She might not accept me but I wasn’t going to lose her to someone else because I was shy. At least I would find out.

      I asked her and the awkwardness went away when she told me she had fallen in love with me too. I don’t know how others do it but that’s how it happened to me. I’m certainly not an expert in these matters since it’s only happened to me once, ha!

      We had no money, nothing other than a motorcycle and I still needed to go back to Massachusetts to finish my last two years of college. But we did have a deep love and through a lot of hard work somehow managed to pull it off. But that’s another chapter for another day…

      Is that a real love story or what? I guess. Since it’s only happened once to me I don’t really have much of a perspective. But everyone says it is and wants me to write that book on it. Maybe some day…sitting here in Tierra Blanca my brain is flooded with memories of those days…and I suppose there are plenty enough memories to make a book.

      So there it is – the actual way it happened so I don’t have to keep telling it over and over.

       I like to tell the adventuresome story about my learning Spanish in the cantinas drinking tables of beer with the locals. That’s the adventuresome world traveler talking and I’m sure I did learn a lot of Spanish that way. I like to tell how drinking a lot of beer lowered my inhibitions and opened up the linguistic channels.

      But that’s not how it really happened. Most of my Spanish came after dinner sitting at the table in the dirt floor kitchen with Angelica, my mother-in-law and Angelica’s younger brother and sisters. Night after night we would talk and then go outside and sit under the starry night and talk some more. Those are very fond memories that will remain embedded in my brain until I die.

      So we became ‘novios’. And three months later we were married in an unofficial ceremony at the farm. And later officially in the United States. 

      And our love story continues…and maybe now I won’t have to keep retelling it.

Jack D. Deal

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I am going through what the Mexicans call ‘el cambio’ or change. The heat, humidity and food have gotten to me. I haven’t had the ‘turista’ or Montezuma’s revenge yet and may not…sometimes I don’t get it if my intestinal bacteria change slowly and not all at once. And a lot of the sanitation in Mexico has improved. But even so it’s not a bad diarrhea and fever, usually lasting less than a day. Nothing like the dysentery I got in Africa that had me bedridden for three days and lingered on for months. I went from 150 pounds to 120 pounds but it’s not the type of dieting I would recommend…ha.!

      It is estimated that about 300 men aged 18-60 from Tierra Blanca are now working in Atlanta. They go because there is no work in Tierra Blanca. After NAFTA, many agricultural jobs were lost and those are probably gone forever. In the rural southern tier of Mexico, away from the border, this is especially true. I was talking with Juan, a family friend that has a brother working in the Atlanta suburbs. In the morning the brother works at a landscaping company and in the afternoons and nights in a restaurant washing dishes. Those are just two of the industries whose entry level positions are almost entirely filled by Mexicanos…

      Many illegals tend to go through migrant networks comprised of family, friends and members of the same community. They watch after each other and help each other find places to live and work. In the Salinas Valley for instance, almost all the illegals are from Michocan, Jalisco, Sinaloa and Sonora. On many of the farms they all come from the same home town, like Tierra Blanca.

      The problem of illegal immigration is a complex one that has evolved because of the compromises over the years. It is true that there are criminals that cross illegally and that border communities are overwhelmed. But the solution is clearly not in building a 3,000 mile fence or in creating a complex bureaucratic permit system. The farmer in Watsonville cannot wait for work visas as his strawberries rot in the field. And the system of forcing folks to walk several hundred miles through the summer Arizona desert is clearly no solution either.

      I often get asked what the solution is and I can only answer there is no quick and easy one. It took 50 years to create this mess and anyone that thinks amnesty or fences are a quick fix is simply fooling themselves. Stop the illegals and Las Vegas will close its doors as we clearly saw in our stay there. Stop the illegals and the crops will rot in the California fields forcing food prices through the roof. Vegetables will become a luxury…

      What we need is a long term solution that will take a decade or two to carry out. A system that will provide constant change, albeit slow, that will correct the mistakes of past compromises and allow labor to get to the employers that need it. We cannot expect anything to be a quick fix.

      Mexico needs a fix too. Many of Mexico’s educated, ambitious and skilled are now creating assets and wealth in the U.S., not Mexico. Many will stay eventually having families, paying taxes and becoming productive contributors to the U.S. economy and not the Mexican economy. For many years I have maintained that the biggest loser with illegal immigration is Mexico. Not many of my fellow countrymen would agree…

      A neighbor near our house in Tierrra drowned crossing the river at Brownville. He left a wife and two young children behind. We Americans forget that each illegal leaves behind a family and loved ones that worry constantly about their safety crossing the river or walking through the desert. How would we feel if the situation were reversed?

      The wind has changed and the breeze is cool and not as stifling as last night. I’m feeling better now and perhaps am acclimating to the tropical heat and ‘el cambio’.

      Let’s hope the winds of illegal immigration change too…both countries deserve better. Much better.

Jack D. Deal

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In aspiring to the quest of a free and inquiring mind I often get exposed to the unexpected and sometimes exotic.   Such was my brush with Tepe.   I have a few Tepes on my jungle ranch and, like the jaguar and boa, felt it important to get to know my critters, responsible caretaker that I am and all that stuff.  The agrarian reform law and my fellow ejido members have legally put me and mi senora in charge of what is allowed and not allowed on our ranch.   With that freedom comes responsibility.    Unlike the jaguar I had no inherent fear of the Tepe though I would never try to catch a rat that size.  Believe me. 

I won't actually give you the "official" recipe for Tepe here; for that you will probably have to  find a Maya friend like my friend Poot though as you can see it doesn't require special sauces, seasonings or fancy cookware. After all it is a rat...and it's all in how it's cooked.   

My authority is Poot, a jungle man who goes out everyday into the jungle.  I really enjoy going into  the jungle with  Poot as there is a whole jungle world that is invisible to most of us.  Poot has taught me to respect, not fear, the jungle.   The only animal the Maya men truly fear is the jaguar...and that is why they will often carry a shotgun when going deep into the jungle. Odds are you won't find a real jungle man in Cancun or Playa because catching and cooking Tepe is a real skill and art that is quickly lost in the land of street tacos, supermercados and Oxxo convenience stores in Chetumal or Tulum.  No simple mousetrap for this monster.  Besides, to find real jungle people one has to actually go to the jungle...just like going after the Tepe.  Duh. 

Poot doesn't speak English nor I Maya but we both speak Spanish.  When I first introduced myself to Poot he said, "Deal -- that sure is a funny name".   I replied, " Poot -- that sure is a funny name".   We both laughed and became good friends.   On my first trip to the ranch he asked me if I had ever eaten Tepe.   I said no as I am from Veracruz and as far as I know we don't have Tepe there.   At least I've never seen one and believe me if I had seen one I would have remembered it.  Tepe is not the sort of thing one forgets...    

Poot promised that before I caught my flight from Cancun back to San Jose I would eat Tepe.  I didn't pay it much attention but on the afternoon two days before my departure he shouted outside our palapa that he had trapped one and to come on over.   From the first day we moved to our Maya jungle village palapa our neighbors have brought us food.  (Occasionally our neighbors in the Bay Area bring us food but none has ever brought rat.)  And since the wife is an excellent cook, Veracruz cuisine is world famous, she returns the favor.  I  like that.   There is something nice about  being social and there is something very social about food.   And neighbors sharing Tepe.   

An interesting thing about the Maya, or at least in our little village, is they only kill animals in self defense or to eat. My guess this has probably been passed down from generation to generation for eons and that's why my neighbors think that way.   Makes sense.      

The jungle is absolutely brutal and unrelenting hence the expression 'it's a jungle out there.'   That's why the Maya thrive there and soft first worlders like me don't.   Well, usually not.  Since the Maya are the poorest indigenous people in Mexico, they often hunt to eat.  I see them out on our ranch but I would never say anything if someone is hunting to eat.   I never have heard them brag about killing animals -- even when drinking with them in the cantinas where they will brag on just about anything else.    Those who feel the Maya children should go hungry and spare the critters are fools.   I love critters too and I will not hunt them but I will not judge a man who is feeding his children.   Consider the alternative which happens all too frequently...   

Obviously I'm not a sport hunter and not really even a hunter.   Somehow I never really got a thrill out of killing animals and I killed a fair number back when we lived on the ranch in Veracruz.   We raised oranges and I shot hundreds of small woodpeckers that would eat the oranges.  The wife would pluck the birds and fry them up...three or four making a very tasty meal.   I once shot a seven foot snake.   I have killed a number of large chicken hawks.   Never did kill any human chicken thieves or orange bandidos though.   And never saw a Tepe.  Nothing even close.   

So for my money, the Tepe is one giant rat.   Technically it's not a rat as we urban dwellers know it...but it looks like a rat and has feet and teeth like a rat.   It's like a rat except it can get up to 10 kilos or 25 pounds.   They are honkers.   They live near marshes or swamps giving totally new meaning to the words swamp rat.   

Poot makes a stone and stick trap at their den entrance and traps them.   Zero cost.  He'll even pull them out with his hands, something a non-jungle man like me would never consider.    He says he is always very careful as they can easily bite off a thumb.   He kills the Tepe with his machete. That is one big rat.   I will never have to remind myself to not stick my hand down in a Tepe hole.   My fingers are fine the way they are... 

He skinned the critter, cut it up, laid it on banana leaf stalks over very hot coals, placed a metal card table top over the fire and covered it all in dirt.   No seasonings whatsoever.   In a little over an hour we were eating Tepe, a cross between chicken and pork.   With tortillas and salsa... yummy!  Poot prefers Tepe to other  jungle animals.   He says the meat is tastier and more tender than tejon or wild pig.  Once or twice a month he gets the urge for Tepe and he sets his traps.   It might take him a day or two but he sooner or later gets his Tepe.  When he has money he eats chicken;  when he has no money he eats Tepe.  He never goes hungry though there are times when he only eats beans, tortillas and habanero peppers: the longevity diet.   Maybe that's why Mayan's hair doesn't turn so gray... 

Don't believe me?   Take a look at the blog photo album with the same title as this post.   Take a look at the teeth on that guy and tell me he's not one big rat.    

   

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