comment on video about Mexico City and Smog
mmm yes i read about that alot, and also i read soemwhere that about 10.000 people die every year in Mexico DF because of the pollution :( i hope in the future things will be better and there will be more like recycle, more public transportation and more green, more trees and more parks. i hope i wish
no se quien seas pero gracias por poner videos de mi lindo pueblo ya que hace mucho que no voy pero con tus videos me haces recordarlo,siguelo haciendo por favor
I don't know who you are but thank you for making videos of my lovely town (Felipe Carrillo Puerto) and it's been a long time since I've gone but your videos help me remember, keep making them please...
chuykhan has made a comment on Museum of the Maya Caste War, Museo de La Guerra de Castas, Tihosuco, QR, Mexico Video 1:
No one region has it all but several have many advantages. Generally speaking, I don't care much for touristy places like Cancun or Mazatlan although we have had good times in both.
For adventure, it's hard to beat the jungle in Quintana Roo. Also try Punta Allen and a village in the jungle called Kopchen.
In Chiapas, there is more than enough to keep you busy, entertained and fascinated in Ocosingo, deep in Chiapas. Also try Chiapa de Corzo and a boatride up the Sumidero Canyon.
A city like Vera Cruz has an amazing array of things to do...I could live there forever...for real Huasteca flavor, try the Wednesday market in Tepetzintla, Veracruz.
I like the area near Puerto Angel on the west coast and Isla de Los Lobos and Roca Quebrada on the Gulf Coast.
For sheer remoteness I highly recommend Batopilas, Chihuahua, for beauty and spectacular canyons. I like the Sonoran desert below Mexicali, the area just south from Puerto Vallarta and of course one of my favorite cities...Uruapan. Cool air and good food...
But my most favorite has to be the Eastern Sierras above Tamzunchale...green, pristine, lots of water, cool, Huapangos and quite possibly the best native food in the whole world...mole huasteca and zacahuil...yummm...also try the area between Huejutla and Tamzunchale...wonderful and still somewhat unspoiled...and no turistas...
The best places in Mexico are not visited by many tourists. Not even Germans.
Mexico is a great country with great people. By supporting Mexico, we support ourselves economically and help generate jobs in Mexico.
In recent years Mexicans have become much more pro-American and are more open to many changes that have been resisted in the past.
Mexico has more than oil and beaches and it's important for the U.S. to begin to recognize that fact. Not only are we business partners, we're cousins joined by heritage, race, language and culture.
An investment in Mexico is an investment in U.S. security. What's not to like about that?
Yes, especially staying a month or longer. I almost always drive in Mexico and it takes me several days to reaccustom myself to California roads. But driving is a different kind of 'shock'; the one I like is the whole enchilada.
We can get up before dawn at our ranch in rural Quintana Roo, Mexico and land in San Jose, California that same night. That's fun, especially if we have spent most of our time at the ranch. Our ranch is pristine, undeveloped and about as far away socially as one can get from Cancun...ha.
The culture shock I remember most was as a teenager after being down in Mexico for six months. That was a really strong effect as I acclimate very quickly to wherever we happen to be...
What happened was a Hurricane named Dean. Dean's eye hit just south of Majahual in August 2007. and it was devastating. When we were there in January 2008 it was astonishing to see the devastation...five months later much of the debris had yet to be removed.
The big issue is the wharf and the ecological and political rumors surrounding each. Whatever the case Majahual was changed forever losing some 6,000 jobs and millions of dollars in beachfront properties...both structural damage and beach erosion.
It's now been over a year and I'll post an update in January 2009.
Reply to: your anonymous craigslist address will appear here [?]
Date: 2008-11-03, 8:07AM CST
| the implication is that their live staff is unable to actually undestand what their company does, so best visit their website for real info |   |
| Have you recently heard someone tell you on the phone, "go to our website and it explains everything?" | |
| is it a question of who do you love or who do you trust? | |
| is the New York Times/ National Enquirer debate reason enough to eliminate the filtering middleperson? | |
| the National Enquirer; bastion of truth! The New York Times; all the news we choose to print. or not. | |
| the National Enquirer gets results whereas the productivity of the CIA is vague at best... | |
| It's obvious the CIA should contract themselves out to the National Enquirer who has more informers than anyone...period. | |
| No media cover up on the Edwards affair? Does this mean I should start to get my news from the National Enquirer? | |
| In San Jose at least the line between real and virtual is becoming thinner and thinner. | |
| In downtown San Jose, California it is not uncommon to see an outside business sign that is a website address. | |
| what makes this guy Ruben Navarette such an expert and why can't he back up his opinions? too subjective for scrutiny? | |
| Yao Ming for head of the United Nations! | |
| some like it hot, some like it cold; some like it in the pot nine days old... | |
| peas porridge hot, peas porridge cold; peas porridge in the pot nine days old... | |
| what is the point of adding up columns and rows of numbers? isn't that why the calculator was invented, to avoid having to do that stuff? | |
| ah to Twitter away the time...hey, it beats Sudoku... | |
| the comment has been made that the young female gymnasts do not look like young females...some look like lab designs...CAD perhaps? | |
| every four years we watch swimming and wonder why...NASCAR anyone? | |
| Yao Ming for NBA Commissioner! | |
| don't worry if your candidate loses because there will essentially be no difference no matter who is elected...it's the nature of gridlock |
 | |
We hadn't heard anything about our house and jungle ranch after Hurricane Dean. We knew that trees would be down but we didn't know if the two palapa houses were standing or not. But we did know there had been no serious injuries or deaths.
We also suspected the roofs would be gone as well as the roof on the sheep building. The wife even wrote a letter but since there is no mail service, it was returned. We weren't overly concerned because we had left our Maya pal Poot in charge and Poot was a jungle man. If the roof was off, he could fix it. On the ranch we had plenty of wood and 'guano' or palm branches for the thatched roof.
Poot didn't know we were coming so there was no special preparation on his part. As we drove into our village and out to the house, we couldn't believe it. The roof on the back hut was gone but the roof on the large hut was fixed. Outside everything was clean and we could see that flowers had been planted and it looked very nice.
In the coming days it became clear that Poot had packed up all our things and stored them for the hurricane. Nothing was missing. Not a hat, spoon or pot. Even the used bars of soap and half filled bottles of shampoo were still there. No matter where I am I will use whatever soap and shampoo I find in the bathroom...so it was surprising he had not.
The Maya have a saying that little tests can be done to determine one's character. Poot had certainly passed his test. Later we found out that some of our not so honest neighbors had wanted to cut our wood and guano 'since the Gringo would not miss them.' Poot had refused. Not only was there enough material to fix our roofs but also enough to fix our fences and sheep corral.
When we finally got out to the ranch we saw how trees were blocking the road. No big deal since we had no animals and in fact the downed trees would prevent anyone from coming in and stealing our wood; our ranch having hundreds of high value hardwoods. We only lost three tin sections of roof that were fairly easy to fix at a minimal cost.
There was some fence damage but nothing Poot couldn't fix in a week or so. But that wasn't our only problem. The jungle is relentless and in the six months since he had cleaned around the well and corral it had grown at better than a foot a month. We needed a longer term solution. If we didn't do something long term, the jungle would take over like it always does.
In the ensuing conversations with Poot he told me he was tired of finding outside work and trying to squeak by growing tomatoes and chili peppers. He didn't want to work in Cancun or Playa del Carmen since he had to take care of his sister and elderly father. He wanted to start raising sheep on his piece of land but just didn't have the capital. Ah, a perfect match.
I know nothing of sheep other than that was what our ranch was built for. Poot suggested that we allow him to raise a few starter sheep on our lot in town and as the flock grew move them out to our ranch. Poot would move out to the ranch to live; being a jungle man, he has no fear of big snakes or our resident jaguar.
So there it was. Poot had passed the first tests of honesty and we were now getting ready to become business partners. So far, so good.
And some day I imagine we will have several hundred sheep and Poot will as well. He will live out on the ranch and run it and administer it. Together we both will prosper because of his honesty.
But even then I doubt he will use our soap or shampoo.
In Quintana Roo and the Yucatan peninsula in Mexico huts are commonly known as palapas and there are even hotels that advertise beach palapas to Gringos and Germans. Go figure. Some turistas prefer going native. So do many of the natives.
The whole concept of the palapa developed because the Maya of old would farm one area of the jungle for several years and then move to another area. Everything was renewable. The trees they cut for palapas would over a 20-30 year period grow back and the Maya would not go back into an area for that period of time so the jungle could actually rejuvenate.
It all worked well since a palapa could be built in a week or two. And jungle men like my friend Poot could build one using just one tool; his machete. But things changed. With population increases land was privatized or more commonly turned into 'ejidos' or communal farms. We live on one and so do many Maya.
In one of our huts there is no roof. Hurricane Dean took care of that. It wasn't thatched but we are converting. We'll have to go out to the ranch and cut some guano or palm fronds for the thatches; fortunately the wooden frame is intact so we don't have to replace that. On the ranch we have an older palapa and amazingly nothing happened to it; one hundred mile per hour winds could not knock it down.
A hurricane will blow the roof off a well constructed house since the hurricane winds form a vacuum inside the house and the roof is literally lifted off. Not so with palapas. In a bad hurricane the roof will lift up until the outside and inside pressures equalize, something more modern style constructions cannot do. Because of its natural construction the palapa will bend but not break.
The palapa roof is also cooler than conventional roofs. What is strange is to see a modern hotel with a thatched roof; it's not just the 'look and feel' for tourists. It's cooler and air conditioning costs in Mexico can be very expensive. Obviously a palapa cannot be air conditioned because it has no insulation.
The downside to the thatched roof is critters like rats and scorpions love to make their nests in the thatches. Last night we heard a rat and sure enough in the morning it had raided our food.
Another downside to a thatched roof is that it burns easily so smart palapa builders put their kitchen outside and away from the hut. Since most rural Maya still burn wood, the sparks can easily ignite a dry, thatched roof.
The palapa walls can be made of sticks or planks of wood. Our main palapa has walls made of caoba wood; a precious wood like teak or mahogany. It may be a hut but it's got some very upscale walls. Many of the poorest Maya simply put up stick walls with gaps in between meaning that one can actually see inside the hut. Great for letting breeze in during the steamy summers as well as allowing hurricane winds to pass through. Not so great for nosey neighbors.
Snakes like palapas too. Our lot in the Maya village has a large venomous four- nosed snake and hopefully one day he doesn't get tired of his limestone hole in our back yard and decide to join us in our palapa. Sometimes snakes do that when rain floods them out. Such are the risks of palapa life.
The roof and frame sit on top of posts dug in the ground. But these aren't ordinary posts. We use zapote tree hearts for this. A zapote tree can fall down in the jungle and the heart of the tree not rot for 10 years. Sturdy and durable is an understatement; just don't figure you can easily put a nail in it because it simply is too hard. Palapa doors and windows can be made of an assortment of wooden planks; some more modern Maya put screens up to keep out the bugs.
Today's modern palapas have simple cement floors. In the old days the Maya would build a floor out of limestone rock and then crush more limestone and put it on top to form a smooth surface. After several months of walking on it the floor would become smooth and as hard as rock.
In our Maya village almost everyone has a palapa although the more successful farmers are now building their cinderblock and cement houses. Not me. Those cinderblock houses get too hot. How hot is hot? How about a hundred degrees Fahrenheit with one hundred per cent humidity. A veritable rainforest sauna; sweating like a pig in the pouring rain. Unrelenting.
The brutal sun, wind and pounding rain cause cement and plaster walls to crack even with steel rebar reinforcement. I prefer a genuine real palapa. True, when we build our new ranch palapa in the jungle we will use nails and wire and bolts to hold the roof down. During a hurricane nails and wire hold the palapa together better.
But for all the modern day improvements such as wire and nails the palapa design remains the same has it has for centuries. My neighbors wonder why we don't build a cinderblock house and I can't really explain it other than to say I feel more at home in my jungle palapa. Crazy Gringo.
When in Rome do as the Romans and when in the Zona Maya do as the Maya. Good advice that makes sense. Besides, no one can every accuse us of being arrogant or presumptuous as long as we live in a Maya palapa, even if the walls are made of some very chic caoba wood.
Or is it Argentine? At the first International Dance Championship in Buenos Aires, Argentinean judge and newspaper reporter Jorge Lafauci was recorded as saying that the "Mexicans are the ugliest; the only good looking Mexicans are on TV".
Now we all know from our history and our current events that Argentineans are a squirrelly bunch. Maybe it's the water, maybe it's the air, maybe it's because Argentina is located so far away from anything that isolation contributes to the national state which is best characterized as 'stupidly depressed.' Or at times, 'depressingly stupid.'
Look at their national heroes, the most famous being ex-soccer star Diego Armando Maradona. Now there is certainly a persona all the Argentinean youth can look up to. Diego has recently taken up politics and since he has already made his cash is now extolling the virtues of Fidel Castro in Cuba and Hugo Chavez in Venezuela. Diego is no dummy. One day he will be telling the world how great and democratic Castro's Cuba is and the next he's entering a Cuban rehab center to dry out from his cocaine habit.
And then there are the Kirchners, the lovely couple that are jealous of the USA like Maradona and all the other Argentineans are. Like the intellectual Maradona, President Mr. Kirchner likes to rub elbows with all the revolutionaries like Hugo Chavez and Evo Morales. Being the astute politico that he is, Kirchner loves to blast the imperialist USA whenever he gets the chance.
Kirchner seems to have forgotten that not too many years back the World Bank and those Ugly Americans bailed out Argentina from monetary collapse. Were it not for the World Bank, Maradona would even have trouble paying for his Cuban rehab. Well, guess what amigos, looks like it could have been so much fun that Argentina may be headed down another path to doom as inflation has recently reared its head.
Besides, the Argentines don't seem particularly bothered by it all. It's business as usual. Since Argentina doesn't really make anything except T-bones they don't have much to lose by setting up another bail out. And for you that knew that Kirchner's term is up and there could be a chance for the enlightened Argentinean electorate to make amends, well, they have. True to their collective wisdom, they elected the Mrs. Kirchner as President Mrs. Now there is a society that knows what's happening. Remind you of someone?
Ha! This tradition was started by the Perons. Juan died and his lovely wife Eva became presidente, as in the Broadway play 'Evita'. The Perons are national heroes which sets the tone since both sold out the country and were about as inept as national heroes come.
The Argentineans blame their problems on their hot Latin anger and the U.S.; they are known worldwide for their famous temper tantrums. However, the problem is not one of anger management but one of lack of mental horsepower. Take the Falkland War with Britain, for instance. All the Argentines got mad and considered the Falklands theirs and decided to declare war, kick some Brit butt and take it back. The result was they got wiped and had to broker a truce thus proving my point. One normally doesn't start a war with a bigger foe that can run over you. Che knew that and had enough sense to hide in the jungles. Wasn't Che Argentine?
And just think of the contributions Argentinean culture has made to the world. The tango, steaks and gauchos. And, and, and...
What else? We Mexicans have mariachis, novela soap operas, tequila, tacos, chiles rellenos and Diego and Frieda Rivera not to be confused with the Diego Buffoon Maradona. The Argentineans have funny dressed cowboys singing goofy old cowboy songs as they grill a couple of Rib-eyes. Doesn't get any better than that, no? What a cultural legacy!
Ever hear any Gringos say 'we're going to Buenos Aires for the holidays!' That's why you see so many Argentineans in Cancun; they secretly want to be Gringos. The Argentines are angry because the Mexicans are so close to the Promised Land. Argentina seems so far away. It seems that way because it is.
But that's their national character. You know them well. They will badmouth you and your kin and then ask for a loan. Well, next time the bottom falls out of their economy let Hugo and Fidel bail them out. It has to be public sector because the private sector knows that that the terms Argentina and well managed finances are mutually exclusive.
And let's face it. If all the Argentines have is their good looks then even that is at risk as their gene pool is diluted. The Kirchners aren't so pretty and Maradona is downright ugly, before, during and even after rehab.
But hey, it's all in good fun. Obviously this kind of TV dance programming is very important to the future of Argentina. If the Argentineans discover they too can dance, it will do wonders for their deflated national esteem. Maybe it will even lower their anger threshhold as it's harder to get angry when dancing.
But we Mexicans know how to get even. The national Argentina soccer team name has been replaced by Los Feos. Forever more. We uglies know how to cope and we know that I'm rubber and you're glue and what bounces off me will stick on you.
Despite the rantings of Mardona and the Kirchners, Argentina will survive. We will all bury the hatchet and become hermanos and hermanas once again. Just because we are publicly told we are ugly doesn't mean we will stoop to childish, vindictive vendettas.
But seriously, besides the tango, steaks, gauchos and mediocre soccer, what else?
Or is it Argentine? At the first International Dance Championship in Buenos Aires, Argentinean judge and newspaper reporter Jorge Lafauci was recorded as saying that the "Mexicans are the ugliest; the only good looking Mexicans are on TV".
Now we all know from our history and our current events that Argentineans are a squirrelly bunch. Maybe it's the water, maybe it's the air, maybe it's because Argentina is located so far away from anything that isolation contributes to the national state which is best characterized as 'stupidly depressed.' Or at times, 'depressingly stupid.'
Look at their national heroes, the most famous being ex-soccer star Diego Armando Maradona. Now there is certainly a persona all the Argentinean youth can look up to. Diego has recently taken up politics and since he has already made his cash is now extolling the virtues of Fidel Castro in Cuba and Hugo Chavez in Venezuela. Diego is no dummy. One day he will be telling the world how great and democratic Castro's Cuba is and the next he's entering a Cuban rehab center to dry out from his cocaine habit.
And then there are the Kirchners, the lovely couple that are jealous of the USA like Maradona and all the other Argentineans are. Like the intellectual Maradona, President Mr. Kirchner likes to rub elbows with all the revolutionaries like Hugo Chavez and Evo Morales. Being the astute politico that he is, Kirchner loves to blast the imperialist USA whenever he gets the chance.
Kirchner seems to have forgotten that not too many years back the World Bank and those Ugly Americans bailed out Argentina from monetary collapse. Were it not for the World Bank, Maradona would even have trouble paying for his Cuban rehab. Well, guess what amigos, looks like it could have been so much fun that Argentina may be headed down another path to doom as inflation has recently reared its head.
Besides, the Argentines don't seem particularly bothered by it all. It's business as usual. Since Argentina doesn't really make anything except T-bones they don't have much to lose by setting up another bail out. And for you that knew that Kirchner's term is up and there could be a chance for the enlightened Argentinean electorate to make amends, well, they have. True to their collective wisdom, they elected the Mrs. Kirchner as President Mrs. Now there is a society that knows what's happening. Remind you of someone?
Ha! This tradition was started by the Perons. Juan died and his lovely wife Eva became presidente, as in the Broadway play 'Evita'. The Perons are national heroes which sets the tone since both sold out the country and were about as inept as national heroes come.
The Argentineans blame their problems on their hot Latin anger and the U.S.; they are known worldwide for their famous temper tantrums. However, the problem is not one of anger management but one of lack of mental horsepower. Take the Falkland War with Britain, for instance. All the Argentines got mad and considered the Falklands theirs and decided to declare war, kick some Brit butt and take it back. The result was they got wiped and had to broker a truce thus proving my point. One normally doesn't start a war with a bigger foe that can run over you. Che knew that and had enough sense to hide in the jungles. Wasn't Che Argentine?
And just think of the contributions Argentinean culture has made to the world. The tango, steaks and gauchos. And, and, and...
What else? We Mexicans have mariachis, novela soap operas, tequila, tacos, chiles rellenos and Diego and Frieda Rivera not to be confused with the Diego Buffoon Maradona. The Argentineans have funny dressed cowboys singing goofy old cowboy songs as they grill a couple of Rib-eyes. Doesn't get any better than that, no? What a cultural legacy!
Ever hear any Gringos say 'we're going to Buenos Aires for the holidays!' That's why you see so many Argentineans in Cancun; they secretly want to be Gringos. The Argentines are angry because the Mexicans are so close to the Promised Land. Argentina seems so far away. It seems that way because it is.
But that's their national character. You know them well. They will badmouth you and your kin and then ask for a loan. Well, next time the bottom falls out of their economy let Hugo and Fidel bail them out. It has to be public sector because the private sector knows that that the terms Argentina and well managed finances are mutually exclusive.
And let's face it. If all the Argentines have is their good looks then even that is at risk as their gene pool is diluted. The Kirchners aren't so pretty and Maradona is downright ugly, before, during and even after rehab.
But hey, it's all in good fun. Obviously this kind of TV dance programming is very important to the future of Argentina. If the Argentineans discover they too can dance, it will do wonders for their deflated national esteem. Maybe it will even lower their anger threshhold as it's harder to get angry when dancing.
But we Mexicans know how to get even. The national Argentina soccer team name has been replaced by Los Feos. Forever more. We uglies know how to cope and we know that I'm rubber and you're glue and what bounces off me will stick on you.
Despite the rantings of Mardona and the Kirchners, Argentina will survive. We will all bury the hatchet and become hermanos and hermanas once again. Just because we are publicly told we are ugly doesn't mean we will stoop to childish, vindictive vendettas.
But seriously, besides the tango, steaks, gauchos and mediocre soccer, what else?
Los mexicanos aman a los Estados Unidos. El típico mexicano tiene una opinión muy favorable de los EE.UU. La mayoría de los mexicanos tienen familia o amistades viviendo en los EE.UU. Wal-Mart y Burger King son aceptados sin reservaciones. Aparte de la polémica política, México puede ser el país más pro-EE.UU. en el mundo. Hasta la palabra Gringo ha perdido mucha de su connotación negativa.
Los mexicanos se consideran la gente más feliz del mundo. Sin embargo, cuando emigran a los EE.UU. empiezan a ser neuróticos como los demás. La respuesta fácil es que los mexicanos tienen una red fuerte de familia y amistades. Tal vez, si nosotros los gringos aprendiéramos de ellos, seríamos más felices.
Los mexicanos compran de nosotros. México ha llegado a ser el país numero dos en comercio con los EE.UU. Un mexicano me dijo que los mexicanos han adoptado el sueño americano, y aunque no puedan vivir in los EE.UU., pueden comprar un poco de ese sueño en Costco o McDonalds. El tráfico de tráileres en Tijuana, Mexicali, Cd. Juárez, Nuevo Laredo, y Reynosa es increíble. San Diego, Caléxico, El Paso, Laredo y McCallen prosperan de ese comercio con México.
México está cambiando rápidamente. En mi viaje reciente de tres meses, no me molestó ningún oficial del gobierno; local, estatal o nacional. Todos fueron amistosos, serviciales e interesados por mi seguridad. Económicamente, una clase media mexicana está creciendo rápidamente y sus opiniones pro-capitalista, pro-EE.UU., y pro-democrática son cada día más comunes. La corrupción está decayendo, y el comercio va aumentando.
La política mexicana es un rompecabezas. La mayoría de los mexicanos, igual como los americanos, tienen dudas sobre su gobierno y los políticos. Con tres partidos con más o menos igual influencia, la política mexicana es como un juego en vez de un proceso político. La mayoría de los mexicanos ven a su gobierno como un obstáculo que necesita una reforma, y son impacientes con el lento progreso. Los mexicanos ven cada día más sus propios políticos como una fuerza aún más negativa que los yanquis al norte, quienes cada día más son vistos de manera positiva.
México es una nación profundamente capitalista con unos 25 millones de gente trabajando en el comercio informal. El típico mexicano trabaja de lunes a sábado. Los que trabajan por su propia cuenta trabajan los siete días de la semana. Algunos mexicanos se sienten insultados por Fidel y Hugo, y creen que Marcos es una broma. El típico mexicano es probablemente más capitalista que el típico americano.
Los mexicanos piensan que México es más que un solo país. México es un país de extremos. La división más común es el norte y el sur. Ciudades como Culiacán y Monterrey se parecen más a ciudades Tejanas que a ciudades del México antiguo. La agricultura de Sonora y Sinaloa se parecen más a la de California, que a las milpas de un país en villa de desarrollo. Muchas compañías Americanas de fabricación, distribución, agricultura y transportación ahora están en el norte de México. Holiday Inn, KFC y Sears también están allí.
Muchos mexicanos tienen familia en los EE.UU. Muchos mexicanos ahora tienen familia viviendo y trabajando en los EE.UU. La familia no solamente manda dinero a México, sino también llevan consigo la cultura y valores de los EE.UU. cuando regresan a México. El efecto neto de todo este intercambio positivo es que los dos países están acercándose más y más a un nivel familiar, amistoso y personal.
México tiene un problema de fuga de cerebros y trabajadores capacitados. Muchos de los ciudadanos mexicanos más inteligentes y trabajadores capacitados ya están trabajando en los EE.UU. Muchos mexicanos piensan que la inmigración ilegal a los EE.UU. es una pérdida para México y probablemente así lo es. Estos trabajadores capacitados están creando riqueza y bienes para los EE.UU., no para México.
México tiene un problema de inmigración ilegal en su frontera sureña. Trabajadores de países de Centro y Sur América ven a México como un país de oportunidad. Están buscando trabajo y una manera de mejorar sus vidas, igual como muchos mexicanos lo intentan hacer en los EE.UU.
El inglés está invadiendo a México. En Monterrey, Nuevo León, muchos restaurantes tienen sus menús en inglés y español. En Vera Cruz, es la moda hablar con amigos y colegas con palabras y frases en inglés; es muy parecido al francés a medias del siglo XX en los EE.UU. Los padres y estudiantes están apurados por aprender el inglés, y se enseñará en el primer año de la primaria en el 2007.
Viajar a México no requiere una visa para los americanos. En las zonas fronterizas, no se necesita un permiso para personas ni vehículos. Viajar por México es cómodo; no se consideran a los turistas como enemigos.
México ha puesto un énfasis en la ecología, el ambiente y el turismo ecológico. Aparte de los problemas ecológicos de la Ciudad de México, México ha hecho importantes avances en los asuntos ecológicos y ambientales. Muchos lugares más preservados en América del Norte son administrados por programas nacionales y estatales mexicanos. En un viaje reciente, visité el Cañón del Sumidero, la Isla Cabo Rojo y el Desierto de Sonora. Si usted ama la naturaleza, debe visitar a México.
La potencial mexicana no tiene límite. La gente es el recurso más grande de México. La ingenuidad, la inteligencia, las ganas de trabajar y superar del típico mexicano no tienen límite. Probablemente México tiene más potencia económica y humana que cualquier país en Latinoamérica.
Jack D. Deal
I catch Zapatista Marcos on TV and he’s saying something to the effect that Mexico needs to rewrite its Constitution – the video was taken on Mexican Constitution Day. He is also denouncing Spanish and French business interests in Oaxaca…but says nothing about the Cuban diplomats staying at the Sheraton. Accept for the mask and pipe, he looks and talks just like a political candidate…
The Maya believed there were four epochs or seasons of the sun. The Maya at Tonina they believed they were in the fourth and last season – a self-fulfilling prophecy? The Zapatistas appear to be in their last season as well. Of course one has to remember these same Tonina Maya just outside of Ocosingo self-defaced their skulls to resemble corn and beans…there has to be some sort of metaphor there…I think. Metaphorically the Zaps appear to be doing the same…
On the way to the great ruins at Tonina, about 15 kilometers outside Ocosingo, there is a Zapatista ejido with the usual declarative sign at the entrance. Across the road is a rather large military complex with family housing. The soldiers wave and shout ‘buen viaje’ to us; there is no one to be seen at the Zapatista ejido.
I stop at a store and fifteen minutes later am interviewing an ex-Zapatista soldier.
Only Marcos and some of the other leaders have come out ahead, he says, not the poor people. The only hope for us poor people is to work. And we are tired of dying…they want us to invade property and such and we end up dying, not the leaders. In the beginning I was proud to be a Zapatista, but now I’m not. I don’t even tell people any more in Ocosingo because they look down on you if you are a Zapatista – sort of like you are stupid as well as Indian. The support for the Zapatistas is declining because they get no results, he continues, they threaten to invade Ococingo again but no one pays them any attention anymore.
I drive down the road a bit further and stop to speak with a restaurant owner.
The Zapatistas don’t work, she says, all they want is to take what others have worked for. You think it is poor in the Zapatista towns around here? she laughs, go southeast down the road to the jungles there…it’s much worse. The people beg when you go there…they don’t work. They are expecting to be given something and the Zapatistas have given them nothing.
So much for the Revolution.
In the distance we can see the Tonina ruins and they are impressive. Tonina was dug into a hill and it is a large series of steps – some 230 – running up a pyramid. The Maya here were some of the last to survive and some of the latest dated stella are found here. We climb the steps and look across the countryside…say what you will, they always picked great spots. Unlike Palenque, there is almost no one here…just a few Germans and some Mexican teens.
Angelica finds some wild tomatoes, chiles and squash growing on the ruins…it must be a metaphor I remark. About halfway up we can see some glyphs depicting decapitations…they were big on that. They would capture prisoners from other Maya areas and ritually decapitate them; something we have seen the terrorists do on modern day TV. But it certainly was a beautiful spot to lose one’s head…ha!
We stop for a beer at a small restaurant on the way back to town. A merchant is sitting near us talking on his cell phone and going over his accounts. After he’s through, we strike up a conversation.
Politically we are in a mess, he says, we have three parties and I don’t like any of them…I’m thinking of voting for one of the other parties…not sure which one. Your country has it much better with just two parties…that way it is harder for them to cut deals with other parties…these deals they cut are just another way for corruption to set in. Corruption wouldn’t be so bad if we could all get a piece of it, laughs.
Humor abounds amidst the tragedies of life.
What about the Zapatistas? I ask.
Everything is calm now and they have gone back into the jungle, he replies, the only news we get of them is when they are on TV or in the paper. By and large the people of Ocosingo have forgotten about them…no one believes what they say anyway.
As we drive back into town we can see the women picking up their drying coffee beans as night falls. Some of the dresses are very colorful and beautiful. The children are playing soccer with balls and plastic bottles or whatever else they have. They laugh and neighbors chat with each other.
All my thoughts are swirling around in my head…the associations are running amuck. The Zapatistas, the Maya, fair trade coffee, political candidates, teens on the Internet…I wonder how any of it can ever make sense.
One thing that is obvious is that solutions cannot be imposed from the outside…the Zaps, the politicos and the Maya are evidence of that. I keep wondering how a people can pick themselves up from poverty and determine their own destiny and I keep going back to simple learning model.
First, there has to be a constant infusion of ideas, concepts and new thought. This is aided by basic formal education; reading, writing and math. Without these means of communication, little is learned.
Second, an effective cognitive behavorial social model must be put in place. If a people lack self-esteem and common sense there can be little independence. This collective cognition develops into a collective emotion that folks can own and call their own with pride.
Finally, when ideas and information can be freely accessed, folks can take an active roll in their futures and destinies. They then can develop their own capabilities and make their own informed decisions and not be at the mercy of tyrants, ideologies or crazed myths.
When it all comes together they can create their own attitudes and perceptions and create a society that has the capability of lifting itself out of poverty and ignorance through creativity and innovation.
There you have it amigos, the solution and recipe to solving all of the world’s problems. Maybe your problems too…
It’s 3:00 AM and hopefully the Zapatistas won’t invade here until we leave in the morning. I don’t think that will happen as Marcos is on tour denouncing all those nasty French and Spanish out there…and at least for now I’m tired of working too, ha!
Jack D. Deal
We pull into the already crammed parking lot and are besieged by vendors…tours, souvenirs and whatever else the tourists will buy. Some can be very pesky but I just keep shaking my head…they have to earn a living somehow and one has to respect that…but it still is a pain. I have never liked tours since my old travel days in Europe when I would see the package tour hordes look miserable as they are herded from one sight to the next… besides, I learned a little trick. If you are really curious at a particular site, just wait until the next tour group comes buy and you can get the info for free. It’s cheaper and one doesn’t have to be forced to listen to it all…
Palenque ruins are situated on a flat spot up the side of the mountain…certainly the old Maya picked the best spots. Oddly, it reminded me of the Civil War battle sites in the U.S. South. It’s a whole city with only part of it actually open and excavated; most of it is still buried under the jungle. What is cleared and above ground is impressive and well preserved…
Essentially it is a series of tombs like the Egyptian pyramids. Of course like in Egypt only the Kings got the royal treatment. And like in Egypt, it appears to have been built by slave labor. From what I can tell, anyone that wasn’t a king was a slave – not much of middle class in those days. And not many volunteers…a strategy the Jesuits used when they took over. Angelica is disappointed the rocket king tomb is closed for repair but we look at pictures and like UFO’s; one really has to use the imagination to see this Maya king on a rocket. That’s what the tourists like so that’s what they are fed…ha!
German is spoken here and they have all sorts of guidebooks and even thick archaelogy books that they study. We Gringos just shoot a few pictures and move on to the next tomb. I ask one German lady where did the common people get buried and she looked surprised at my question. She answered she thought everyone was buried above ground but she didn’t know. I know not everyone got a temple as a final resting place and I don’t have a guide book. Hello? She started flipping through her guide book for answers. Typically Gringo, I move on to the next tomb. Angelica and I get into a deep discussion as to how long bones will last buried in the jungle soil – she says 20 years and I say 100. It doesn’t really matter because on the relative time scale it’s just a blink of the eye…
Death and remains were considered paramount back then while today we are more practical and cremation is a more sensible way to do things. Such is the progress of the human race…it is an odd thought for a Super Sunday or even a Constitution Day weekend. It’s our funny brains and how they work and associate things that are unrelated and even things that are…we all must go sometime but I actually prefer to have my old bones burned than have a temple built in their honor…maybe it’s the Zen master I’ve evolved to…ha!
I also wonder what has happened to the Maya culture in the 1200 years or so since the Maya have lived here…and why when we foreigners think of Maya we think of rocket kings and ruins and not the folks that are actually alive today…sort of odd and probably a non-politically correct question What has happened in the past 1200 years? The stuff the Maya vendors are trying to sell me today was designed a thousand plus years ago…
It’s also very clear from here in Palenque there was essentially no outside influence and that might have been a part of it…Europeans and Arabs and even the Chinese eventually were exposed to new ideas, concepts and peoples. As far as I can tell, there is no evidence at all that the ancient Maya came into contact with anyone…except maybe the aliens with the rockets…ha! But even there, there is no real evidence…just some hoaky interpretations of some hieroglyphics…
Already I’ve seen enough tombs and Germans and we take a side trip through a path into the jungle. I ask Angelica what is more spectacular – the ruins or the jungle? We both agree that at least on this Super Sunday the jungle is more spectacular. I shoot some pictures of the jungle and pose for more pictures in front of some fallen rock ruins for the friends back home…we Gringos can’t allow the Germans to discover everything, no?
I’m sitting there contemplating the rocket king near a stream when two young Maya boys walk out of the jungle. They startle me but I quickly compose myself…we adventuresome archaelolgy types are used to the unexpected, ha! I watch as they take out what appears to be masa or corn dough, fill a plastic bowl with water, mix it and drink it.
What are you drinking? I ask.
Pozol, the older one answers. It can’t be very nutritious and I wonder if it is something they eat every meal.
Where do you come from? I ask.
Ejido Naranjo answers, the younger boy, it’s about an hour and a half walk through the jungle – up over the mountain.
I let them eat before asking more questions.
Why do you walk so far? I ask.
To sell you our goods, laughs the older boy. He opens a small backpack and brings out a some trinket necklaces.
Cheap for you today, says the younger boy, my name is Roberto and this is my cousin Carlos. They say something to each other in Maya. Their Spanish is broken and they speak in a sing-song rhythm.
We give you two of these for just 10 pesos, says Carlos.
What are you speaking among yourselves, I ask.
Selum, answers Carlos, it’s a dialect.
I wouldn’t know but my guess is it has to be a different form of Maya, at least from those that live in Valladolid or Felipe Carrillo Puerto.
I’ll buy two necklaces from each of you if you let me take a picture, I say, what do you think?
Okay, amigo, that will be fine with us says Roberto. Angelica picks out the necklaces and I shoot the pictures.
What do you think of the Zapatistas? she asks. Good question I think.
Buenos – good, answers Roberto.
Malos -- bad, answers Carlos.
Well there we have, the first official Zapatista survey results we have – 50% for and 50% against. Sounds like the Demos and Repubs back home…but the boys are so young it has to be a reflection of their family opinions. I had read where there is a lot of Zapatista infighting and two communities right next to each other will differ in their support. I wonder why there is not almost unanimous support…
We say goodbye and head back to the dead kings temples. The crowds are getting thicker and I hear more German. The sun is beating down harder though the temperature is ideal. We visit a few more temples and then head out in back of one to take a jungle rest. The trees and the green are truly spectacular and I shoot pictures.
Then Angelica grabs my arm and points up into the trees and whispers. I think she is just pointing out another one of her exotic flowers but I hear a cracking sound and see a dark figure high in the trees. It’s a monkey…the first wild one I have ever seen. Soon another appears and we can count seven in all…I have to admit the monkeys are more exciting than the flowers. I shoot some pictures but am not able to get too close for shots but back in CA might be able to enchance some close-ups…
I am amazed at their agility and even though they break branches, they do not fall. Monkeys evolved to agility and we humans to our funny brains – such are our respective destinies. They are eating some sort of fruit high up in the trees – fruits we humans could not even climb too. I can hear them dropping the leftovers down on the ground. I look down on the ground and realize there is very little food for them…
One of them is large and he must be the daddy or whatever he is called. They move on but for a good ten minutes we watch in awe…none of them approach us and stick out their hands for peanuts. I wish I had their agility but I’m not sure they wish they had my funny brain…
By mid-afternoon we are templed, jungled and Germaned out. I had no mystical experiences nor any real insights into the rocket king. And probably have more questions than answers which has been a constant theme for the trip.
The ancient Maya were impressive but modern day nature even more so.
It’s highway time again…
Jack D. Deal
Bacalar doesn't have a bank yet but it does have an ATM. What is nice is that the tourist area along the beach is filled with tourists but the town remains pretty much a Mexican town. I like the combination but have to wonder how long it will stay that way. We go to eat at the Orizaba restaurant and I see signs of land for sale…so this area may be next. It won’t be long before the airport at Chetumal becomes as built up like Can Cun.
I can hear the busses and diesels from the highway and remember seeing all the beer trucks headed for Playa del Carmen and Can Cun. The government is building more roads along the coast and they are the best we have seen on the trip.
One can never be satisified in the land grab rush. If you get in early, your property value goes up and that’s a plus. But then as the area around you becomes developed, the very reasons you came in the first place go away. Why can’t folks just accept that and not keep looking for the perfect spot?
Bacalar is as pretty a spot as we have seen on the trip…and Angelica is wanting to stay. She likes swimming and the fresh water and there are very few bugs here…at least in the winter. But this area is changing too and my guess is in 10 years there will be five story hotels lining the shoreline. But hurry, the Germans and Italians and Gringos are coming.
It will change because there is no perfect place. There are places that are nearly perfect, like Bacalar, but it is an illusion as well. We felt the beach below Akumal at Solomon’s Point was perfect; but the second day when the wind howled and the sand blew, things seemed very different. Last night the wind was blowing here in Bacalar and the waves were whipping up. This morning, all is calm and the surface of the lagoon is like a backyard pool. As the sun comes up I can see the bottom clearly and the fact that the water is fresh makes it even better…
But there is no perfect place. Like security, we humans somehow figure we can buy it and fence it in. Not me. I want to own the whole world and enjoy it all…I want to be able to go to Bacalar, Cabo Rojo, Xilitla and Vera Cruz. Like Thoreau said, once the farmer builds a farmhouse it becomes like a jail. Once we stake our ground on a land title and build our fences, we are not just making it our own but keeping the rest of the world out. Yet we cannot help ourselves. We buy lots in Akumal or Playa del Carmen because our neighbors do and the land values are going up. We just can’t help ourselves, can we?
The sun is now up and some Mexican not far away is blaring out his music. I can also hear one of those loudspeaker advertisers that drive around incessantly playing scratchy music as if I want to hear it. You see, as perfect as Bacalar appears, it is not perfect. I think… but as far as places go, with the sun coming up over the lagoon, Bacalar is about as perfect as it gets.
The German couple in the next room invite us to yoghurt and fruit. I decline…I need coffee. Angelica already has her feet in the water and is playing with the lttle lagoon creatures…it won’t be long before she will be dragging me into the water for a swim. The day will be fun, relaxing and about as perfect a day as one can have. The music has been turned off and I can hear the birds chirping away as the sun rises higher into the sky. Like a foolish tourist I take picture after picture…and also to remember this morning years from now. The sun is peeking through the palm trees and I have to move to get out of the sun – I got sunburned at Akumal.
But I’m feeling restless and didn’t come here to look at nature. I came for the people. I’m ready to go to Chetumal and see the folks there…and I’m thinking about Chiapas and Oaxaca and Mexico City. That’s the problem with us adventurers…we just can’t stay in one place to long or we start to get antsy.
We drive back to the Orizaba Restaurant. Angelica orders huevos a la mexicana or eggs with onions, tomatoes and green chiles. Red, white and green or the colors of Mexico – el Tricolor as it is referred to here. I am feeling a bit more adventuresome and order huevos con chayas or eggs with a type of green spinach. Our orders come with the usual corn tortillas and green habenero salsa…super hot. Picante is the word and I put a teaspoon on each of the tacos I make. Tasty but very hot. Me enchile or I got chilied as they say here.
So we drive to Chetumal. The Bacalar Lagoon runs a good 60 kilometers long and maybe one or two kilometers wide. It is fresh water and we do see some rivers running into it and my guess is there are maybe some underground fresh water sources as well.
Again we run out of land. Chetumal is busy as a seaport, free trade zone with all kinds of goods, both legal and e illegal, available. We see the usual warehouses and car dealerships and pass a rather large CERESO or prison with lots of cars parked along the edge of the road. I wonder what it’s like inside but don’t regret not having the experience. We drive into town and the traffic is heavy and the taxi drivers are honking at me to move it on. But my excuse is I have California plates and that is my excuse and I ignore them…probably the only California plates in Chetumal.
I’m not really here to shop or even sightsee. There are a number of museums and the beaches but I’m not in the mood. In fact, after eating huevos con chaya or eggs with a type of spinach, my belly is feeling a little under the weather. It is hot and muggy and we stop for gas. I tell the attendant to fill it up with Magma or 87 octane which is still expensive but much less than the Extra. I watch him pump to 100 pesos and then he puts the nozzle back on the pump. Fill it please, I request politely. He responds that he can’t because he put the nozzle back. He says I have to pay the 100 pesos first and then he can fill it. I say ok and give him the 100 pesos.
I notice he then puts the nozzle back without zeroing it and starts to fill it again. He starts to chat about where I come from and how they don’t have Honda station wagons in Mexico and what life is like in California and so on. He stops at 290 pesos and I hand him a 200 peso note. He says I still owe 90 pesos and I tell him I already gave him 100 making a total of 300 pesos. I say he did not zero the pump and he denies it. I said I watched him and he did not zero the pump. He says he did. We do this maybe four times and then he says maybe I was right and he hands me my 10 pesos in change. He probably has pulled this stunt several times before and I drive away a bit unsettled but glad I stuck to my guns. This is the first time in the entire trip someone has tried to stiff me and I think how much has changed since the old days…when it was a regular occurrence.
We drive into town and it doesn’t appear to be much…maybe it’s the heat or the chayas gurgling in my stomach. Angelica says I don’t handle pain or discomfort very well and maybe she’s right; she usually is.
I call Licho’s cousin Juan but he is not in. His wife Mildred answers and says she has been expecting us. They live in an odd house above a storefront and she says to park around the back. The sun is high and it is roasting out…I tell her I’m a bit under the weather and she invites me into their bedroom, hangs a hammock and turns on the AC. In two minutes I am fast asleep.
Jack D. Deal
I get out and they stop by for a chat. The sergeant speaks great Spanish but it’s clear the three privates are Indian and speak with accents. They are all tall, strong, imposing and in full battle gear, much as one would expect from soldiers.
Where are you going? asks the sergeant.
Chetumal, I answer.
That’s where I’m from, he replies, there are some pretty places to visit there. You ought to see Bacalar…
What are you doing here? I ask.
Patrolling the beach though there isn’t much to patrol, he answers.
Not much to do in the Mexican Army, I laugh.
Not since the Zapatistas and that guy Marcos, he answered. Our unit was one of the first in and that was a fight all right. But now everything has pretty much calmed down there…
Get any Cubans landing here, I joke.
Not many but we have, he replied to my surprise, we take them to Immigration. Fidel doesn’t want them leaving, he laughs.
We chit chat for a few more minutes. He tells me he is a career soldier and has to stay in 20 years but the privates most likely will only stay in for three years. They say good-bye and get back in their truck and leave.
The morning is spectacular and we walk out to the point on the bay and I take more pictures. Fortunately all my batteries are charged and I should be able to take all I want. The sea creatures are interesting and we find some that look like ancient trilobites; perhaps distant cousins. The Mexicans have it right; we are all cousins.
We get back to camp and I type for a bit and get sleepy. The tourists sure like sleeping a lot and I guess I’m being a tourist today. When I wake up the sun is high and it is hot inside the tent. Angelica is talking to some snorkelers that just went spear fishing; they had a large barracuda and maybe a dozen smaller fish. They give us three small fish for lunch…
Great, I tell her, and just how do you propose we cook them?
She laughs and says we need to drive into Tulum to get some ice and supplies. I look in the cooler and all we have is a beer; guess it’s beer and nuts for breakfast. We drive into Tulum and once again cannot believe how it has grown. There are two parts of town; the Mexican side and the Tourist side. We go into a supermarket in the tourist side and I hear German, French, Italian and of course English. Not much Spanish. There are all the amenities for the tourist and I wonder how the locals must feel about this invasion of foreigners…but the invaders aren’t interested in anything much more than a hundred meters from the beach…so I guess the jobs aren’t that bad a trade off. But the day may come, and it has in certain areas like Can Cun, where there is little or no public beach access. Such is life. And we in the States worry about the Mexicans invading us!
With this land grab there is a search for the unspoiled and I hear the touristas talking about this place or that place and how one is more remote than the other. Everything is relative and it is only a matter of time before all the remoteness will be gone. At least along the beaches. There will always be the interior but most tourists, unlike me, find it unappealing.
When we get back, Angelica starts the fire and I take a walk down the beach. The hotel workers rake the sand in front so there is no trash or seaweed to spoil the dazzling white coral sand. Many put wooden planks from the water back up to the hotel so the tourists don’t have to get their feet sandy. Go figure…tourists are a strange lot.
I walk out to the point on the opposite side of the bay and see new construction. It is a land grab of incredible proportions as the jungle is being cleared out. When I get back to camp Angelica has already cooked the fish and offering some to another soldier. Three of them are in some kind of training and camping out off the beach. I guess they are supposed to find their own food; one way or another and the camping tourists seem to be a good way to get fed, ha! We give them tortillas, potatoes, onions as well as fish. He leaves but comes back minutes later and asks for salt.
We eat the fish on palm frond plates and it is delicious. Potatoes, onions, tortillas and roasted chiles round out the meal. We eat our fill and watch as tour groups drive past in those four wheeler motorcycles, their fat rear ends hanging off the back. There are a lot more things to do here than camp.
An older couple walks by and we exchange pleasantries. They are from Omaha and have lived here during the winters for the past 15 years. He laments that the Italians are building all these new projects and life here is just not the same as before. I comment how it still must be better than the Omaha winters and he laughs. It is hard to believe it is late January and the beach here is so warm…He says the people in his neighborhood think they are crazy for going to Mexico…it’s too dangerous. Especially driving. From Brownsville they drive to Vera Cruz, then Merida, then the Riviera Maya. Three days. It has taken us almost three months.
We clean after our meal and I sit down and ponder the universe, just like in the beer commercials. But there are no bikini babes in my commercial, though there are some fat German women down the beach baring their sunburned breasts. Angelica asks why I don’t go shoot some pictures of them and I just shake my head. I don’t have time for such nonsense when pondering the universe…
I come to the amazing realization that the white sand, sea and warm breezes make one sleepy so I retire for my second nap of the day. What can I say? Sometimes it’s better not to fight nature, no? But I’m not sure I would pay $500 a day to come and sleep on the beach…even if the German ladies weren’t fat.
As I drift off to sleep I think of the Maya before the Spaniards and what culture and language mean in this place of great change. It would seem that the Can Cun syndrome would be an obscenity but I’ve heard no one complain…the only complaints from the Mexicans I have heard is that life is hard and requires too many hours of work. The tourists complain about other tourists. And I have to admit I’m a little lazy too after putting in a long string of 100 hour weeks…I think back of all the people we have met and seen so far; new friends and old friends.
I think of how we have only a month to go and we must be heading back to California. I also think of how some of the best parts of the trip still lie on the highways ahead. I also think of how I’ve seen enough Germans for one trip…
We pack and leave the wonderful beach and are back on the highway. The sign says thanks for visiting the Riviera Maya and come back. I’m sure we will…
The highway heads inland and the trees become taller and the jungle more dense. This jungle is easy to get lost in…it requires a machete to go through. There appears to be little farmland as it is extremely difficult to keep land cleared…all along the highway we see workers clearing the jungle back from the road. It is an endless task and it seems as if the jungle always wins…
We stop in the town of Felipe Carrillo to eat…a truly Maya town. In fact they call it Maya Country. The people appear to speak both Maya and Spanish fluently and change back and forth with ease. More proof that speaking two languages is as possible as speaking just one…
The tostadas are delicious and we eat our fill. The Maya ladies can cook as well as any we have seen…I take a quick walk around town and see no turistas. There are no beaches so none are here. I like this town and make a mental note to come back and stay when I have more time.
We drive back into the jungle and only see scattered small ranches along the way. From what it appears there is also very little agriculture here as well. I start to get sleepy and Angelica takes over…I drift off and don’t wake up until Bacalar.
Jack D. Deal
Paco, what do you think of my paisanos, the Americans? I ask.
Very well educated, he answers. Educated in Mexican Spanish means polite and well mannered or cultured.
All of them? I ask.
No, not all, he laughs, there are some that are rude and seem to have something wrong with them…but most are polite. They understand we are workers and that we are working and they seem to appreciate it and give us tips. Not most of the Mexicans…most Mexicans are very racist…at least the ones we get at the hotel. They talk down to us and call us names…what can I say amigo?
Did the hurricane affect your job?
Not really, our hotel is close to the airport and we get a lot of tourists that are heading down to the Maya Riviera, he continues, but many of my friends that work in Cancun lost their jobs. The tourists stopped coming and some of the hotels won’t reopen…at least that’s what they say.
I can’t believe how expensive they are, I reply.
Part of it is taxes, he says, they have to always be fixing the roads and paths and now they are making bike paths. All that costs money and it goes onto the ticket price. But we get a lot that are on their way to Playa del Carmen and Tulum.
We say adios and drive west out of town and the Chetumal highway. As with our entrance, our exit is filled with warehouses and stores servicing the tourist industry. The number of jobs tourism generates is incredible and Cancun is the number one tourist destination in Mexico.
It’s hot, humid and our stuck heater valve just adds to the effect. It gradually thins out to the peninsula brush and the highway is straight and appears almost new. It reminds me of a southern U.S. interstate highway…We make great time and are in Playa del Carmen in a half hour – it has literally exploded in size in the past 15 years. In the old days I remember staying just off the beach and snorkeling on the reefs just down from the hotel. Now there are luxury hotels and condos everywhere; tasteful and not Cancun style. Some of my California Chic friends come here as it is more ‘natural’ and less Vegas than Cancun. I see lots of lotioned fat bodies in tiny swimsuits that are getting ready to marinate and roast in the sun…melanoma mania. Of course not all are fat and some of the younger women without tops catch my eye when Angelica is not looking…but somehow the suns rays are considered innocuous by all. Not me. I have on longsleaves and my African hat.
It was around noon and I wanted a hamburger but we decided to go to Wal-mart Playa del Carmen instead. It was filled with Americans, Germans and upscale Americanos. The prices weren’t bad though they must seem exorbitant for someone making 100 pesos a day. We bought fruit, bread, and sandwich stuffings as well as water, soft drinks, beer and ice. We had another idea in mind and were heading to Ya-kul and Akumal.
All the Maya Riviera is getting built up. It’s kind of sad. We passed Xcaret and it’s exorbitant prices and still saw more luxury resorts. Finally we pass Xel-ha and I wonder why anyone would pay $50 to get in though I guess the admission price is buried in the tour package price.
We turn off the highway at Akumal and head to Ya-kul which is about 2 kilometers down a dirt road. It’s is also touristed out…out of curiosity we stop at a rather medicocre hotel and ask how much for a room – 2000 pesos or about $200 U.S. Elsewhere in Mexico a hotel of that caliber would be 300-400 pesos or five times less. The Maya Riviera is not for the poor traveler…
Ya-kul is a nice lagoon park with some silly statues that someone thought would make it look more park like…I guess. It was 65 pesos to get in and worth it…immediately I could see all the visitors were American and German. We make sandwiches on a bench in the shade and the iguanas come up for food…we give them pieces of lettuce and then more come. We know it’s not savvy to feed the animals but we couldn’t help ourselves….
I take a walk around the lagoon and see fresh water flowing into it…we change into our bathing suits and go for a snorkel. The fish are beautiful and I forgot how wonderful the clear Caribbean waters can be. We feel the current and swim over to what looks like to be a cave – there is a strong fresh water current coming out from it. This is where all that cenote underground water goes…eventually out to the sea.
I stand on some rocks and something is nipping at my foot. I notice a fish and move my foot. When I move it back in the same place which is a small hole, the fish bites my foot again. I am obviously invading someone’s territory. I look around and see a school of a hundred fish swim by and wonder about evolution. Those that know a lot more than me say we humans came from fish. Maybe so…like humans, some fish live in caves and others swim in schools and do exactly as other fish do…make me wonder.
We get our fill of fish and water and head back out to the highway. About 10 kilometers south we pull off a side road and drive to the beach. We drive past a series of hotels…they are everywhere. Finally we find a road that leads right to the beach. We see a local family in a pick-up.
Is it okay to camp here? I ask.
Sure, replies a man with a heavy Maya accent, anywhere but right in front of the hotels. He asks us where we are from and we tell him. They live in Tulum and are out picking caracols or small conch shell creatures for ceviche. He says we are lucky because the hurricane cleaned out the beach for us…before there were only mangroves and not much beach. Nature gives and nature takes away…
We hurriedly pitch the tent as night is approaching quickly. The sunset is spectacular and I shoot pictures with palm tree frames. Soon the stars are out and there is a thin crescent moon. Soon we can see the Milky Way from horizon to horizon and there are stars in the far south we don’t get to see in the north.
We walk down to the water’s edge and I stick my foot in. To my surprise, the water lights up. Angelica, the nature lover, is thrilled. She has never seen plankton that light up in the water. I remember going to the other Riviera in Europe, when I was much younger, camping and going for a late night swim and seeing the water light up when I touched it.
I remember reading the process of phosphorescence is a scientific magazine and it is an incredibly complex one. The creatures seem simple but they aren’t…we once came out of the water and became more complex creatures ourselves.
At least on the surface, we appear to be complex…
Jack D. Deal
At the edge of town the city stops and the land becomes monte and jungle. Forty kilometers later we come to a military checkpoint and get flagged over. A sergeant comes out and I see a lieutant standing behind sandbags and several other soldiers with automatic weapons. The sergeant asks me to open the back of the Honda and I get out and do it…no sense in arguing with a military unit, ha! He points to two of our bags and asks me to take them out. I do. I learned as a young chap to not be smart or question a group of soldiers with machine guns…
What are you taking? he asks.
Clothes and personal items, I reply, everything is permitted by gobernacion for tourists.
He looks at me funny and must wonder why this white guy isn’t talking like a tourist. Angelica turns around and looks but doesn’t say anything. There are times to speak up and times to be quiet. He of course can make me empty the entire car and do whatever he wants… those with guns in the military uniforms are always the ones in control…ha. He points to the two bags and asks me to open them.
What’s in them? He asks, stooping down and sticking his hand inside.
Dirty clothes, I reply. He looks and pulls out several dirty pants and socks…and then stands up and looks me directly in the eye. I don’t flinch – no reason to.
Que le vaya bien, he says turning away. I stuff the pants and socks back into the bags and shut the trunk. One of the soldier looks at me and grins. I grin back. We both must know that if I were carrying something, it would not be in the first accessible bag when I open the trunk…but then again this was obviously a charade for the man in charge standing behind the sandbags. I don’t mind and it only took a few minutes…driving away I’m not sure I felt any safer and Angelica complained.
We drive silently through brush country – the soil looks weak and full of rock. I’m always amazed when I come here how empty it is. On the way to Merida, maybe a distance of 250 kilometers, there are only a few towns of any size. The others are small Mayan villages – typically well kept and clean.
I was wondering how these folks survive in such wild country and around the curve I see a large factory…it’s a maquiladora. I first saw the maquilas in Cd. Juarez in Chihuahua. Maquilas bring in the parts and assemble them with cheap Mexican labor and are shipped abroad. There are all sorts of restrictions and such but the bottom line is they do provide jobs for those that have none. Maquilas first started on the border and then spread southward – in the past few years they have been shutting down and moving to China. The bottom line ultimately goes to the cheapest labor…
We pull into the outskirts of Merida which has now become a major metropolis. Today I’m just not in the mood for traffic and the urban life…I turn around and head back to the autopista.
I set the cruise control at 80 and we speed across the vast expanse of the peninsula. This part of the world is neither farmland nor jungle but something in between. We can see henequen planted along the highway but I don’t think they make anything of henequen anymore…maybe rope.
Somehow today is not a good kharma day for Cancun either. I turn off at the Valladolid exit and we drive into town. Valladolid is my favorite town on the peninsula and was founded in 1543, before the Jamestown settlers were even born. The atmosphere is better and we are in the land of the short people. The Maya. It has grown since I was last here but it still has its small town charm or rather the non-urban charm. I see some English words on some of the signs and also realize it’s only a matter of time before that changes too. The proud Maya are assimilating no matter what the politicos say…I drive straight to the Cenote Zaci and park. We need to cool down from the heat.
Want to go for a swim? I ask pointing to the cenote. Tio had warned me not go swimming in cenotes because they are dangerous…something to do with underground currents and rivers. Sure enough there are signs everywhere saying swim at your own risk. The crazy Germans and Gringos will do anything for a thrill…
The Yucatan is one big limestone rock. Cenotes are water filled caves whose tops have collapsed. Cenote Zaci is interesting in that the roof over the water is still largely intact. The water is a deep blue and we can see fish swimming in the water. Jungle and vines surround the entrance giving it a dazzling green and jeweled effect…no wonder the ancient Maya thought the cenote to be sacred…they made sacrifices and threw in gold and other treasures to appease their gods. The modern day Maya sell Huipil dresses, huaraches and other handicrafts to the tourists. I’ve seen several women wearing Huipiles. We don’t go swimming but do put our feet in the water. I take off my shirt and splash water over my head and shoulders. I can use all the sacred water dousings I can get…
Later we walk into the Zocalo and stop for dinner. I see a group of Maya standing on the corner; some of the men are less than five feet tall and some of the women less than four and half feet. I feel like Gulliver in Lilliput…
Jack D. Deal
The first sound that comes to mind are the roosters that contrary to public opinion, will crow pretty much any time of the night or day. And unlike the states, roosters and chickens are urban as well as rural animals. They are even found in nicer neighborhoods, though I have to admit I haven’t stayed in the really upscale neighborhoods, ha!
The other is the salamander or largatija. They are like lizards and are common in most homes. Folks don’t kill them as they eat bugs and I’ve seem them walk across a wall and snuff a mosquito…anything that eats a mosquito is certainly a friend of mine. They also make noise, a peculiar clicking sound, usually seven or eight clicks. I don’t know if they are communicating with each other or what, but it is a peculiar and very common sound.
The other sounds that are common are the street vendor sounds. Many call out what they sell, like agua for water, helados for ice cream and cocos for coconuts. There are other sounds, such as a particular whistle for knife sharpeners, whistles for tortilla and masa vendors and even sticks beat together. I don’t know what each sound signifies and it appears it may vary from colonia to colonia, but the street vendors are common and used frequently and they have regular customers. Trash haulers and even natural gas vendors pass by regularly.
I’ve obviously gotten into the travel mode and am having a great time. I can drive without even thinking I’m in Mexico and am comfortable going into strange homes, ranches, towns and cities. I have lost my sense of the familiar and comfortable and that is one of the great things about travel – by losing oneself, one if fact finds oneself. This is different from the wow and shock of the new and strange when I first cross the border; it’s more a pleasant at ease sensation with a country and people I love. It’s hard to explain to others and even Angelica doesn’t truly understand my obsession with the go, go, go attitude; she needs a rest and misses California. My energy is surging and it seems to feed on itself, I can go from sun up and all night if there is good conversation. I suppose I could go on indefinitely and we have already stayed longer than planned…
Maybe it’s the thrill of the unknown and the adventure that goes with it, but all the irritations and minor problems of travel have become insignificant. It’s as if I am in the hunt and realize that even when I get the prize, it is always the hunt I will truly value. It’s the journey, not the destination. My network of friends is expanding as friend sends me to other friends and I suppose I could do this forever…I feel like I am half my age and folks must look at me a bit strangely…shooting pictures and asking questions and shaking hands both night and day. But it is me and as the old saying goes, I am truly in my element. Even though I am middle aged, I still have the energy and drive and the road goes on forever…thank goodness!
When we first arrived in Campeche I had remarked to Tio there was an old friend of mine, Dr. Lazaro Mejilla, that I had lost contact with. I did not know if he were alive or dead or still in Campeche. Tio asked his office manager to try and find Dr. L and today he came back with good news.
We found your friend, said Tio proudly, it took us several days but we did it. He’s a director of level one medicine or general medicine in an ISSTE Hospital near Lerma and can have lunch with you today…unfortunately he has to leave for Carmen tonight and will be gone for several weeks…but wants to see you. He’ll meet us at 2:00 in Portales barrio San Francisco at the Restorante Caribeno, I’ll take you.
I look at my watch, it’s almost two.
Tio, you have to work, I protest, I’m sure I can find it.
I always have to work, he laughs, and I’ll stop by the store while you eat. I’ll pick you up after and we’ll see the forts, you have to see the forts, he laughs, after all, you did come here as a tourist, no?
I realize he is right. I’ve seen almost nothing that would be considered to be tourist related…and haven’t seen the need to. The ruins and museums are for those that don’t have anything better to do and that is certainly not my case…ha!
Tio drives me along the malecon or shore boulevard and we stop at the statue called the Novia del Mar or Sea Girlfriend. He says it’s good luck to have your picture taken with your sweetheart and so he takes one of Angelica and me…I guess we could still call ourselves sweethearts. We drive into the Centro or city center of Campeche and he explains how they have renovated and kept the old style look, mainly for the tourists.
You need to appreciate this, he laughs, pointing to the stone streets and nicely done typical homes and storefronts.
I’m impressed, I tell him and he laughs. I know he must think I am joking.
It’s now ten past two and we pull up in front of the restaurant which is more like an outdoor café. I step out of the car and see a man waving at me and realize it must be Lazaro. He looks older, is much heavier and has lost his hair. He must think the same of me…
Ah amigo, he says warmly shaking my hand and giving me a hug or abrazo, the last time we met you were with some computer company…I did not think you would stay there long. We sit down and the waiter asks us about what we will drink. I order a chaya or type of tea.
I learned so much about technology that I got together with several guys and we formed our own company, I reply, and so once again I’m an empresario. And part of that is to come back to Mexico…
Ah, for you that’s not work, no? he laughs, it’s more like you are coming back home…I always thought you were more Mexican than Californian, he laughs, besides, California already has enough business, we need more business here…why didn’t you start your company here?
Oh, that might still be the case, I laugh, besides, California is a good place for business, no?
Lazaro laughs back. I explain what I’m doing and he nods approvingly.
Let others do that technical stuff, he says, you are more like a bridge and it looks like we need a few more bridges between our countries, no?
That’s partly why I am here, I reply, and maybe to find a few answers. But it seems like there are always more questions than answers…
Like that wall, he laughs, you gringos are a funny bunch…
Don’t start on that, I’m getting plenty of that on this trip.
Sure, and you will continue to get more, he laughs, but you can handle it…you were always a big boy even when we first met as teenagers. I always figured you would make something and maybe now it’s your turn to do so…People everywhere are like sheep, no? We follow stupid leaders and blindly do stupid things and Americans and Mexicans are the same in that respect, no?
The waiter brings our drinks and I order camarones de coco or coconut shrimp. It’s a specialty of Campeche and I haven’t had it for many years.
So what are you concerned about these days? he asks.
Diabetes, I answer.
Diabetes, he laughs, that’s not like you…you aren’t sick are you?
Not physically, I laugh, though I’m sure there are a few folks that think my head is out of whack…
I think we should have ordered beer, he laughs, you sound like you need it. Remember when we used to go to the Cantina La Huasteca in Tierra Blanca in the old days? We would stay up all night talking about the student movement, the worker’s movement and girls and anything else that we could think of …I often think about those days and how I was so happy back then, so carefree and without all my responsibilities and being able to stay up all night and drink beer with by gringo amigo. No family telling me what to do...
Maybe we should have ordered beer, I agree.
Jack D. Deal
Any friend of your Tio’s is a friend of mine, he says shaking my hand vigorously with both of his, we went to primaria together and have known each other for many years. There were a number in our school that went on to become well known and one even became Gobernador. Several of us were young hotheads and decided to try to gain leadership positions in the local unions; we were part of what was called the Movimento Obrero or worker’s movement. We had good times and not so good times but we worked very hard and accomplished a lot…which not everyone can say, he laughs.
Originally the movement was honest and a true worker’s movement, he continues, but like many things it has changed. The leader’s now are by and large part of the government, even if not officially. That is the biggest change I have seen…of course some of the leaders have become corrupt and that is a part of it too…but that happens in other countries as well.
We were members of the PRI party from the start and I guess I will always feel obligated to vote PRI, though I have never tried to convince my children too. Despite what many may say, the PRI has done some very good things for Mexico – you have to remember where Mexico was right after the Revolution. There were no roads, schools, electricity – nothing. We have accomplished a lot. Lopez Mateos was probably the best Presidente we ever had.
Do you think Cardenas won in 1988? I ask.
I think he did, answers Eliseo but Salinas Gotari stole it…and that was the beginning of the end for the PRI. For a number of years our party has been in a position of having to make strategic moves and we have not done a good job of it.
What you are saying makes it hard to figure out, I laugh.
And hard for us too, he laughs, but I think the unions are less important now and have less political power. The PRI can only blame itself for that…and the workers have lost a lot of power.
What about Pemex and the Electric monopolies, should they be privatized? I ask.
These aren’t easy questions you are asking me on a Sunday morning, he laughs, but I think they eventually will have to be. We Mexicans can’t seem to make our government run programs go well, though from what I can gather other countries have the same problem. Just because it’s nationalized certainly doesn’t mean it works for the people…and my union members complain about the gas prices too…they buy gas everyday. And electricity for their homes as well…so they are not always in solidarity with other unions now…not like we were in the past. The worker’s movement is much less powerful now as corruption and special member’s interest have taken over – especially in the past ten or fifteen years.
Eliseo’s wife Andrea calls us into the dining room and there was a full table of food. It was clear she started cooking as soon as Tio said we were coming for a visit. She had a huge fruit salad, chorizo and eggs with bacon in it, and cochinito lechon – a baked pork dish with a chile and pepper sauce. There were tortillas of course, green sauce, and an habenero chile sauce with tiny bits of orange habanero peppers – very hot. My favorite sauce was an onion, lemon and habanero sauce that I’ve had several times in Quintana Roo. She also made and orangeade drink – like lemonade but made with oranges. The food was delicious and after talking politics and labor for several hours we were hungry.
For dessert she brought us a special treat – at least for me. In their back yard they had a large zapote tree for shade but the fruit was in season. Zapotes are tennis ball sized brown fruit that become soft when ripe. I’ve never seen them in the U.S. and I guess they are hard to transport and probably have to be picked green…but when ripe, sweet zapotes are probably my favorite fruit, though there are several others that when in season, I would probably call my favorites as well, ha! I don’t even know how to describe it other than its fleshly, somewhat brown with a few large seeds but not enough to matter very much…when ripe and soft there is nothing like it…at least from my view.
I thank Andrea profusely and Tia and Angelica help her clean up. They laugh and giggle and have a great time…and I think about how there are no women’s support groups here in Mexico…at least to my knowledge. It’s only when society breaks down must we humans artificially contrive social systems to try and counter the effects of modern angst. Oddly my Mexican personality doesn't have a problem with it...
Eliseo invites us outside to sit under his zapote tree…it’s hot and humid and the sun is getting stronger in the early afternoon. I ask him and Tio if there are men’s support groups in the area and they laugh and say they cannot imagine such a thing. I tell them that there are men’s groups in California that go out in the woods and beat drums together…Eliseo laughs and says they must all be drunk...especially if there are no dancing girls. I laugh too and at least for the moment I agree such a concept is absurd…we build barriers and walls and then go out into the woods and beat on drums to find human contact. Eliseo and Tio seem to know exactly who and what they are…that’s not to say they don’t have problems, but they can’t understand why someone would sit with strangers and talk about personal things. Especially out in the woods...
If you ever get in that bad of shape, it’s time to visit your Tio and me, laughs Eliseo, we can even find some pots and pans to bang on if you need to. Tio laughs hard and I do too…modern angst seems so remote on this warm Campeche afternoon.
We thank Eliseo and Andrea profusely and they invite us to visit again and stay in their house. Their children are grown and they have extra bedrooms. This has happened numerous times on the trip – we visit someone and they ask us to stay with them…as if it were a competition!
Tio decides to take us for a drive in the country and he stops to buy some beer. Dos sixes, he says. Six means six pack. We drive past ranches, farms and quintas, or country homes for urban folks that don’t like the city. These quintas usually have a variety of fruit trees and beautiful flower gardens. We stop outside one with beautiful red bird of paradise flowers in full bloom.
Hey, sobrino, asks Tio, you were just joking back there about the men beating drums, no? I thought for a moment you were serious…
That’s right Tio, it was a joke, I reply. No need to make Tio confused about something he could not relate too. Tio is getting ready to drink some beer and no need to pile on any anxiety...
We drive through the lush, green countryside and Tio hands me a beer.
Drums, I think… I don’t need any stinking drums. And as long as there is my Mexico, I never would imagine I never will….
The museum is simple and situated on a nice site on the river across from Tuxpan. There’s not much to it but it does have some interesting artifacts…
Fifty years ago 82 men sailed for Cuba from Tuxpan on a converted yacht called Granma. The most well known of these men were Fidel Castro, Che Guevara and Jose Marti. The rest is history as we know…Supposedly Castro has a sister still living in Santiago.
The museum had a series of pictures of a young Fidel and a young Che…and perhaps some clues as to why things have developed as they have. The museum said that Che and Fidel had a chance meeting…not one that was set up at a conference or business luncheon. It proved to be quite a chance meeting at that…
The pictures are striking. There are pictures of a defiant Fidel in jail…arrogant with his defiant frown. In contrast, the pictures of Che show him smiling and appearing happy…pictures of him on his honeymoon with his wife Alida March and later a picture of them with their four young children. I wondered where those children are today…they would be about my age, maybe a little younger.
The reason they left Tuxpan for Cuba, explained the museum employee, was Cuba had become a playground for gamblers from the U.S. The Batista regime had repressed the Cubans and lost the support from the common folks…something that I wondered if was still true today. The fact that the Batista regime was corrupt is not really disputed by historians…it was a bad situation and followed the pattern of U.S. backed corrupt regimes in Latin America. This was a theme for the Cuban Revolution, especially from intellectuals like Che. Fidel was clearly not an intellectual…he was and is an arrogant soldier that eliminates those that get in his way…one way or another.
And therein may lie part of the mystery. Che was an intellectual, Castro not. Che was more charismatic than Castro, though Castro did have some personal charm. It could in fact have been that Castro considered Che a threat; it’s important to remember that just before Che left Cuba, he was head of the national bank and essentially the country’s chief economist. Che knew economics and people…skills that are often questioned of Castro.
Of particular interest was a handwritten letter from Fidel dated June 5, 1958. The letter was written from the mountains to a friend named Celia and was in response to an American bombing of a farmer’s house:
“Upon seeing the rockets they shot at Mario’s house, I swore to myself the Americans would pay very dearly for what they are doing. When this war is over, I will begin my larger and grander war, the war that I will start against them. I have come to realize this is my true destiny. Fidel”
There it is and he has not wavered. Nor his destiny. He is still fighting the Americans and in a sense has made it the destiny of his Cuba as well…he may be one of the richest men in the world, but he still hates those damned yanquis and the other 15 millions cubanos better well do the same…or else.
But just don’t take my word for it…go to the museum and see for yourself. But study up on your Spanish first…there’s not much English spoken there, ha! And you can even check my translation of Fidel’s letter, no? Please do…test your Spanish as well, ha!
If you go, you might stop down the street at Don Poncho’s seafood place and have some beer, shrimp, fish and some chat with Don Poncho. A little boy recommended Don Poncho’s as having great ‘pecados’; a humorous turn on words – what he meant was pescado or fish, not pecados or sins…ha! Although Don Poncho probably would not deny he has some of those too…ha!
Don Poncho was a fisherman and still is…he catches his own fish from the river when in season. He can rattle off a list of Mexican movie stars that have eaten at his place and claims to have once met Fidel.
I remember Fidel as being very personable, says Don Poncho, at least that was the way he was with me…maybe in Cuba he’s very different, he laughs.
Don Poncho laughs a lot and sits with his customers while he incessantly slaps at the mosquitoes that plague Santiago. Right now in the afternoon the mosquitoes aren’t bad, he laughs, but sometimes at night they can be a real problem. He slaps his leg again.
Are the bugs why Fidel went to Cuba? I ask.
Probably, he laughs back. Poncho is a joker and likes to keep things upbeat. He says he’s that way because things have not always been happy for him.
I was a popular fisherman and very good at fishing, he says, I was godfather to 17 kids…but later I began to understand more about my fake popularity.
Life teaches us what we need to know if we just put our egos behind and listen, he continues.
I’ve heard that before on this trip, I think to myself.
I got in trouble with the law and went to jail for several years, he adds, and during all that time I was there, only one of my compadres came to visit me. Can you believe that? Out of 17 only one came to visit…and that hurt me deeply inside. I realized they were just using me because I had money…have you ever had that feeling amigo? It’s so sad…
Then when I got out, he said, they would see me walking down the street and they would go into a store or hide to avoid me. I had absolutely nothing then and I was desperate but not one of my so-called compadres or friends would help me. But I’m not a quitter and we cannot expect to be taken care of in this life, no? Maybe in the next life, he laughs. Do you think I have reason to be bitter? But doesn’t being bitter hurt one more?
He brings me another beer and sits back down for more talk. He has other clients but for some reason wants to chat with the gringo that can chat back. I’m a talker too and we already have established a rapport…
And have one more friend in Mexico…
Jack D. Deal
The politics are as petty and ineffective as any other country. Government at all levels is reactive and not proactive, an observation one could also make about the U.S.
There is always the real potential of complete government gridlock and consequent breakdown so Presidente Calderon will have to become a master juggler.
Economically, the future of many Mexicans is bleak. They face little or no economic opportunities and will continue to struggle with subsistence incomes and virtually no social safety net. Their only real hope is that their children will have it better.
Many millions will of course opt to cross illegally into the United States. We Americans don’t really know what it is like living in a region such as Tierra Blanca with little or no economic base. Millions of Mexicans would gladly trade places with those living in the poorest sections of the United States.
On this trip I have seen numerous technical schools where students study computers, technology and related fields. But will there be jobs waiting for them when they graduate? Unfortunately the answer is probably not…and many will migrate to the larger cities and the U.S., taking with them their technical educations as they become waiters, manual laborers or farmworkers. The unrealized human potential is profound.
The school where Angelica went to first grade is now run down. The flowers are gone and bathrooms don’t work. Pemex or Petroleos Mexicanos started the school but has all but abandoned it as the oil dried up. One first grade class has no teacher and parents told me other teachers have bought their credentials without going to school.
And the Pemex equipment is rusting, the pipes broken and it is not uncommon for gas and oil spills to be left as is. And even with all its oil, it is projected that within the next 10 years Mexico will have to start importing oil…what would our amigo B. Traven say about that? Would he still favor nationalization? And what about the high prices for electricity, a modern day essential? Would he favor keeping the electricity system nationalized? And the unions that support this nationalization?
Socially, upward mobility has an ugly side to it. Mexicans are very prejudiced; not just race, as in Indian, but socioeconomic status as well. This is a continuing problem.
When I first took Angelica to meet my light skinned friends in Mexico City, they thought she was my maid and wanted her to eat in the kitchen. They could not understand how someone so light skinned as I could marry a brown skinned Indian. There was a gap their social prejudices could not bridge. I, the Anglo American was actually above them in status. And she, the dark skinned Indian was considered lower class.
That social prejudice still exists today and I have not seen it change. It is in the media everywhere and it is blatant. There are a number of lighter skinned Mexicans that defend the rights of Indians and oppose the prejudice. But they are few and their voices are muffled.
The subject is taboo and I really don’t bring it up, with the exception to someone like Dr. G. It’s like questioning one’s religious faith.
And to Americans the social climbing that goes along with upward mobility looks silly. Indians pretending to be better than other Indians because they have a piece of land or a pick up truck. Brown skinned women caking on white woman make up and painting their eyelids a sickly blue.
I have never cared for urban or populated Mexico. Neighbors fight, throw trash in each others yard, play their music too loud and argue incessantly with each other. Angelica says it’s because they are poor and envy what their neighbor has. Not unlike neighbors in other countries; both third world and not.
The river that runs by the farm is now almost dry. It has been dammed upstream and construction companies have taken all the gravel and sand they can from the riverbed. Trash is everywhere and it is a sad sight to see. Sometimes the water even turns various colors depending on what contaminants run through it. We used to swim and fish in that river that once was…
In the old days, everything was recycled and plastic was rare. Today if I want to live in such a pristine environment I will have to go further and further into remote areas. Away from people, civilization and progress. I miss the quiet, starry nights. I miss not being able to drink well water because the water table is contaminated with sewage. My older friends talk sadly about a time and Mexico that once was. A Mexico my grandkids will not see…a Mexico that is losing both its character and appeal. ‘Mexico is too dirty and poor, granpa,’ they will tell me, ‘you just remember the old days.’
I am under no illusion these problems will go away or even significantly be reduced in my lifetime. I have seen little improvement in my four decades in Mexico, something that many of my colleagues and compatriots see as hopeless. And sadly on a practical level, I find it hard to disagree.
‘Why can’t they get their act together?’ Americans ask me.
I smile and give a list of reasons, some valid and others less so. Corruption, lack of productivity, lack of civic pride and so on. To many Americans it appears hopeless and that is why one of every ten Mexicans now lives and works in the U.S. And why surveys show over half of all Mexicans would move to the U.S. if given a visa opportunity. It is a country that does not want to be here. Most Mexicans have little hope and little faith things will actually change.
This has been tough for me to write and I will not dwell on it. Sometimes the problems seem so large and unsolvable and I must also admit there appears to be little hope.
But without discussion, what do we have?
Jack D. Deal
Three sons are sitting at the deathbed of their dying father. The father is sad because he has younger children as well…his oldest son is almost 50 years older than his youngest.
Sons, promise you will take care of the younger ones, he asks, they are so young and I won’t be able to see them grow up to where they can take care of themselves. I want you to build them a house on the piece of land I bought near town. Will you promise me that?
Of course, papa, they answer in unison. We promise to take care of them and help them and we will build them a house on that land you bought for them.
Gracias, hijos, says the old man. He rolls over and later that night dies in his sleep.
The sons could not believe their good fortune! The old man had numerous properties and cattle and farm machinery. They immediately start selling off the properties and cattle and machinery. When the smaller kids ask for something, they tell them later after the cattle are sold.
As the years pass, so too did the properties. One day they even tried to sell the property the old man left to his small children. But when they went to sell the deed, to their surprise the old man had put the deed in the children’s’ names, not the sons. There was nothing they could do…the old man had seen what was coming over 15 years before! The old man knew what would happen…he knew his sons well and knew the patterns of life that would unfold. It was if he had a crystal ball; an experience that would eventually serve him even after he passed on…
As the years passed the younger kids grew up and the older sons drank and squandered the inheritance away on fast women. The oldest son died drunk and depressed. I saw him numerous times and all he wanted was to drink with me and invite me play with loose women. The second son moved in with his daughter because he too drank and was thrown out in the street by his wife. Sometimes things get to a point beyond which mere mortals can bear…now he is old and frail and is showing the wear and tear of many years of alcoholism. I doubt he will make it until my next return…
The youngest son too wasted all his inheritance and then got sick with heart and kidney problems. When very sick he called in his younger brothers and sisters and asked them for help….promise me you will take care of my little children when if I go soon, he pleaded.
Ah brother, they are your children not ours, they replied. You took from us and tried to even sell the land our father left us. You promised our father you would build us a house but you spent all your money on women and never even visited us until later when you wanted something from us. And now you are asking us to help you?
The above is a true story and I saw it with my own eyes and ears over three decades of following this family. The irony is that all three older sons will die depressed and filled with regrets. The youngest even put himself in the same position as his dying father… Yet none ever apologized or expressed regret…they will all go to their deaths not understanding the cause and effect. They never understood what they did was wrong nor did they care to understand. Their self inflicted misery was not their fault, they would argue. They blame the father or the mother or the younger brothers and sisters for being so young. They point the finger at anything but themselves and will never know the cause of their sadness. Nor care to know. They built their own caves in their own heads and have crawled in there to die…
I have no sympathy for them. Being the Zen-like person I have become, I bear them no ill will and like everyone else, wish them the best. But I have no sympathy…I will loan them ten or twenty pesos if they ask, but no more. I really don’t care if they go hungry or without alcohol or if they die depressed. I have no feeling one way or the other…but do find it a very good example of individual and family histories…and the patterns of life.
Such are the patterns of life and death in my Cien Anos de Soledad. A person, as well as a campesino, reaps what they sow. If one plants bitterness and treachery, so one gets it back. I saw it with Humberto and I saw it with the three sorry excuses for sons. Like Timo I keep my mouth shut and my eyes and ears open and have found that life will teach us all we need to know if we just allow it to. And as I get older I am glad I avoided the miniskirts and arrogance unlike Humberto and the family treacheries like the three disobedient sons.
But don’t believe me…you need to look and make your own decisions.
As I sit under the shade tree on the first day of the New Year I can think of many others I’ve known as well. Like the family filled with drunks and rats and yet with one fantastic son that I knew well…and how he died when his brother fell asleep while driving. The one that died was worth more than all the others combined – he was a good soul and sincere and a good friend of mine. We used to go hunting and sit and talk in the heat of the day. He would ask me about the U.S. and promise me one day he would visit and we would go hunting and fishing together. But that was not his destiny – his destiny was to bleed to death one night on a dark highway when his drunken brother fell asleep at the wheel.
Maybe it’s the New Year that is causing all my reflection. I remember going to a dance one night in a nearby town. A drunk came up to Angelica while we were dancing and said something to her. She reached back and flattened him with one punch. I remember my friend and me grabbing her and pulling her away as fast as we could…and quickly getting the heck out of there. I was imagining how many brothers and cousins this guy would have…and to this day she has never told me what he said. I can only imagine…
I remember the German shepherd dog we brought from Massachusetts and how she would get up with me in the middle of the night and go with me and my .22 rifle and check for robbers. We had mangos, avocados and oranges and some locals thought we were an easy steal…until that dog, gun and I established a reputation for being real ‘cabrones’.
One night I was sitting with the dog and Angelica in the corner of the property and watching the brecha or cleared section along the fence. I saw two figures slip through the twilight and into the grove…we were ready for action. I sent the dog in and told her to flush them out to the street, which she did. It was in her blood. Angelica and I ran down the street just as she was flushing them out…one of them drew his gun on me and our eyes met in the twilight…it was a man I knew…the local policeman. He put down his gun and smiled at me.
Ah amigo, he said, we were just guarding your trees as we have heard there are some unscrupulous types that come here to steal.
If that’s so, than why is your drunken friend hiding a potato sack in back of his shirt? asked Angelica. She was never one to beat around the bush…or avoid the obvious.
Ah senora, that’s in case we found them so we could put them in the sack and bring them back to you.
She said a few choice words that I’ve rarely heard her say. She wanted to tie them up but after all we had caught the policeman, so how would that work out? How could we take the policeman to jail?
Why did you let them go, she complained later to me.
Because I have a better idea, I assured her. She was not believing any of it…
The next day we went to the Presidente Municipal and told him what happened. He said he was embarrassed and would look into it, but since we did not catch them with the goods, there was little he could do. Muchas gracias, I told him. And again Angelica was upset with me.
But later I spread the story far and wide. Including the part about going to the Presidente Municipal. That way he would verify whatever was said. There is a gossip network I call the Chisme Express and it’s the fastest way to get the word out. To this day the policeman, now no longer a policeman, will not look me in the eye and he was embarrassed beyond anything else that could have happened in Tierra Blanca. Folks still talk about the day the crazy gringo with his dog caught the cop stealing fruit. And he was forever marked as a thief and liar.
There is one guy that really reaped what he planted!
Jack D. Deal
Imagine this scenario: there are 300 people watching your every move as you sit down at the table. The waiter comes and I order a ‘campechana’; a brandy with coke and seltzer water. The music begins and I take a gulp. All 300 are wondering, will he or won’t he?
We glide smoothly onto the dance floor and many nod appreciatively – we can dance. Well, somewhat, ha!
The first dances I went to were at the rancherias back in the old days. Often the dances were held on just flat ground or maybe on a paved basketball court if next to a school. There were three musicians and they played ‘tropical’ or ‘huapachosa’ music; music heard on the Gulf Coast, parts of the Caribbean and particularly in Colombia. We would dance under the moon and stars and heat and humidity until sweat poured down our faces. And until the early morning. There was some drinking but not that much; drinking came in the more expensive dances with amplified music.
The crowd favorites were, and still are, a type of song called ‘cumbia.’ This is particularly rhythmic music but not being a musician I cannot tell you what type of rhythm. I just know it as music one feels. But it was the first Mexican music I heard and the music I like the most…much better than salsa or other Latin music I’ve listened to. Cumbias were made popular by a singer named Mike Laure and I actually got to meet him once. Not only that, he invited us up on the stage to sit at his table with his girlfriend. The true adventurer never knows where the road will lead and sometimes it certainly goes to unexpected places. My favorite tropical singer was Rigo Tovar though he died several years ago…I still hear his songs coming out of the huts today as we walk by. He grew up very poor and his songs were about poverty, family and the joys and perils of love. He helped instill a sense of pride and community and folks won’t forget that…nor his cumbias.
Local dances are an integral part of courtship and the social scene. Even older couples like us still go to dances, ha! I have fond memories of seeing a sea of Indian faces dancing and gyrating with sweat pouring down their faces…and not wanting the music to ever stop! At first I was self-conscious and would hide in the middle of the dance floor but with practice became better at it and didn’t care if I got an occasional snicker; actually the locals did not expect a Gringo to dance at all so not only was I a brave sport but a good guy on top of that. Like language, it was simply a matter of jumping in and doing it. After a while it becomes second nature and great fun…one just has to get past one’s inhibitions.
Tropical music was and still is considered lower class music…the more affluent tend to shun it at their parties. Of course many of them don’t go to public dances either but that is their problem…some of my more affluent friends say tropical music is the music everyone likes but only the poor admit it…
The other type of music I first was exposed to was Huapango, not to be confused with huapachosa or tropical. Huapango came originally from Europe, a hybrid mixture of Spanish and gypsy and lots of other roots. But it was changed and became distinctly Mexican and is loved by many Mexicans; I prefer it to mariachi.
There are three instruments; a guitar, fiddle and type of mandolin. The songs are often humorous and contain double meanings – a trait that is typical of many things that are Mexican. But it also the saddest and most emotional music imaginable…the saddest thing one can hear is huapango being played at a funeral of someone that has died too young. The huapango musicians still do the rounds of the cantinas and for a dollar or two one can hear The Rooster, the Crocodile or La Malaguena, the song about the green, seductive eyes of the Spanish senoritas. If you are male and ever seen those eyes you know how they can stop you in your tracks…ha! As an objective observer, I have to admit these Spanish women are some of the most beautiful women on earth…and those that have done a more formal analysis say their beauty is in those green eyes…
I suppose had I been exposed to norteno or Banda music I would now prefer that type of music; but I wasn’t and don’t. Over the years I’ve come to appreciate other forms of music, but I still have my preferences. The one that has been most surprising to me is the burgeoning popularity of Banda.
Back in the old days I heard Banda music usually played by a rag tag bunch of guys that could not keep a tune. These groups that played Banda almost always had a tuba player and they were all so off key I would always laugh. Today the tuba is gone and the instruments are more on key and Banda has become one of Mexico’s most popular music styles. What was once was the very lowest of music on the social scale has now become mainstream. Go figure…
I also heard the older style music such as the trio music played by groups like Los Panchos. But I considered them old style love songs, pretty but for the oldsters. Very little beat and not really dance music. We Veracruzanos like to shuffle our feet…
What was popular back then and is still today are the songs of Pedro Infante, the well known actor. I have heard his songs blaring out of houses at various places throughout this trip…his version of Las Mananitas or Happy Birthday is still the standard. Over the years I probably have seen perhaps 20 or so of his movies and he made many more. He died in a plane crash and I’ve seen footage of his funeral where tens of thousand jammed the streets of Mexico City…folks crying inconsolably that their movie and song idol was dead. I have even had people tell me the plane crash was a hoax and he is still alive on some isolated ranch; he just got tired of always being in the public eye. But then the same is said of Elvis and Emiliano Zapata…if one is a true fan, death is very hard to take. And sometimes impossible.
I have also come to like the songs of Antonio Aguilar and Vicente Fernandez; two popular singer actors who are now getting on in years. They are most well known for being charros or Mexican cowboys and their music is what is called ranchero style. They too sang songs the poor could relate too…often songs about lost loves or favorite horses. A good number of their earlier movies were low budget and what we would call B Movies but I like them anyway…actually I prefer them.
I’ve adopted that ‘lower’ culture or rather it has adopted me and it has become a part of me. It is very distinct from my ‘refined’ American tastes and I make no apology for it at all and have never felt the need to do so. Folks that know me think it is incongruent…an Ivy Leaguer with such lower class Mexican tastes. But I did not adopt a university or upper class form of Mexican culture and quite honestly cannot relate to it.
What I can relate to is dancing to cumbias in the heat and humidity until I am soaked in sweat. I can relate to the mournful huapango and feel deep emotion when I hear certain songs. I can relate to the songs of Rigo Tovar like Matamoros Querido and the movies of Pedro Infante such as Pepe El Toro.
I filter my behaviors and thoughts through the Mexican culture I have adopted as my own. That is why folks sometimes ask me from what part of Mexico I come from…most recently they swear I am from a town called Zacamixtle where the locals are very white. For better or worse my thoughts are filtered through this culture and perception and I suppose to folks on both sides of the border it seems very odd…
But not to me. I love Veracruz as much as California and see no contradiction.
Mexico will remain an integral part of my psyche and spirit until the river mist visits me and I get my handful of dirt…and most likely even beyond that.
Jack D. Deal
The princess back then was Ismelda and I guess she worked hard to get high on the status totem pole, ha! I used to laugh because when she would dance she would show her underwear…I still think of it and chuckle today. Everybody would snicker of course except Mario, who must have been thinking something else when he married her. Actually I don’t think they got married but they did have several children and he had several other women as well… She got big and fat and ugly and nobody watched her show her underwear anymore. Eventually no one cared…not even Mario. When a princess’ beauty fades…that’s it. Life is tough for ex-princesses…ha!
I knew several of these hustler type guys and I must say they introduced me to a world I had never seen. There was Antonio that was always hustling guns and ammunition. Joaquin that dealt in Indian artifacts. And Jorge who said he was a lawyer but really wasn’t; he was just the nephew of some politician in Xalapa. Jorge was the one I remembered the most because he got in such a great deal of trouble with so many people that he had to leave Tierra Blanca. I caught a glimpse of him years later at the market in Poza Rica but he saw me too and vanished quickly in the crowd. The problem with being a hustler is you always are on the run from those you hustle, ha! I always wonder what these guys could have done had they done something constructive…but I guess it wasn’t in their nature. They always went for the big chested hot babes while they looked over their shoulder for someone that was ready to stick a knife in their gut…but once a hustler, always a hustler.
Then there was Ronaldo that wasn’t smart enough to hustle so he just swindled outright. A good hustler hustles you without your knowing it…but later when you realize what they’ve done they are gone. Ronaldo would file phony lawsuits – like the lady in California that claimed she found a severed finger in her food. I was hoping to catch Ronaldo on this trip but he was nowhere to be found. He had tricked a friend of his out of a piece of land and the friend was out for his blood…I don’t know why they do it…maybe it’s like Bill Clinton said, they do it because they can. And it makes no sense to swindle someone in your local neighborhood because hiding is much harder… especially in a small town with its Chisme Express.
I knew a lot of these guys but never did any ‘business’ with them. Like Vegas it was always a losing proposition…it was if ‘hustler’ was stamped on their foreheads.
But today I see a lot of young princesses walking around and I wonder what their futures will be. For sure they will have a string of kids because that is what they trade on. And often marry men like Ronaldo and Mario.
Of course all Mexican women are not princesses nor are all the men hustlers. But it is not uncommon today. Somehow both character types see some sort of cause and effect that is non-existent; they filter their behaviors through their perceptions and somehow it usually brings a life of misery or jail sentences. But it doesn’t matter; I wish them the best though their futures are almost always grim.
In the end it doesn’t matter what I think because perceptions, attitudes and behaviors won’t change simply on an outsider’s opinion. It doesn’t matter if one sees it a thousand times; one always figures it won’t happen to them. They will never marry a rat or get caught in a scam. Some reform but usually they don’t; they most likely end up becoming bitter as their beauty fades or their trickery catches up with them and no one believes their lies anymore.
It’s odd they don’t have much ambition so I haven’t met many of these character types that have crossed the river or walked through the desert. That’s hard and requires a great deal of work and fortitude. As well as learning some English. No, the princesses and hustlers remain in towns like Tierra Blanca while the honest and hardworking go north to look for work. That’s why it’s sad to see the immigrants across the board labeled criminals by my ignorant countrymen…
It’s a weeding out process where the good go to the States and the cruds stay in Mexico…I’ve always maintained that Mexico is the big loser with illegal immigration. I expect someday a knife or pistol will catch up with Mario and Ronaldo and Mexico might be the better for it, though I realize that is not the Christian thing to say. But hey, there’s nothing Christian about it anyway, no? In the end no one cares what I think anyway…I’m just a reflection of what I see and experience. It is my destiny to know the princesses and hustlers just like I know the quality folks like Angelica and Dr. G and Gabriel and my mother-in-law and the hundreds of illegals I have met in the States over the years.
No sociologist or psychologist could develop a better method for separating the good from the bad like the border seems to do…there is no character or personality test than can weed out the bad so effectively.
As I sit in the warm Veracruz afternoon sun I can think of many more princesses and hustlers. And dozens of illegals I’ve known in the States that were anything but criminals… though the bad ones exist everywhere and certainly we have our share in the States as well.
And there are of course other character types and many would say my ‘research’ is simply anecdotal and has no scientific basis. That may be…but I’ve known my share of types like Mario and Ronaldo. And the princesses like Ismelda that were fooled into marrying them…
In the end of course it doesn’t matter. We all will die and get our last fistful of dirt. The mist will creep up from the river and take us when our time has come. And certainly I don’t regret knowing these people even though I’m certain at times it has hurt my social status having been seen with them, ha! We humans are a strange lot and to understand us, one has to know all types. I’m richer for having known good folks like Timo, Dr. G and Gabriel; but I’m also richer for having known their opposites in the likes of Mario, Ronaldo and the presumptuous Humberto. They form a part of the human mosaic as well and maybe we all carry around pieces of their characters in us. Many philosophers and students of the human condition say good and evil are relative and it’s just a matter of which takes priority.
It will soon be time to start heading back to California and I’m a bit nostalgic thinking of all those I did and did not get to see on this trip. I’ll sit back in my office and wonder why we got the way we are and how social evolution will look in the next hundred years. Of course I won’t be around then but I can say I’ve seen a heck of a lot in my day and known all sorts of people.
And I’ll be thankful I didn’t marry a princess nor go into business with a hustler…
Jack D. Deal
Our march from the depths of ignorance began millions of years ago and continues today. The cause and effect syndrome reaches the high and the mighty and none of us are exempt. We say the country is in ruins because the Democrats are in power or the Republicans are in power. Or the PRI, the PAN or the PRD. We call one a heathen that does not believe as we do…
In Mexico, many believe a child is born deaf or mute because the pregnant mother got a fright without thinking that if that were true, we would all be deaf or mute.
Fidel and Hugo and Marcos are what the Mexicans call radishes; red on the outside yet something else on the inside. Those that live under their tyrannies hide in jungles, cringe in fear or languish in prison. The Juan Perezes that live under them become simple minded as they ignore any cognitive dissonance that does not tow the party line – just where the tyrants want to keep them.
And so it goes. I awaken to a New Year this morning and all is quiet. All the party goers are back home in bed or passed out wherever they fell last night…I wonder what the new year will bring and with it perhaps some hope…but year after year the pessimism and cynicism does not diminish. And at times there seems to be so little hope…I only hope this is not the year of the perfect storm and we can all make it through…
But it is a new day and we didn’t get drunk or stay up all night. There is an eerie quiet about…probably the quietest morning of the year. We decide to go to the market -- the very poor work every day they can, even New Year’s. And since we didn’t spend all our money on booze and dance, we can buy some good food and hot coffee…
I get a coffee and nibble on some roscas or twisted plain pastries. Also some pemoles or sweetened corn meal cookies. I’ve only had pemoles in Veracruz state. We also buy some alfahores or flat molasses corn meal cookies. Alfahores are becoming ‘extinct’ and harder to find. Delicious with coffee in the early morning…
My head is clear, the sun is bright and the New Year is beginning to look like it may have some promise after all, ha! I am one of those that wear my emotions on my sleeve and today my emotions are picking up…hopefully the day will be one of positive adventure and not one of negativity…a good way to start the year, no?
As the morning wears on the market begins to come to life. The chit-chat, the bargaining, the complaints of high prices and the neighborhood gossip. Life is good; at least this morning.
I’m reminded there are good people, decent people. People that don’t steal or ask you to be less ambitious for their own personal benefit. People that don’t gossip about you incessantly or complain about all their problems every time they see you. With the New Year comes encouragement…
The Mexicans are the happiest people on earth maybe because they are the friendliest…as you can see, once a friend, always a friend…
As you can tell by now, I once had more friends in Mexico than in the U.S. That still might be true…I saw my old pal Humberto though I did not recognize him. He must have put on an extra 100 pounds since I last saw him. He did not marry that well though he is still married; he has that kind of sullen look of one who endures instead of lives… He was always a bit presumptuous because he has a cattle ranch…I thought maybe since his four brothers had died he might have changed. But obviously the trauma of close numerous deaths of close relatives was not enough to cause him to change…he still maintains that air of arrogance though I could never understand why.
He often would put down others, including me, so that he could somehow remain on his perceived pedestal. One would rationally think that when the grim reaper or the mist from the river pays a visit all around one, things would change. But not him. He will carry his sullenness to the grave; but not his pesos nor cattle. He was nicer back in the old days but he had to marry the cute chica with the really short dresses; a sure sign of trouble from my humble point of view. She must weight 200 plus now and the cuteness has long gone with the short skirts; another example that one should be careful of both who and what one marries, ha…
Humberto introduced me to his wife and she was literally twice as big as I remember. She turns to him and gives him a string of insults, a sure sign of trouble on the home front. Angelica and I sure have had our share of problems but one thing we never do is bring them to others, not even close family. If we disagree, it’s in private. Humberto’s wife has turned into a real rough wench and of course I’m very curious why but remain discreet in my research. It could have been another woman; it often is with Mexican men. But they can’t divorce, because their bitchy wife will take all the assets…so they must endure. And endure he does. I can hardly stand to be around her for five minutes, let alone for a lifetime. She’s bitter and angry and it shows…she starts making comments about me and Americans and even my wife…how Angelica should cut her hair and wear makeup. I just smile and am thankful I didn’t marry a pig like her. Angelica smiles and pats me on the shoulder – ‘I keep telling you how lucky you are -- you married the pearl’. Humberto must think so too...
I never was attracted to the ones in mini-skirts I tell her…they leave so little to the imagination, ha… Angelica whacks me good naturedly and I can see Humberto and his wife looking back at us. I think he was critical of me once for marrying an Indian looking wife. But there is justice after all, I guess, though I certainly wish him no ill will…but he made his own bed and is now doomed to sleep in it or rather endure it. Or on the couch more likely. And have to listen to that crab night and day…
I could see even back then the patterns of life and my Cien Anos de Soledad. I could tell that marrying the slick chica back then would bring trouble later on in life. But to tell you the truth, I didn’t give it much thought back then either. I suppose I just married who I wanted to and didn’t think twice about it…poor Humberto courted his wench for several years before her parents agreed to her marriage. I didn’t even get to ask him about his kids because she would probably start cursing at me. Funny how that justice comes around and I’ve seen that in numerous times on the trip…with Timo and some of my amigos that have departed this earth.
So I start the New Year thinking about the years past. And how I’m not bitter and resentful and hate my spouse. Nor my children nor my life. I think that how lucky I was as a teenager to have had some worldly experience and was not stupid to marry a wench like Humberto. I’ll go happy and full of gratitude for all I’ve seen and experienced with few regrets if any. I will not leave a fortune but then a fortune was not my destiny. Humberto will probably die with lots more money but he will in fact be much poorer…an arrogant, sad and broken man.
So don’t get angry at those that feel they are superior to you; they will get what they deserve. They always do. There is some kind of justice out there though I was not inclined to snicker or rub it in to Humberto. His sullen and sad eyes tell it all…his destiny is one of remorse and regret. His sadness has even begun to trump his arrogance so it must be terrible. If anything, I pity him…
And his pay back is having to look at that horrible wench every day for the rest of his life…or even worse, having to listen to her…to paraphrase an old saying, arrogance is its own reward.
Jack D. Deal
Two of the girls have babies but no husband, he continues, the one almost finished school and was going to be a teacher but she got pregnant instead. Now she works in a store.
The smarter boy also went to school but he fell in love and chose to have a family and go to work. He now drives a truck; I wanted him to be a doctor. We haven’t spoken in over six years now. It’s sad he would choose another family over us, but that is what he did. We had a big argument and that was it.
I reassure him that families, especially boys, are like that. Look at me, I laugh, I went my own way and am still doing it.
Si amigo, but you are a world traveler, he laughs, and a gringo. We are just poor Mexicanos…
Maybe, I reply, but we are all human. Some day your son will come back and you will be so happy…and to see those grandkids you have never seen.
You are of course right as usual, he laughs. And you have gotten even wiser with the years…me; I’m just as simple as always. We both laugh…
I want to ask you a question that has been bothering me, amigo, he asks, and hopefully you don’t take offense to it. I’ve been wondering about it for some time now and…would it be all right to ask you?
Sure, I answer, as long as I can ask you one back.
Very well, then he sighs. Your countrymen ask us Mexicans to come and do the work you won’t do -- like wash dishes, clean rooms, pick vegetable and clean up after a messy hurricane. But it seems like you hate us, including your very President. Why is that? One of my daughters works in the U.S. with her husband…they both have two jobs and pay taxes and Social Security…why does your country now want to treat them like criminals and want to build that fence?
I don’t immediately answer but stare at him with what must be empty eyes. It’s a question I’ve been asked numerous times on the trip and one I cannot answer.
I’m sorry amigo for asking, he finally says. I know it’s not you…
Oh, no, I finally answer, I know you meant no harm in it and it’s a great question -- one that I keep asking myself. I’m embarrassed and ashamed. We Americans like to think of ourselves as being independent and powerful and a world leader. But I am ashamed. It certainly appears that my country uses Mexican labor when convenient and then complains when inconvenient. The whole immigration issue took many decades to develop and will not be solved in a year or two. My countrymen view Mexico as corrupt and inept and unable to do anything to create internal jobs. I have no answer to you except to say it’s politics and fear and hypocrisy. Your daughter and her husband are creating wealth and prosperity for our country and don’t break any laws. Yet somehow our petty politicians associate them with terrorists and narcos. It makes no sense and is a matter of great shame for us…hopefully we won’t build the wall nor make criminals out of hardworking folks like your daughter. I don’t have an easy answer for you and feel embarrassed….
Ok, amigo, he laughs, that is a good honest answer. Now, what is your question?
For many years you watched your mother practice brujeria or witchcraft, I say…
We like to say curandera, not bruja, he laughs…
Ok, curandera. I watched her treat her patients with great respect and to this day wonder if there is something behind her skills or was it just a highly developed sense of people skills…and, amigo, did you inherit any of that from her?
Tough question, amigo, he answers, and I’ll try my best to give you a good answer…
She once told me she would teach me her craft if I wanted to learn…she said she could travel without physically leaving her body and go through walls and such… I never wanted to do that so I never took her up on her offer. But I can relate to you what people told me about her…
There was a young girl with an incurable disease and her parents brought her from Mexico City to see my mother. A doctor there said she needed an operation and my mother told them to go ahead with the operation – she always supported modern medicine and never saw a conflict. Sometime later the parents returned with their daughter and she was better – they brought my mom presents and thanked her for her help. While in surgery, the little girl said she saw my mom standing over her with the doctors…I’m not sure what that means, amigo…
Another time a neighbor of ours said she saw my mother outside a restaurant in Mexico City. My mother never went to Mexico City…a week later the woman mysteriously died….
I have to tell you honestly I don’t know or understand about her powers. I know she had great people skills, like you said. I inherited that part from her. I can tell when someone one wants to say something and doesn’t and I have a way of talking with people that puts them at ease…and sometimes I admit I can get them to do what I want them to do…I know I have that power and I have to be careful and not abuse it. Many have told me I should go into politics…ha! So there you have it…and I’m afraid I did not answer your question…
No, you did, I answer…I could not expect more. But I think often of that day I went with you to see your mom at work and I still wonder about it…we always hope for easy answers but many times there are none. We learn that with age I guess…
Arturo stands and walks to the door. He sees some of his neighbors walking by…’Teresa, vente’ he motions to one of them.
He introduces me to Teresa, a young woman in her late twenties.
‘Teresa is a teacher’, he explains, ‘tell my gringo friend here what it was like to cross the border to the other side’.
‘Ah senor, it was very unpleasant,’ she begins, ‘this was last year. I had just received my teaching credential and was assigned to a small school in Hidalgo State. It was so remote the only way in was by horse. I did not want to go there so I decided to go to Texas and work. It was a nightmare’.
‘The first time I borrowed money from my family and went to Reynosa. I asked around and was taken to what looked like an auto repair shop. But they did not fix cars there. We went through the back and there was a print shop…they took my picture and made me a card they said was a visa to cross the border. That card cost me 4,000 pesos and was useless, as I later found out. I was arrested at the crossing and spent two weeks in jail…it was horrible.’
‘The second time I hired a coyote from the next town over. It cost me 12,000 pesos and he took maybe 15 of us across at Piedras Negras. It was night and very dark. In the middle of the night, in the dark, he left us. I was afraid for my life and ran away from the group…I could hear women scream in the distance. The next morning the border patrol caught me and I was back in jail. I stayed two days and they took me back to the border…’
‘The third and last time I went with another coyote and he promised to deliver us or give us our money back – a sure thing he told us. We crossed west of Reynosa at night and walked all the next day through the brush, it was very hard walking. We made it above the 20 mile checkpoint where the coyote told us a car was to be waiting for us to take us to San Antonio. Instead, the migra saw us. The coyote told us he would kill us if we told on him so we said nothing…that was the last time I tried to go…since then I have worked as a teacher for very little pay. I will never try to cross again…it was not meant to be for me.’
I thanked her for her story and said goodbye to Arturo, promising to stop by and see him again on my next trip.
Don’t forget me amigo, he said wiping his eyes, we have that bond of friendship that is so very strong…we both will carry that to our graves.
I know, amigo, I answered, I know…
Jack D. Deal
Generally speaking, usted is a more formal and tu is informal. For example, I always use usted with my mother-in-law but tu with my family. Usted is usually used for those older than oneself; tu with one’s contemporaries. Tu is used universally with children; except for maybe a royal prince or princess, ha! Those are the general rules but as the saying goes, rules are to be broken.
In Mexico City, tu is used if one is an acquaintance, regardless of age. So kids use tu with their parents. But in Veracruz, kids seldom if ever use tu with parents or elders.
With Dr. G; he and I have used tu since we have known each other. Yet very few people use tu with him as he is a respected elder. He uses usted with my wife and she addresses him as usted as well.
With Timo, I always use tu. But he uses usted with me; he says he can’t get around my American status even though I ask him to -- even though he is 25 years older than me and we have known each other for many years.
For the foreigner, the safest way is to use usted; otherwise the use of tu could be seen as a sign of disrespect or rudeness. But if your intent is to be disrespectful and rude, go for it! I tend to not be that way, as much out of self-preservation as courtesy, ha! But it’s your call and the best way to learn about usage is to use it…that’s the way we humans learn. And notice if someone is addressing you as ‘tu’; that could be a sign they are more comfortable with you…but don’t trust my simple guidelines here…you need to learn for yourself.
There are also other words one uses that can be misconstrued. When I first came to Mexico as a teenager, folks would call me muchacho or boy. At first I thought it might be a sign of rudeness but later I learned that muchacho could be used synonymously with young person. And even today, an ‘elderly’ person may refer to me as a muchacho…and I’m not offended one bit! After all like Einstein said, it’s all relative, no? Ha…
And then there is the issue of nicknames or apodos. What a mess for the foreigner! For instance, where Timo lives, they almost don’t use given names at all. Someone may be named Juan but is known as Flaco or Gato…Thin One or Cat. For those of you that are too politically correct, this will be unnerving as often one’s nickname or apodo is based on personal appearance. A really fat woman may be known by all as ‘la Gorda’ instead of her real name. In the U.S., to call someone Fatty most likely will be taken as an insult. In a nearby town there are some girls called las Borregas or sheep and you can imagine for yourself what that’s all about…
Timo has a friend that is known as El Pato or duck. He is short, has a puffed out chest and walks with a waddle from side to side. I don’t think Timo even knows El Pato’s given name, ha! But El Pato doesn’t complain…he even refers to himself by that name.
I have to admit I actually like it and find it humorous – that’s the Veracruzano in me. For example, someone called the raisin or Pasita may be shriveled and have raisin-like skin. Someone called El Raton may have a face that reminds one of a rat. So why are all you foreigners so hung up on propriety these days? Ha!... Why must we gringos be so judgmental? I can easily think of a few choice words in Spanish for that, ha! So my advice is leave all your hang-ups and anxieties back home when you come to visit Mexico…both you and we Mexicans will be better off…and get along just fine! What’s that saying, ‘when in Rome, do as the Romans do?
And forget your cultural superiority complexes as well. Culture is relative and it’s always easy to criticize…much harder to assimilate and understand. We Americans aren’t called the Ugly Americans for nothing, ha! Of course I have to admit some of us are literally pretty ugly too! Ha! So instead of getting all upset about it maybe you could take a lesson from the Veracruzanos and have a good laugh about it…it’s much healthier and can save you lots of pesos in therapies and Prozac, ha! What, you’re still offended? Just don’t complain about all your sadness and cultural depression: the Veracruzanos just won’t understand or give you sympathy. Maybe in Veracruz we’ll call you Llorona or crybaby…or maybe you can be like me and come to Veracruz to escape all that neurotic mess…ha! It does wear on me…
Our best hope is that we create a greater understanding and improve our economic and political relationships to fit the realities.
But don’t trust my opinion. I could certainly be wrong and I sure hope I am on this one. Mexico has become the most important foreign country for the U.S. and what happens here is of extreme importance for all Americans.
Maybe it’s time we learned more about our neighbor; both in terms of culture and language. Think about it and come to your own conclusions and opinions…you now know some of mine.
I just hope I’m way off on this one…que piensas tu?
Jack D. Deal
Not having had coffee or anything since dawn, we pull over at a palapa or hut restaurant. I let Angelica pick these places and she always knows best…ha!
They make their own chorizo here so I order chorizo and eggs with enchiladas huastecas with queso fresco or fresh cheese and black beans. Angelica orders the cecina or skirt steak with enchiladas and black beans. The older lady or dona cooks right in front of us and it is very delicious. The cecina is seasoned with lemon juice and is far superior to anything I had in the cities. She keeps making more enchiladas and more tortillas and asks me if I want more chorizo – she made an entire frying pan full! How many times when you go out do they keep bringing you more food until you have had your fill?
I strike up a conversation with the owner and he tells me about his water woes. He points out to the highway and a hose running across it…that is my water source he says. He has bought all kinds of hoses but now gets a special high pressure hose from the U.S. that lasts at least six months. You Americans make some great products he laughs. To get a permit to dig a trench on the highway might cost 50 or 100 thousand pesos. Then the construction.
There are 80 families on his side of the road that do not have water. I am reminded that as we head further south, progress is not consistent. They have to get their water in buckets or containers. Can you imagine the problem that presents? he asks. He says he has a property less than a kilometer away and that has a good water source but it is in bedrock and he cannot dig it. The rock is so hard he has not been able to dig a well. I tell him that in the States folks don’t have those kinds of wells and there are machines that can drill a small hole down through just about anything. He seems surprised and thanks me for the information. Just think what we could do with water, he muses. 80 families without water is a lot, I think…
We continue south through what we Californians would call the Sierra foothills. We cross the large sugar cane fields and we can see the processing plants belching out their black smoke…one has to wonder what living near one is like. The vegetation begins to change to more tropical, the prices drop and the inhabitants are more distinctly Indian. I see numerous campaign posters for Lopez Obrador. Within a distance of maybe 20 kilometers it turns from chaparral to jungle and the mountains are covered in a lush green. This area is one of my favorite areas in all of Mexico. The music, the food and the people. It is almost Christmas and we see huapango musicians playing in roadside restaurants. The streams and rivers are clear and women are washing their clothes on the riverbanks.
We turn off the main highway and head up to Xilitla; a small mountain town famous for the eccentric gardens of one James Edward, a dilettante that Salvador Dali called a true surrealist. Edward was supposedly the illegitimate son of the King and inherited an enormous fortune that was obtained during the heyday of the British Empire. Some say he came to the jungle to avoid having to serve in World War II where tens of thousands of his fellow countrymen died fighting Hitler. Having lots of time and unlimited resources, he built what has to be one of the whackiest gardens on earth.
In the middle of the jungle he built, with a few friends and lots of cheap Mexican labor, an elaborate series of steps and concrete structures. He built the entire park for his own private pleasure park and as a consequence, some of the steps and structures are not really safe. So if you go for a visit and have kids, watch them carefully. The part I liked the best was series of pools or ‘pozas’ including a series of waterfalls. On a hot day they would be great for swimming…
It is somewhat ironic that he built something as opulent and extravagant as his gardens in a region that is so very poor. We saw young boys, maybe 12 or 14 years old, working with machetes clearing the jungle away from the side of the highway. I couldn’t help but wonder if they were the only available labor force, all the other men having gone to Monterrey, Reynosa or points north.
The gardens are impressive but unfortunately James Edward wasn’t. He was a truly selfish man that left no provision for the continued care of his gardens and pools…today the concrete structures are crumbling and the jungle is winning. The jungle always wins. At some point the rain and sun will cause more damage to the concrete structures and it will all go back to the way it was. Just like other jungle ruins.
We leave the gardens and head to the town of Axtla, noted for the trees that line the one kilometer entrance. This is the Mexico I remember from 30 plus years ago. If we monolingual Americans would learn some Spanish we would not have to go so far to find exotic lands and places…it’s all to be found with our southern neighbor a relatively short distance from the Texas border.
The difference in the urban and rural folk is striking to me, as it is in most urban-rural comparisons worldwide. Such as is the price of progress…The people are warm, friendly and do not have that hard metropolitan edge we city folk get. No people can be expected to live in the past and everyone wants the amenities that modern life brings. But it comes with a price. We become hardened and less social animals. We build walls and fences to keep those less fortunate out. We don’t want to associate with those below us on the socioeconomic ladder even as we relentlessly pursue our own upward mobility. I could see it in the faces, voices and laughter of those that haven’t become totally obsessed by that which they do not have.
We stay at one of the few hotels in town. It has everything Mexican and reminds me of the older hotels I used to stay in. The leaky faucets, the thin sheets; a mattress with the plastic wrapping still on it. The receptionist gives us a roll of toilet paper and a towel; no other items like shower caps or mouthwash.
We are hungry and go out for a walk. We stop for coconut water and Angelica buys a tamale for three pesos or about a quarter. It is wrapped in banana leaves and is far better than anything sold in Watsonville for a dollar plus. We see a procession of the faithful carrying a stature of the Virgin on their way to a Posada or Christmas fiesta. The participants are asking for rest or posada on their journey. Although certainly not very faithful I wonder where Angelica and I will spend Christmas day…like in many parts of the world I am certain most stores will be closed.
At night I lay awake listening to the sounds of Mexico; the busses, trucks, dogs barking and children shouting as they play in the street. I think of the Mexico I once knew and hope that it will always be available to me, though I know that progress is spreading and I will have to go further and further to find it.
There is a dance in the center of town tonight and we hear it whether we want to or not. They play several songs I somewhat recognize and then start into the rap stuff. In another ten or twenty years I may have to be like Traven and travel deep into the jungles to escape progress.
Or at least the rap…
Jack D. Deal
Dr. G pulled out a folder of poems and prose he has written over the last few years. ‘My kid’s inheritance’ he laughs. Such is life and death. I did not realize he could write so well…his writing was insightful and beautiful. I commented how his words just flowed with the Spanish…
It’s that Romance language once again, he laughs, it’s built that way – anyone with minimal ability can write a good poem in Spanish but only someone like Shakespeare can write a good poem in English. I tell him that maybe there were a few more poets besides Shakespeare and he laughs.
Spanish was made to express ones emotions, such as love. English was made to say things as fast as possible, like in business, no gringo? That’s why the women like us more, he laughs again.
Could be, I counter, but we get to the point a lot faster, I laugh back. I’m sure we could carry on for weeks like this but sooner or later I’ve got to get back to the road…and it has to be sooner.
We left Dr. G’s and is customary did not say goodbye. I’ll be back in the near future. Monterrey is a great commercial center and a great place to do business…I thanked him profusely for all his thoughts, ideas and perceptions he left with me. I’ve got lots to think and write about over the holidays.
Monterrey is great but I’m glad to be out of the big city and had for Ciudad Victoria. Little did I know that Ciudad Victoria was now a large city too!
Cd. Victoria was the first place I stayed in Mexico. Back in the old days – ha! – if one wanted to head down the Gulf Coast one had to go through Victoria and then Cd. Mante. I remember several things about my first day in Mexico – the U.S. Congressman that was ahead of me at line at the Mexican immigration and how he left in a huff over ‘all the red tape’. I remember them asking me how much money I had and wanting to see my traveler’s checks. Those were the hippie days and many hippie Gringos would go to Mexico with no money and ‘live off the land’. That was one I could never figure out…
My first night I stayed in a very simple hotel that reminded me of the southern European ‘pension’ or cheap room. I think it was a $1.25 US or something like that. There was no inside bathroom. Later that night I ate my first jalapeno and got ‘enchilado’. I also ate the sweetest tasting tangerine I ever had. It was actually ripe. Driving into Victoria today I was surprised to see shopping mall after shopping mall, American style. I stopped at an ATM and then we went to Burger King. At 3:00 in the afternoon it was packed.
There were a few corporate BK modifications of course. There was no self service soda fountain but a dedicated employee to filling soft drinks. I realized the same was true of napkins…Everything is a cost to BK and it occurred to me it was cheaper to hire to control the flow… There was an American breakfast and a Mexican breakfast menu. The American breakfast had things like a sausage and egg biscuit and the Mexican menu burritos. There are some that claim the burrito is not Mexican and I never had a burrito in Mexico before they got popular in the U.S. And unlike our other experiences in the past few days, there was no charge for parking or using the bathroom. It’s all a cost included in the price.
There were a series of contests involving the Super Bowl. I picked up the blurb…It was filled with words like ‘yardas’, touchdown and steak burger. One had to go to burgerking.com.mx to participate and I wondered how many of the clientele had Internet. Probably most…
The food was twice as much and took 10 times longer to get. It was Christmas so maybe that was why it was so packed. All modern Mexican suburbanites with t-shirts reading USA or Tampa Bay Buccaneers. Some larger, extended families were there and they could have spent several hundred dollars there that afternoon. Good for BK…hopefully a nasty devaluation isn’t in the works but I’m sure they have a contingency plan if it does…for right now they have it fat, ha!
We decide to spend the night and drive through town and stop at an Auto Hotel. I had never been to one and never seen them in the States. Angelica and I need to get out more often.
One drives into an Auto Hotel and honks the horn for the attendant. There is no real office…the attendant writes down your license plate and takes your money. No registration. He opens up the electric garage door and motions for me to drive in the car. Angelica asks where the door is and he laughs. The room was immaculate and very modern. A huge bed with opposing wall mirrors. I was beginning to get the picture….
The attendant says two beers are included and he brings them back via an outside dumb waiter. He says we can order dinner or whatever we like as well…
Angelica opens up the Hotel brochure and it says only two adults per room. Babies up to 2 years old are permitted but not any older than that. I turn on the TV for the news and it all falls into place…of the three channels, two were hard core. What a business model, I remark.
Tourists seldom drive to Mexico anymore. They fly to Cancun or Acapulco and fly back…they do not have the time to drive. In fact, all the US license plates we have seen on the trip are folks going to see relatives for the holidays. Tourists like us can of course stay at the Auto Hotels but it’s the Mexicans that mostly stay there. One can go to the Auto Hotel with their boyfriend or girlfriend and remain anonymous. This is important if one needs to maintain a low profile…from what I can gather the divorce courts frown heavily on any extramarital activities. I saw several cars come in while we were there and it looked like some secretive drug deal…ha! Such is life and the Auto Hotel business model…
We adventurers want to see and do it all and there was my contrast…from a simple ‘pension’ room to an Auto Hotel in one lifetime. From pulling my Honda motorcycle into a small room overnight to pulling my Honda Accord into an Auto Hotel carport. From eating my first jalapeno to eating my first international Whopper.
If in the end it is a matter of contrast…and my Mexico has plenty!
Jack D. Deal
I go with her into the voter registration office and not once does anyone even remotely hint at asking us for money! It has truly been a government of change as the signs say. The office is called Instituto Federal de Elecciones or IFE for short. The name is a great example of the cognate or root words in English and Spanish and should be easily understood by English speakers.
The staff is friendly, helpful and work directly off computers. More change. They work off a national database of voters to prevent fraud; again, more change. In the old days it was more of the vote early and often style…but no longer.
She has all her paperwork but there are some problems. Part of the requirements is you have to put your colonia or neighborhood on documents and she did not know the name of the new neighborhood growing near the farm. The employee looks it up and finally finds it: Progreso. There is also a problem with cross streets as she does not know them either. Again he looks them up on the map and adds them to her application.
And finally the number of the house. The phone bill she takes with her as proof of residence is not the same number as the actual address. The phone bill says the house number is 19 and the number is actually 26. There have been seven new addresses added on her street in the past 10 years! Finally all the data is entered correctly, she takes a picture and fingerprint. We are told to come back in 10 days and her credential will be ready. I still am surprised no one even hinted at asking for a bribe…
Mexicans living abroad are now able to vote from outside Mexico just as we in the U.S. can vote by absentee ballot. Before it was only possible to vote if a Mexican were physically in Mexico. With the new registration number she can request an absentee ballot be sent directly to our house in California. To me, this is real progress. Angelica feels very strongly about her civic duty and responsibility of voting.
We Americans need to remind ourselves there are many folks worldwide that are either prevented from voting or vote in elections that are filled with fraud. Having seen fraudulent voting for so many years before 2000 in Mexico, she takes it very seriously. She is also a ‘poll watcher’ in our local precinct back home. She did not get this from me; I always vote but am not much of civic or political activist type. Maybe I would be had I been born in a country where these freedoms were not so free…
After finishing the paperwork we decide to go to Tuxpan where we lived for a summer after I finished college. Once again, I could not believe the change! The first thing I noticed was the absence of the transit police driving into town. In the old days it was certainly commonplace to be pulled over and asked for a moridida even if doing nothing wrong…I’m getting to like this new Mexico!
We go to our old favorite restaurant that is still open and order a Tampiquena or skirt steak with enchiladas, black beans and salad. We hadn’t eaten anything since early in the morning and were hungry. Afterwards I ordered a café con leche or coffee with milk. I first had this type of coffee when I was in Spain. The concentrated coffee is brought out in a pot and poured first. Then the milk so one can actually order it to taste. The milk was directly from the cow but boiled first and so has a very different taste. Angelica remarks that it is the Latin version of latte and I guess she’s right on that…it does taste similar.
We walk around downtown and visit some stores we used to go to. We go to the park where we used to have licuados or fruit drinks when we were novios before we were married. Those were the old days and it seems like I’ve been married to her all my life, which is almost true…
We go by some shoeshine boys and I look at her shoes that still are caked with some mud from the island trip. I ask the boy how much and he replies ten pesos. He puts a protective piece inside her shoe so she does not get shoe polish on her socks. He then goes through a whole series of gyrations and polishes as only the shoeshine boys of Mexico can do. I remember seeing the Cantinflas movie where he plays a shoeshine boy…funny how I remember that. The shoeshine boy even shines her shoelaces and I give him a tip…he deserved it for sure.
We walk past our old apartment and I take a picture. I remember the students I taught struggling with the English accent,...
Like Mexico I suppose over the years I have changed too.
Later that night we stop by some friends and they have a boy in first grade. I was surprised how he told me he wants to learn English and will have three semesters of English in elementary school. I have seen this desire everywhere I have been; both from parents and students alike.
And again wonder why the one million kids in California that enter the first grade not knowing English don’t have more incentive…or their immigrant parents. Que pasa?
Jack D. Deal
We make a wrong turn at Tampico and go an hour out of our way before realizing our mistake. In Mexico the highway traveler should always verify the highway number when heading out of a town, ha!
We go through several military checkpoints and they glance at what we have in the back. Clearly we are not smuggling drugs, guns or people. The soldier’s simply ask where are you coming from, where you are going and have a nice trip. I suppose it makes Mexico safer but I’m not sure…They seem to be really searching the busses as many Guatemalans and other Central Americans take busses to go up to border. Many Americans don’t realize it but Mexico has a bad illegal alien problem on its southern border.
At Estacion Manuel we pull over at a roadside restaurant. Angelica picked it because it was run by women. She was right – the food was great. Many Americans and tour books have a great fear of all but the top of the line restaurants in Mexico. That is stupid…look at all the Mexicans that eat there and don’t get sick. If a restaurant serves bad food, it goes out of business. Simple. Go to restaurants that are busy and you will be fine…silly gringos.
Angelica strikes up a conversation with the owner as she usually does. Sometimes it seems a bit awkward to me but she does it naturally. The owner has four daughters; two working in the restaurant and two living in the U.S.
Those are bonds that link the two countries in ways we Americanos cannot imagine; at least those that don’t have family in Mexico. It is also why Mexicans don’t pay attention to the likes of Castro and Chavez; Mexico has much closer ties to the U.S. I can’t remember Castro ever saying anything good about Mexico – only insults. And even though my comprehension of Spanish is 100%, I don’t know what the heck Chavez is saying, ha!
I also wonder about another effect that is going on: with so many Mexicans in the U.S, they have to be bringing back a fair amount of our culture. Though they bring back both the good and bad, let’s hope it’s mostly good.
We talk about the poverty we have seen in the past few weeks and disagree. I say it’s a culture unto itself; Angelica says it’s nothing more than ignorance. Look at Timo, she says, look at the wives and children he left in poverty: that’s ignorance and a lack of principle. I agree to a certain extent but if it is so widespread, it has to be cultural too, no? But whatever it is, it is certainly a vicious cycle.
We both agree that if one marries wrong, it presents problems throughout life. We go through the people we know and have seen on this trip and that appears to be the case. Maybe that is why in the old days it was tougher to get married…today it’s as easy as paying a fee. Or just moving in together to see if maybe things will work out…
Certainly the personal problems that one has are directly proportional to how well one marries. Of course that does not mean ‘upward’ marrying or trying to elevate one’s socioeconomic status. That often does not involve love and without love any marriage is doomed…I think, no?
The children suffer greatly too. On this trip we have seen numerous instances of how parents leave their kids with the grandparents. No one seems to think this is much of a big deal except of course the kids. The trauma it inflicts is severe and parents must not be thinking about their children when they leave them as often this is done for personal and not financial reasons.
But these problems of course are not just limited to Mexico. They are everywhere though we have seen them many times already on our trip here.
We get into Monterey and get lost. Foreign drivers in Mexico should understand that road signs, even on the autopistas or freeways, are lacking. Street signs are optional and often illegible. We are close and Angelica suggests we hire a cab to take us to Dr. G’s. Great idea! We arrive in five minutes and never would have found it otherwise though we had been there before.
Dr. G is so happy to see us and gives me his house keys; of course your house is my house, amigo. He truly means it.
We talk briefly about my adventures since we last met and I apologize for being sickly. I made no plans for tonight, he said, I figured you would be tired from the drive.
I apologize for having to go to bed and take another cold pill. Angelica makes me a cup of orange tea and I drink it. I have the chills so it’s not just a head cold; it could be the flu, turista or dengue. I think about all those bugs and mosquitoes that bit me on the island. Let’s just hope…Angelica is fine. She didn’t get a single chigger bite…I have maybe a dozen. Must be that white German skin the bugs love…a different item on their menu no doubt…On my first trip I was bitten once by maybe 100 chiggers and I was miserable for a month…
I doze in and out of my fever chills and am reminded how illness can change one’s perceptions. I dream about language and meaning and fluency. I also dream in Spanish now, it takes me a month or so to get back in my fluent Spanish mode in Mexico since most of my work in the U.S. is in English. I think of Timo and the island and the elementary school in Nuevo Laredo. The truly impressive progress Mexico has made in the last five years. Of Gabriel’s kids. How a culture and a people can improve if they stand up for what they believe in… How we Americans are largely ignorant of our southern neighbor.
At midnight I wake up drenched in sweat. That is supposed to be a sign the fever is breaking…a good sign.
I feel weak today but much better after 14 hours of sleep. It was probably some type of flu bug and not dengue. When I first came to Mexico the problem was malaria which has been eradicated. Let’s hope dengue will take the same path. But I suppose there will always be something…maybe the bird flu is next.
I remember my wife’s grandmother talking about the flu pandemic of 1918 in Mexico and how on the ranches they just loaded up the dead bodies on animals and buried them in a common grave. Let’s hope that never happens again…
I’m not sure how much adventure I can handle today but something will happen…if you put yourself in that position it always does…and for that I will be eternally grateful. It is the third most important thing in my life…ha! Wasn’t that Maslow’s pyramid? Ha…
Jack D. Deal
It’s about an hour by boat and the ride is nice though we get pretty wet. The only way to get there is by boat or helicopter and I was wondering why helicopters come to such a remote place. I’ll leave that one up for your imagination…
The island is largely pristine covered in heavy jungle growth. Iguanas are everywhere and I thought once again of Von Humboldt and also Darwin. Isolated animals as isolated humans seem to go their own way and that is usually not mainstream. In California the term is diversity. We ride around the island several times before landing on a small beach. The birds were plentiful and there were no humans in sight. Not even any Germans, ha! In fact, I realized I haven’t seen any gringos for weeks…it has been many years since I have had that experience, ha!
I walk into the jungle a few feet and like real jungle elsewhere, realize it is in fact almost impenetrable. Except maybe with guides with machetes…I have had the same experience in the Yucatan jungle. The worst part would be getting lost…even on an island as small as Los Toros. It can’t be more than a quarter of a mile on each side.
We had seen all we could and got back in the boat. On the way back Timo told me more about his many wives and lost children. His story was one filled with simple adventures with work and women in different regions throughout Mexico. Again he says at 80 he has decided to settle down and stay with Juana. He says his only other girlfriend now is death…a joke that is more than just partly true.
Of course there are always two sides to every love break up. That’s one truth I have seen throughout the years. Timio always seems to have had what he thought were his good reasons for leaving his wife, sometimes pregnant or with a small baby. What future would they have with a poor man like me? he asked. I don’t question his motives nor second guess them but realize I am only getting half the story…such is life. Men and women have always been like that and always will… It does not seem to bother him that he has children he has never seen. It is a fact of life for him…
We get back to his hut and Juana has fixed ceviche and fried fish. Delicious. I can clearly say that before I die I will have eaten some of the best food on the planet. We finish it off with coconuts he cuts from a nearby palm. They are filled with juice. Again delicious.
He asks me about life in the U.S. and especially the women. I tell him I’m certainly no expert in that matter and he laughs. He cannot imagine what it’s like in California but says one day he will come for a visit after he sells off his cows; a statement both he and I know will be unlikely. What is most likely is he will become older and frail and rent out his pastures to others. He will have food and money for some medicines and pass his final days on a piece of land he has come to love. And among those that love him…
He asks me why everyone is going to the U.S. and the borders if life is so expensive there. Why go to a strange world and starve when one can starve her in Mexico he laughs. I laugh too. But I have noticed the flight from Veracruz not just across the border but to the Mexican border as well. For lack of a better term I have dubbed it the Reynosa Syndrome.
Everywhere I go folks mentioned they have family that have moved to Reynosa. They go there because clothes and food are cheaper and there is also work. To have a job and be able to buy food and clothes more cheaply is a huge advantage. I remember Reynosa as being dirty and dusty and like most of Mexico it has probably changed dramatically over the past 10 years…
Often one family member will go first and then another. The very old and the very young do not go…
Several mentioned to me the strange foods they can get very cheaply…such as powdered milk and frozen chicken. Then I realized these commodities come from food banks and churches in the U.S. and then are sold cheaply across the border. Commerce works in strange ways…what is given away in one country can be resold cheaply in another to folks with little money…and it seems like paradise to all.
Timo asks me if I want to go into the jungle tomorrow. I smile and he says like most other Veracruzanos I am a good part ‘cabron’. No sane turista would make such a trek by burro. But then he knows that although older now, I am still a good part loco. I also look at him and wonder how many chances I will have to go with him another day and I realize this could be it. That fog creeping up the river will visit him sometime in the not too distant future. The trip will be tiring, full of bugs and very hot. But I have to go. There is no point of return in my journey and besides, there will be no broken axles or oil pans on this road. Maybe I’ll fall off the burro and break my leg or get bitten by some exotic viper. But I do know that if I don’t go there may not be another chance...at least with Timo.
I also realize someday it will be me that won’t be able to go…I may become old and frail first or more likely won’t be able to get away from my modern corporate life. I have stepped into the modern world and find time to be my most precious commodity. It’s the one thing we modern folks can’t buy…yet something my poor Mexican amigos have in abundance. I wonder who is better off? Who is richer?
Timo says he almost always has food and now he is the boss. No one can run him off his land. He laughs when he tells me he sometimes doesn’t go to work until after 9:00 since he is the boss. But I can also tell working keeps him young and strong as an ox, or rather a burro.
His male dog and female dogs are doing what dogs do right in front us. He whacks them with a stick. They were never baptized he laughs.
Hopefully if I live long enough to become old and frail I will have this as one more memory in my experience bank. That is my standard and always has been….our time and experience is all we really have. That may be Zen and maybe not but I’ve felt that way since I was a teenager. And still do today…
Besides, there is no security for tomorrow. A snake can bite me on the trail or some exotic bug bite me as well…or any one of another in an infinite string of possibilities…
Tomorrow I will feel like Traven’s Macario going out into the jungle with his turkey. Except I won’t have a turkey nor spoil the turkey story for you either, ha!
Timo knows me and he doesn’t have to ask me twice…we will leave early in the morning…
Jack D. Deal
I’m wondering when I will get back to the isla and visit Timo and Juana again. It’s been six years and might well be another six…sad, but my modern life of deadlines and meetings and limited vacations make the years come and go. Unlike Timo, we modern folk have so little time as we scurry about our busy days wondering where the time goes…
Such is life. And death. We humans suffer when death takes those we love and time is running out for my friend Timo. As it is for us all… But what is the alternative? Not to form relationships and bonds with other humans? What kind of life would that be? Isn’t that life itself?
Timo feels badly that we weren’t able to do more. He promises me next time we will eat armadillo. He smiles at me and I think how lucky I am to know him and all my other friends…I also think how different he is from my friend Dr. G. Worlds apart and how lucky I am to know them both. As well as all the others…
I’ve always been a bit contrarian on my views on extremes. I always have felt that by learning the extremes, one can expand one’s awareness and knowledge in ways that are not possible otherwise. Yet many don’t feel that way…they think that if you look at the extremes you run the danger of becoming an extremist. Baloney. These are narrow-minded folk afraid of their own shadows and defensive of the neurotic house of cards they build in their heads. My life is richer for having known Timo and Dr. G and I know it. I don’t need a narrow mind to tell me otherwise….
We don’t actually say goodbye as goodbye is a bit too final among pals…we both wonder when we will see each other the next time. Who knows. I have my destiny and Timo has his and hopefully our paths will cross in the not too distant future. But one never knows…the creeping fog will eventually get to us both when our time has come. I’m sure I will think of Timo often in the coming months just like I think of Gabriel and Ignacio though I will never see then again. Hopefully that will not happen before I see Timo again…
My battery is running low again. The output from the generator was too low but fortunately tonight I can recharge everything. We load the boat and wave hasta luego…and we are off, back to the modern world. The day is clear and spectacular and the seas calm. Riding back on the boat I feel as though I have been privileged once again to take a look at a world that is changing and will eventually disappear. I have no doubt the jungle will become populated and like Cancun Germans and Coronas will eventually hit the beach. Electricity and running water will take the place of sandy wells and kerosene lamps. And men like Timo will die off and a new, modern man will take his place. Some things will be better but others worse.
It feels like we have been on a journey and it’s a good feeling. My only concern is just how bad the road is but we have the rest of the day to maneuver it.
The heat is intense and I immediately sense the road is better. It is already dusty in parts. We stop halfway for a rest on the side of the road and the ranchers wave and honk as they drive by. I wonder what they do in the summer rains…not even a tractor could get through these roads when they flood. For the better part of June and July they must remain inside probably doing a lot of family type things. I imagine a lot of babies are born in March…ha! A lot of kids will remember the days and nights when their families were together and they interacted in ways they never did when the weather was better…
Back at the farm I collapse outside on a chair. I was surprised to find a big tick walking on my hand. Maybe I brought it from the island but I doubt it…it was a great big sucker…literally.
After the fatigue wears off I’ll put the island and my notes in perspective. It’s ironic that in just a few days I’ll be with Dr. G. Both Timo and Dr. G are Mexicans though they live worlds apart. I just feel so lucky to get glimpses of both…
Tonight the winds are picking up and another norte is on its way. We made if off the island just in time…the waves will pick up and my favorite road will get muddy and near impassable once again until the sun eventually dries it out once again.
The car took a beating. It is scratched down one side where I hit thorns trying to hit firm dirt on the side of the road. There is a dent in the hood that must have come from a rock from a passing truck. One of the motor brackets is slightly bent but there are no leaks. I wondered about the oil pan every time the bottom scraped. I think how crazy it was to go down the road and there will be those back home wondering about my sanity as they see pictures of the road.
But I’ll be back…primero Dios or God willing first as the faithful say. There is no doubt I will be back. As Timo says, it is our destiny.
Jack D. Deal
He was also quite a talker. He could spend hours relating tales of the past and adventures of a brujo. To me he was a real brujo, not some fabrication like Carlos Castaneda’s fairy tales. I guess a better word might be authentic…but how real can a witchdoctor be anyway? Ha.
I always figured that brujeria or hecheceria depended on one’s belief. Angelica’s relatives shudder with fear when I tell them I am planning to get the traditional ‘limpia’ when we go to Catemaco. Just like the movie stars do. Her relatives fear the devil and Satanism and shamanism all that is not purely Christian. Considering myself more from the modern era, I fear none of it. Like voodoo and anything else, it only works if you believe in it. I think. Ha! And as long as one does not want to caste evil spells on others for personal advantage…no?
I once went to a Hermelinda’s hut who was also a ‘bruja’. She would break an egg on the edge of a glass and depending on how it ran down the glass, tell you your fortune or misfortune or whatever else you needed to know. Bet you haven’t heard that one, ha! She would help folks when they lost a cow or lover or whatever problem they had on their minds. She was an astute observer of human behavior and I couldn’t help thinking she would have made a heck of a good counselor and therapist – which of course she was. But without a couch, Freud or behavior modification.
Erasmo has been dead for a good 30 years and his son Victor maybe 20. I remember Victor as a cana or cane liquor drunk. Cana or aguardiente is a type of moonshine made in Veracruz and other parts of Mexico. Usually it’s adulterated with water and other stuff to make it go farther. I’ve only had the pure stuff several times and it was good though very potent. I’ve only had moonshine in the U.S. several times as well and it reminds me of the cane liquor in Veracruz.
Cane liquor is the bane of the very poor. Several times in the past Angelica would send me to Dona Cata’s choza to get some…of course Angelica didn’t drink it but she would make a type of cough syrup with it using lemon and salt. A couple of gulps of the stuff was sure to cure a lot more than a cough, ha! Most Mexican drunks prefer beer but beer is costly when you don’t have a job. The poorest of the drunks would go to Dona Cata’s and drink until they passed out on the ground. It wasn’t a pleasant site and women were not allowed so Angelica sent me. Another impressionable experience for a young gringo…
Today we stopped by Erasmo’s old hut and spoke with his grandson Chencho. Once again I was witness to my Cien Anos de Soledad. Chencho had the glazed eyes of a cana drunk. His nice wife said he drinks everyday and is starting to slide. At 30 his years are numbered and he won’t see his two young sons grow to adulthood. Hopefully his sons won’t repeat the cycle but I would not be surprised. The behavioral patterns of poverty and alcohol are hard to break.
I have never seen anything positive come from abject poverty despite what some of the goofy California sociologists claim. They never leave their offices and go to a place like Chicon. They never see the sad eyes of an entire community or the hopelessness of no hope. Nor do they see the kind of poverty that breaks the spirit of a people and causes the death fog to visit those that should live twice as long.
Tonight it is traditional to put out candles in front of one’s hut for the Nino Perdido or lost Jesus. Supposedly the worried parents Mary and Joseph lit candles for their lost son when Jesus went to the Temple to debate the elders. It is beautiful to go through the dusty streets and see the huts lit in the dark night. The Christmas season is the happiest time of year for those that don’t have much.
I remember going with Angelica and our baby to a posada or Christmas party in Chicon many years ago. Everyone in town was there. They were breaking a piñata and the street was filled with the festivity. I parked some distance away and we watched them as they took turns and laughed as the blindfolded party goers would swing wildly and miss. I’ve always thought piñatas are great fun…
I noticed two guys taking the stick and walking toward us and right up to me, the stranger in a strange land. They insisted and I knew I could not refuse. It was my turn to be laughed at and I knew it was all in good fun. Self-consciousness may have its place but it’s certainly not at a piñata party…
Angelica still remembers how they laughed at me as if I were the star of the show. Today those memories came back to me and I think of the teenager I once was that set out to experience the world…..
And I remembered how they laughed at me and slapped me on the back after I had finished for being such a good sport. I don’t even think I touched the piñata with the stick but it did not matter. Even Angelica was laughing and I was too.
Today I remember the brujo, the spirits and the cane liquor cough medicine. I remember the drunks at Dona Cata’s and their puffed faces and swollen bellies lying on the ground. And the wives and children they would leave behind. I remember the laughter and shouts of folks that had very little to laugh about.
But most of all today’s faces reminded me of the spirit breaking poverty of a people with little hope.
The cycle continues and I wonder if it must go on forever…
Jack D. Deal
And though it looks as though I might have avoided the ‘turista’, that is uncertain as well. At the end of the week we will be going into some very remote areas, where sanitation and clean water may be lacking. But so far, so good.
Disaster nearly struck. While we were out the dog attacked the turkey. It ripped out a foot long strip of feathers but did not create any deep wounds. We weren’t sure if it would make it, but turkeys are tough birds. The next day it was up and gobbling as though nothing had happened. I had nicknamed the turkey Mole and was glad we would still have mole. For us purists, only turkey will do for mole Huasteco.
At least they didn’t make me kill the turkey. I’ve done it before with turkeys and chickens and it’s simply a matter of a quick jerk of the neck…wringing the neck is the expression in English. I always remember my friend Billy visiting us and when he tried it, he pulled off the whole head. I bet he remembers that too. I’m sure the animal rights activists would not have approved but hey, there is no real easy way to wring an animal’s neck, no? Especially if you are a novice…
By now you know mole Huasteco is my favorite food, especially when made from scratch. It is a complex process, involving such diverse ingredients as chiles, sesame seeds, apples, bananas, almonds, cinnamon, chocolate, cloves and peanuts. It is expensive to make and labor intensive. As such, it is usually served only at weddings and other special occasions, such as quinceneras or the fifteen year old coming out party for young girls.
When we were first married at the farm my mother-in-law made us mole. Over the years the mole has become a traditional symbol of marriage; to me every bit as much as any ceremony. Mole seals the deal, so to speak.
It is hard for me to describe the taste. You can buy commercialized mole paste in jars but like most things in cans or jars they are not the same.
We gringos like our gourmet foods and many of my countrymen have asked me about mole, especially the mole made in Veracruz. It is more spicy and not sweet or green. As you know by now, we Veracruzanos are famous throughout Mexico for our food. It is simply the best, although you must know by now I am just a little bit prejudiced, ha! Just a little maybe…but ask any Mexican and find out for yourself.
It took three women all day long to make it. Each step is critical in the process and if not done correctly, will make the result less desirable. I wrote down the ingredients and took notes and even some pictures. I
But a word of caution here. It tastes best when cooked in a clay pot over a wood fire and has to be stirred constantly so it will not burn. There are tricks, like knowing the correct temperature so it will not scorch. If you haven’t cooked with a clay pot on an open fire you should probably get some practice first, ha! Admittedly the only thing I am good at with mole is eating it…
Some say mole came directly from the Aztecs and others say it has changed over time. I’m not sure and you can certainly research the origins if you are curious.
And if you are brave enough you can try it, live turkey and all. But if you really want to taste real mole I would recommend coming to rural Veracruz and finding someone to show you how. Find an older Indian woman that is willing to work several days for your feast.
It’s lots of work but worth the effort. I ate three plates with a turkey leg for lunch. I ate so much I didn’t eat supper and the next day still feel full. Maybe that is why it is such a special dish for very special occasions.
And in my humble culinary opinion, the finest gourmet dish in the world.
Jack D. Deal
It’s actually kind of fun if you look Anglo and speak Spanish. Maybe Bill should try it because he doesn’t appear to be having much fun these days…
Latinos of all types will invariably make the assumption that as a white dude you don’t speak Spanish. Very few Anglos are fluent in Spanish or at least more than Buenos Dias or mas cerveza. So when you see me standing in line at the check out counter, don’t think by speaking Spanish I won’t understand! Ha! I am thoroughly entertained by people that don’t think I’m listening in. Ha! You can imagine…ha. My, my…she really said that?
And for all you monolingual paranoids a la O’Reilly out there, just to let you know, they are not talking about me. They are talking about you, ha! They all told me so…right Bill?
It seems where two languages come together as in Phoenix or Tucson, there is a natural inclination for many people to speak both. Not all, but many. We can almost say it’s a natural consequence. Natural is the key word. Locals aren’t holding their heads and moaning because they don’t know a word in English or Spanish. In some communities the level of true bilingualism is very high. It’s natural. These bilingual communities provide the ultimate Skinner box or environment for learning either language. Naturally.
For the past 30 years I have dealt with bilingualism in one form or another, usually in a business or workplace context. Some people that are very bright struggle terribly with a new language. Others, considered less educated and lower class, become flawlessly bilingual with near perfect accents. Strange, no? Attitude and self-perception are likely keys, but not well understood either. So what can we say? Does ego get in the way of language acquisition? You bet it does and you can take that one to the bank….
For the past several years I have studied the research and come to the conclusion we can’t talk -- at least with our current brain and thinking models. Yet we obviously can talk. And essentially every human has that ability. We know so little about language that we simply don’t have a working model. We know the input and we know the output. But we know very little about what goes on in between. We know very little about why some become bilingual more easily than others. Or why some like buddy Bill are so paranoid about it….
Kids are a good example of misconceptions. It is generally considered that children learn languages more easily and in fact effortlessly. Wrong. We just don’t remember how hard it was learning our primary language because we don’t remember much of anything that young anyway, see? Ever see a three year old struggle with words? That’s not effortless.
My hunch is that learning a primary language has more in common with learning a secondary language than not. And no language is effortless; there is always a very steep learning curve. Who the heck dreams up this stuff? The poor kid is trying to walk, go to the bathroom, cut teeth, figure out who are all the weird folks around him and on top of that learn to comprehend and speak. It’s a wonder any of us make it…
It gets muddy quickly, as with my friend fluency. Why does a two year old speak with grunts and words and a three year old in phrases and simple sentences? Yet we know very little about what is happening here. We sort of think that being fluent means not having to translate, but we aren’t real sure about that. We know that exposure or immersion and practice are significant factors, but we don’t really know why. We know that on a brain scan, language lights up almost all areas of the brain, sometimes at once like a Christmas tree! But with fluency even Noam Chomsky, who claims to be an expert on everything else, doesn’t know why. What’s really going on here, Noam?
We have to assume that language is clearly one of the most complex of human behaviors. Thinking and language go together in some way, and we may as well say it’s the highest level of thought there is, with the possible exception of creativity and innovation. What a mess, no wonder we don’t have a working model!
If humans are social animals, then language is the social part. It separates us from the rocks, trees, dogs and cats. We can even go so far as to say it makes us special. Don’t you feel better now? We’re all special and should give ourselves a collective pat on the back. It’s not so bad, is it? A few words here, and a few words there and voila, you’re fluent. Well, almost. If you don’t believe me, ask Chomsky. He knows everything. Almost.
Yes, there’s a lot of Spanish spoken in Phoenix. And a good bit of English too. Mas cerveza?
Jack D. Deal
Tierra Blanca has quadrupled in population since I first came on my motorcycle many years ago. Some of the streets are paved and there is drainage, water and electricity. And more houses and more people.
The traffic is louder, the lights brighter and the nights are no longer quiet. Neighborhoods are replacing the farms and Angelica’s little farm is no exception. Things are much better for the locals, no doubt. But many of the things I loved about the countryside are disappearing.
On the one hand, this is good. Angelica can put her arts center for children with my language research institute on her little piece of land. Electricity and computers…something we did not have in the old days. But for me to find the peace, quiet, starry nights and subtropical flora, I will have to find a place that is more remote. That’s okay and I clearly knew for many, many years that things were changing. But there is still a bit of nostalgia and sadness in it all for me. Progress and civilization. Home has changed. We have too.
One minus is the economic base is declining as it has in many areas in rural Mexico as post-NAFTA agriculture has declined forcing the unemployed to look to the U.S. for work. There are still hundreds of local men working in Atlanta.
And it clearly shows the futility of Fidel Castro and Hugo Chavez pushing their tyrannies on us. That’s why they constantly insult Mexico and call us traitors. My Mexico is about as capitalistic as a country can get. Everybody sets up a little store or restaurant. They sell in the markets and are as creative in business as they are in engineering. The dictators can say it’s a matter of necessity and that may be partly true; Mexico really has no social safety net. The more polite Mexicans call Chavez a clown; the less polite call him and his buddy Fidel ‘cabrones’.
And no longer does one political party determine everything. For many decades the PRI party’s greatest strength was in handing out incentives to unions, farmers and business people – an adroit manipulative act that encouraged corruption and deception through payoffs. And kept the lid on social revolt. For many years the taxes generated by Tierra Blanca never came back as corrupt local officials stole what they could. I knew some of these officials and they actually considered it their elected right: the argument was they voted for us to be the ones to steal from them.
This of course does not mean all is well and a very large percentage of Mexicans remain in poverty. But I’m seeing optimism and hope that I have not seen for decades; something the PRI nor the tyrants can’t take from us.
The current joke is Che left Cuba looking for the Revolution. He didn’t find the Revolution because as smart as he was, he could not determine how many 11 year old girls it would take to finance an electrical power plant.
At least Subcommandante Marcos does not have young girls as part of his economic development plan, if he in fact has one. I’ll be sure to ask him about that if our paths cross on my journey…
Jack D. Deal
The poverty and potholes are abundant. I don’t mind driving at night but the potholes are problematic. The road is actually better than I remember but that doesn’t make hitting a foot deep pothole less bone jarring.
Crossing the river the scenery changes from arid chaparral to tropical green. The long days with little sleep are catching up and I have to pull over in Ozuluama to take a break. We go to a restaurant and more changes are apparent. The food is different, cheaper and includes many of my favorites. I order cecina, a type of skirt steak, with tomato enchiladas and black beans. The black beans of Veracruz are famous all over Mexico and with Latinos in the U.S.
It’s not just the black beans, but food in general. If you tell someone you are from Veracruz, they immediately ask about the food. They tell you how great the food is and about their favorites. For my peso, Veracruz not only has the best food in Mexico but perhaps in the world. That is a bold statement but I’ve been in number of countries and can honestly say that is the case. Especially in the rural areas where fresh ingredients are used…mmmm…
I’m reminded of the old saying ‘what does he of England know, that only England knows?’ A lot of Americans are ignorant. These narrow minds obviously don’t know Mexico and the very close ties we have. Narrow minds are often afraid of what they don’t know. I, like so many other Mexicans, were proud when Mexico sent aid for the victims of Hurricane Katrina. Mexico helped us more than France. And I am proud to be Mexican, though not yet a citizen.
We Veracruzanos are famous for our sense of humor. Mexicans are considered to be the happiest people on earth and humor plays a big part of that. Veracruzanos are considered to be some of the happiest folks in Mexico, as well as many other things…
Our food is the best; we are the funniest, friendliest, best dancers, have the best music and maybe even the most courteous to strangers. But as with any culture, there is good and bad. Angelica doesn’t like that bad part.
We are also the most foul mouthed, very close to the bottom in terms of poverty, love dirty jokes and making fun of everything and everyone. We drink like fish, party whether there is a reason or not and many of us will spend our last peso in the cantina. We are also known as being real ‘cabrones’ or sons of bitches. For you Gringos, ‘cabron’ is a bad word and I get whacked whenever I say it, so be careful when you say it or you might get whacked too.
I get in trouble for saying these things about Mexico but I don’t care. It’s what I feel and what I know. You don’t believe me?
Angelica just spoke with her uncle that lives on a communal farm or 'ejido' on an island out from the port town of Tuxpan. He bought a mattress for us and made a little hut so we would have a place to sleep. He’s going to kill a turkey for us and if we bring other friends and relatives, a cow for barbecue. And he is an ‘ejiditario’ or communal farmer.
When was the last time someone built a house for you when you visited?
Believe me now?
It takes a couple of hours to get there by boat. I’ve never been there but I bet they make some great garlic shrimp…
Jack D. Deal
Today we are going to see my old amigo Arturo but he isn’t in. We are also going to by a live turkey for mole huasteco, what I consider to be the finest dish I have ever eaten. There are many types of mole but none like mole huasteco made from scratch. And range or backyard fed turkey.
The whole process begins with finding a turkey and starting to put together the long list of ingredients. The actual preparation, when done correctly, takes two days. And although it will be three weeks before we make mole huasteco, we want to make sure all is ready. Sometimes the turkeys sell out.
35 years I bought a huge turkey for 50 pesos or $4 U.S. Today I paid 225 pesos or $22 U.S. for one a fourth of the size and it is a bargain. Because of the upcoming holidays turkeys are already getting scarce and going for up to 500 pesos or $48 U.S. The law of supply and demand.
There are fewer vendors of non-processed poultry and we finally find some Indians from the nearby mountains that have one. We also buy two hens for later this week. If you have never eaten non-processed chicken, you are missing something. I have eaten range fed turkeys in the U.S. and although good, they are just not the same.
I take the live birds back to the station wagon and put them in the back, on top of one of our tent covers. Even so the turkey messes so much that it gets on the carpet, a little souvenir from Mexico, ha.
I go back to Angelica and my mother-in-law for sacahuil, a type of large tamale that is famous throughout Mexico. It is delicious and we get some to go, wrapped in banana leaves. The sacahil is served on styrofoam plates now, not the most esthetic but probably more sanitary. In the old days they would wash the dishes in a bucket right beside the table. I also had coffee; freshly ground and boiled with piloncillo, a type of sugar cane.
We first went to the same folks for sacahuil 35 years and would always take a picture. The lady and her husband were ‘novios’ just like us back then. For 30 years they worked hard and she said he left her three years ago for another woman. It is surprising when folks have stayed together for many years split up.
About a year ago his new woman got sick and now he has to care for her she tells us with a smile. Somehow there is some form of justice after all. I guess.
She told us she no longer buries the huge tamale in the ground with coals but cooks it 24 hours in her gas oven. Progress is everywhere in Mexico.
Of course I see the more affluent showing off and speaking down to the Indians. I always thought it odd that one would be prejudiced against one’s own race, but that is the way it is. Of course they all look at me as I am the only real white around; but I got used to that many years ago. And I don’t mind if they call me gringo.
In the old days I remember coming here and speaking with Indians whose Spanish was not as good as mine. They spoke almost entirely in the simple present, simple past and simple future tenses. I have also seen the same limited grammar and vocabulary with other poor or marginal folk throughout Mexico and it might be a generalization: the higher up the educational and socioeconomic ladder one goes, the more complex the tenses and syntax become. Such is language…and economics.
The smells and sensations bring back a flood of memories and associations from the old days. Brain scientists claim smells can be some of the strongest memories and I believe it. The freshly ground coffee, the many varieties of strong chiles and the deep frying fish. The mole paste and hand rolled cigars from real tobacco leaves. The smell of cheap perfumes on the freshly bathed Indian women.
The Macro Plaza in Monterey is certainly impressive and all turistas should take a look. But this is my Mexico, mi Mexico querido. The ‘real’ Mexico where you can still buy a live turkey and eat sacahuil. The Mexico where the Indians speak Mexicano or Nahuatl. No tour busses nor adventuring Germans. Yet.
And to this day I still have trouble saying the word Nahuatl...
Jack D. Deal
The travel bug hit me when I was young. I traveled several times to Europe, North Africa, Canada and all across the U.S. Wanting to see and experience it all, I decided to go to Mexico. I remember folks saying it was dangerous and why go alone and all that. But I was a seasoned world traveler as a teenager and knew how to take care of myself or as much as one could reasonably do. All travelers know there is some degree of risk but the real risk for me was not going. The same as this trip.
I had a little money, a sleeping bag and tent, some cooking utensils and a small Honda motorcycle. I started out from North Carolina and headed south to Florida. Since it was fall the weather was starting to turn and I got sick in Houston. It was there I made the final decision to go to theYucatan.
I had one address in Mexico and that was Angelica’s older brother. I had been drinking in a bar early one morning in the French Quarter of New Orleans with a friend and met a British sailor that had just come from Belize. He had met Angelica’s brother and stayed with him for several weeks. He gave me the address and wished me luck.
Our Tierra Blanca is to this day not on a map and it was not on the map then either. I did not find Tierra Blanca until I was deep in Veracruz. I was driving very late at night when I saw the road sign for Tierra Blanca. I turned in and pulled out the address.
What I saw was a Wild West town. Cantina music blaring, busses roaring in and out, dust everywhere -- little did I know how this little town would change my life.
I asked a drunk where the brother lived and he pointed down a street that ended in complete darkness. The drunk said he would take me for a beer and I agreed. It was pitch dark. We approached the front gate of the farm and the drunk shouted out. The dogs were barking and I couldn’t see anything except a dim lantern in a hut or choza. Angelica’s mother came to the gate and invited me in. My Spanish was very limited and I only learned later that she thought I was the brother’s friend.
On this trip she asked me again if I really did not know him. Must have been some sort of destiny or fate… There were two huts and she opened up one of them and pulled out a metal cot and set it up in the back of the hut. I threw down my sleeping bag and immediately went to sleep – real travelers know that real travel is exciting but tiring and I was very tired. Several hours later I was awakened by a noise that startled me. I got my flashlight and went out back to see what the problem was. Pigs. Lots of them. For those of you that have never slept with pigs I must tell you it is quite an experience. They sleep in a pile and several times a night they get up, grunt and create a lot of noise and then settle back down. Later I got used to it and did not wake up.
Angelica’s brother wasn’t there and neither was Angelica. She was helping another brother in his store in a nearby town.
The next day was market or plaza day in town. Most towns in Mexico have a designated market day. I went with my future mother-in-law to help her buy her weekly food. She introduced me as a friend of the brother’s from the U.S. By the end of the day my head was spinning from Spanish and meeting a lot of new friends, many of whom I still know today.
Very few Americans go to Tierra Blanca today and back then almost none. I was a celebrity of sorts. I made all sorts of friends. I met some Pemex or oil company workers with motorcycles and they took me on a ‘paranda’ or bar hopping adventure. I met some guys in a band and they invited me to sing and go the dances they played at. A number of them invited me to stay with them but for some reason I didn’t. I can’t explain that one.
Several weeks later I was coming back from town and looked in front of the chozita and there was a young, beautiful Indian girl. For the record, she had just turned 18. Looking back we were so young then…
The Italians call it being thunderstuck and I guess that’s a pretty good description. I was a free as a human could be and the last thing I was looking for was a girlfriend. I had already had a few offers from some senoritas but this girl was different. Very different.
And 35 years later she is still different.
Jack D. Deal
We are staying in the Zona Centro off the main square or plaza called the Macro Plaza. My cell phone and wireless Internet work great and we may as well be back in Palo Alto or Santa Clara. Lots of Spanish spoken here too, ha!
And there is lots of commercial activity here! What surprises me is all the American companies …not just the big ones but all the small chains and franchises that fill our malls. I even saw companies that were not in California and wondered if in fact there was more opportunity here than in California. Strange. I guess California is no longer the frontier…
My brother’s wife is a good example. She is from Monterey and went to the U.S. to learn English where she met my brother. She is one of those sales pros that cut the deals and travel the world. The day we met she was working on a Wal-Mart contract and like many in Silicon Valley, excuses herself as she checks her Blackberry and gets on the cell. I tell my brother he married the city mouse and I married the country mouse…ha!
Mexico is a country of extremes, Monterey rivaling Silicon Valley and yet I knew it would not be long before my cell and Internet connections would be problematic. But for now I may as well be in London, Paris or San Francisco.
I met my pal Dr. G at the airport and of course being the ‘intellectuals’ we are we began what was to be a four day marathon of politics, socio-economic development and issues of the day. We don’t agree on many things but our love for Mexico is strong and binds us in ways that are hard to explain. Angelica knows this and did not complain while I declined to see some sights so Dr. G and I could go at it.
She understood why we sat together driving, eating and sometimes would just sneak off to get a coffee and discuss more. She even didn’t complain when I told her we have to go back in several weeks to do it again. A meeting of the minds, she says.
I told him one of my goals on this trip was to straighten out in my head all the pre-Hispanic Indians and their development and declines. Over the years I’ve been to many museums and archaeological sites but I want now to get the ‘big picture’. He then gives me a one hour presentation from the initial migrations to the Olmecs, Aztecs and the Conquest. ‘See? It’s easy’ he says. Yeah right.
He had recently finished a sociological analysis based on history and what we call marginalization or those on the fringes of society. He says it’s important we get this out in the open and not end up like France. He laughs when I call France a third world country. I came to Mexico to research several products and suggested maybe we should do one on sociology and marginalization in Mexico. That one is going to take more than a few coffees he laughs.
I kept remembering those kids from Simon Bolivar elementary school in Nuevo Laredo. How can we take the ideas, concepts and abstractions in Dr. G’s head and get those into their heads?
Jack D. Deal
The school is not fancy but clean. The students arrive fresh and ready for the day. Outside Jose’s classroom they had paper cutouts of various objects that were labeled in English: dress, ball, hat and so on. Jose told me that they have been experimenting with teaching English in the first grade. Won’t be long before all the kids are bilingual, just like they are trying to do in Chile.
Over the years I have sat in on classes in different places in Mexico and have the impression that the elementary instruction is very strong on the nuts and bolts. Jose confirmed my impression.
Before I left California I read a report about immigrant kids learning English. It seems that those kids that went to several years of elementary school in Mexico did much better. They have a strong nuts and bolts base and assimilate much easier.
Maybe it would help for American educators to look at Mexican elementary schools. Maybe we could learn something. These schools aren’t fancy, don’t have large budgets and the parents have to pay for a lot of things that they don’t have to pay for in the U.S. Dare we even ask the question as to why these schools are better?
Jose showed me the standardized test for fourth graders. He said that if the students don’t pass, they are kept behind. Until they pass the test, they stay in the same grade. What is so complex about that?
None of the kids are considered underprivileged or ‘disabled’, as is unfortunately the case in some areas of California. And certainly not ‘minority’, ha! All are expected to keep up, do their work and not keep the class behind. There’s homework and I heard no complaints.
You don’t believe me? Jose showed me a standardized test for fourth grade. The categories were geometry, civics, natural science, geography and history. Fourth grade. And Jose’s expectations were that each of students could do the work and pass. There was no expectation of failure which makes sense because there is nothing wrong with these kids.
In Nuevo Laredo, parents and students can pick their school. Some of the students had to travel some distance each day. I guess if a teacher or school is underperforming, parents won’t take their kids there. Again, pretty straightforward.
It was clear the parents and students loved Jose. As far as his teaching, I was impressed and not many teachers have impressed me. He spoke of cognitive issues, like not allowing doubts to take control. It was clear to see why he is loved. And it was also clear why his students are eager to learn more.
He also took me to the computer lab. A second grade class was playing different types of learning games on the computer. There were 10 computers, eight or nine year old IBMs. There were three kids per computer. They were laughing, shouting and thoroughly excited about computers. Jose said it was much better for them to be excited and eager and not be afraid of computers. And learning. Or made to feel like they are failures. He’s right.
I asked Jose how many of these kids had computers at home. So he asked each kid. Of the thirty or so students, five had computers in their home. These kids certainly aren’t rich but my guess is they are more eager.
Right there in that classroom sat Mexico’s future. Actually the world’s future. I felt better. The narcos and the corruption and all that won’t stop these kids.
Nothing will stop them. Thank goodness!
Jack D. Deal
The commuters are frowning and I laugh as one pounds the dash with his fist, just like I saw in my commuting days in Silicon Valley. It made me wonder why everyone wants to become so First World…just to drive a fast car, sit in traffic and pound their fist on the dash.
We went to the Grutas de Garcia or Garcia Caverns and the Horsetail Waterfall or Cola de Caballo. Very well preserved with ecology in mind. In fact, I’m already seeing a new Mexico.
One night we go to the Orange Festival in Montemorelos. Dr. G wanted us to hear him sing some old Mexican ballads he was doing with his friends. I had heard him sing Mariachi songs before and was not surprised that he was the hit of the show. He is one of those people that find success in whatever they do. Although it appears easy, I know it’s not. He has spent a lifetime at it.
We won’t even say goodbye because we will meet again in a few weeks he tells me. He insists that we stay in his house and I agree. I need to get some sleep before this next marathon. As we are leaving I feel tired and realize I had been running off his adrenalin for four days. He tells Angelica we are not only Mexican brothers but brothers in spirit as well. She knows me so well she knows what he is saying is true.
But it’s time to head for points south and my Mexico. There’s a hole in my soul I desperately need to fill it and it won’t happen until I get back home.
And off we go. Allende, Montemorelos and Ciudad Victoria where I first went on my motorcycle many years ago. It’s all changed and is all much more modern. It’s clear that there are two Mexicos and the northern tier is the economic driver.
I can never go to Tampico without thinking of Bogart in the Treasure of the Sierra Madre. ‘Broke in Tampico’ he says with that mournful face. Actually B. Traven, the author of Sierra, was a naturalized Mexican. Dr. G and I have discussed Traven and he says I must be one of the few Americans that have read Rosa Blanca in Spanish. I read Rosa Blanca when I as 22 or 23.
Traven wrote Rosa Blanca in the early thirties after he had worked in the oil fields in northern Veracruz state. This was some years before oil was nationalized in 1938. Unfortunately we Americans only know Traven as the author Treasure of the Sierra Madre and the famous bandido line – “Badges, we don’t need no stinking badges”. Dr. G admires Traven because he never gave in, even when he became famous. He only gave several interviews during his lifetime because he said he was just not important and that any importance was to be found in his works. And he was true Mexican.
In the old days, there was no bridge at Tampico. We had to take the ferry and in fact I took it a number of times with the motorcycle. Now there are several bridges and a bypass around Tampico crossing the Panuco River.
I just knew things were about to change.
Jack D. Deal
I first went to Mexico as a teenager many years ago. I went by myself on a motorcycle. I suppose I was a little bit like the Beats and wanted to experience it all. It wasn’t so much becoming an expatriate dissatisfied with the U.S. as it was a burning desire to experience something different. Folks told me it was dangerous and all that – but even though a teenager I was an experienced world traveler. And to this day I have never been in a ‘foreign’ country that means as much to me as my Mexico. I guess it was a little bit of my adopting Mexico and Mexico adopting me. And of course Angelica.
I wasn’t a Beat but I did read Kerouac’s On the Road as a ‘kid’: “I couldn’t imagine this Mexico trip. It was the most fabulous of all. It was no longer east-west but magic south. We saw a vision of the entire Western Hemisphere rockribbing clear down to Tierra del Fuego and us flying down the curve of the world and into other tropics and other worlds. Man, this will finally take us to IT!”
I guess maybe I was looking for IT too…whatever IT is.
It clearly was a journey that was more than just going kilometer after kilometer. I suppose I was searching for something inside myself although I had no idea what. True adventure is that way and I decided at 19 to live a life of adventure. I just couldn’t be a 9 to 5er and after 45 years retire with a gold watch. That was ok for almost everyone else, but not me. As Helen Keller once said ‘Life is an adventure or it is nothing’. Life was just too great, and still is, to settle for nothing.
In the old PRI days there was always the border shakedown. Hours of waiting in lines and bribes/mordidas. Not this time. Courteous officials and none asking for money, even at the checkpoint on the highway to Monterey. The toll road was a bit steep; $17 US for a little over a hundred mile highway. But the road was like I-10.
Coming into Monterey we could see the smog hanging over the city. The compromise between air quality and gas engines is a tough one. Few developing countries can do much about it until it becomes unhealthy, like Mexico City. Like California.
I was surprised to see how many US companies are in Monterey. We drove on to Cadareyta and it is clear this is a different Mexico. Everything is different and more like Texas. Like the owner of Cruces America said, the Monterey, Mexico – San Antonio, Texas corridor is growing and benefiting both. Anyone that is undecided about free trade should take a look at this corridor. A steady stream of tractor trailers going back and forth.
Hugo Chavez hates free trade because he can’t get a piece of the action. And his guns can’t stop it…
Jack D. Deal
It’s too bad tourism is down because Nuevo Laredo is one of the best border towns. Clean, green and with typically friendly Mexicanos. We had no trouble getting all the papers at the border and weren’t asked for ‘mordidas’ or little bribes. In the old days when PRI was the only party, you couldn’t get a drink of water at the border without someone wanting a mordida. It feels funny and I have a good feeling that some things have gotten better in Mexico.
All the bad things that are being said about Nuevo Laredo weren’t my focus. The locals told me not to go out at night and said if I went downtown during the day, I would be the only Gringo around. They also said businesses are closing due to lack of tourism and now there is a flight of more affluent locals as they are afraid for their safety.
The fear and concern are real though being from the outside I was not a part of that. When there is little internal security, societies stay behind and the youth are denied opportunity. And for the record, hiding in the jungle with guns is not a definition of security. Without security, folks don’t do their best and the potential of a society is kept down. Sad.
My focus is on the kids and I want to go to a school and see for myself. I had heard about the real concern that the kids would see the life of a gangster as being more appealing than a life of low paying jobs. And from what I could see, there are a lot of jobs in Nuevo Laredo. But what about the kids?
I also am curious to really take a look at the concept of two Mexicos; north and south. So much to see; so much to do; so much to understand.
But I am at peace. It had been way too long since I had been to my querido Mexico. A part of me had been missing…I was finally back home.
Jack D. Deal
I ‘apprenticed’ in El Paso and came to know the central and northern Mexicans pretty well – Chihuahua, Zacatecas, El Bajio – that experience would later come back to some perceptions of regional differences – psychological differences – that has gotten me in hot water at times. I don’t care. I’m from the Mexican Gulf coast, apprenticed on the central nortenos and work with folks from Michoacan, Jalisco, Sonora and Sinaloa. I live on an ejido in the jungle of Quintana Roo when I can. I have or had friends from all part of Mexico including Chilangos or those from Mexico City – and I can clearly see differences. More on that later – whether you agree with me or not.
We went into Wal-Mart and it was at least 90% Mexicano or Tex-Mex. I could hear the border talk – words like bato and El Chuco. I asked Angelica why there was so much Spanish on the U.S. and so little English on the Mexican side. ‘Gringos, except for those like you, don’t go to Mexican border towns for opportunity.’ True. Enough said. I was wondering what she meant by Gringos like me.
By the way, Gringo is a good word evolution study. When I first went to Mexico in the early 1970’s, Gringo was clearly a negative word. If someone called me a Gringo, it was meant as a slur. But the word became vernacular and now is used more commonly than Americano, which is still considered too ethnocentric for some Mexicans – ‘we’re all Americanos’.
We stopped by our old house in the ‘barrio’ and little had changed. We lived in that house for six years and started the family there. We came as children and left as parents. From whence we come. As I look back over some of the products I’ve authored, I see bits and pieces of El Paso and Juarez in them and for that I am very grateful. We had lots of friends on both sides and would go to Juarez almost every weekend.
But times change and people change and our good neighbors were now much older and in ill health. It was sad. Gloria said odds are if we don’t come back within a year they would both be gone. And won’t we all someday…
Many years back I read a book called ‘Cien Anos de Soledad’ or ‘100 Years of Solitud’ by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. The parts I remember most were the following of generation after generation – the story of the generations over a century. That’s been one of the most interesting things I’ve seen over my many years – weddings, births, deaths, funerals. The generations move on, not stopping for anyone or anything.
Gloria wasn’t bitter about her and Memo’s approaching deaths. They had a full life together, raised a family and had few complaints. She said she realized that by having a long term relationship with Memo, she had something others will not have. Folks these days don’t even think about those things she said. Sad, but true. In driving away I realized that for all the years I had known Gloria, I had never spoken to her in English.
Even the West Texas towns of Van Horn and Ft. Stockton are growing. Odd. Actually there have been a number of odd things so few days out: remote Texas towns growing, smoking and non-smoking seating in the same restaurant and motorcyclists without helmets.
And on we go in the Texas night. We pull over on the shoulder of I-10 and there is almost no traffic and the stars are fabulous.
God’s country. Pick-ups, Lone Star, Old Glory everywhere and lots of Republicans. Clear skies with bright stars and as Texans would say, the brightest stars.
Gotta love those Texans!
Jack D. Deal
South of Deming is Columbus. Up until September 11, 2001 it had the distinction of being the only place in the continental US that had been attacked by foreigners. That attack of course was by Pancho Villa; hero, patriot, bandido and certified nut case. Like Zapata, he was driven, ruthless and demanded total loyalty. Unlike Zapata, Villa usually thought more about himself then his men, his people or his country.
I once had an interesting conversation with an elderly woman from El Paso that had lived in northern Chihuahua during the Revolution. Her mother hid her and her sisters from Villa’s men because they took all the young girls that were not married. Ironically the same thing Fidel Castro is being accused of in the child sex trade. Some things just don’t change, no?
We stopped at a Mexican restaurant last night. Restaurants have to teach more English than all the schools combined! I watched as a fully bilingual waitress helped her Spanish speaking colleague. Somehow that motivation to learn English goes way up when paychecks and tips are dependent on that English. Maybe we should stick paychecks and tips in our school system.
She was waiting on a rather large, extended Anglo family that we would call ‘country folk’ in nicer circles. They left her a six dollar tip because we heard her count it out and was she thrilled.
You see, the truth of the matter was B.F. Skinner was right. He may have been a royal jerk as a person, but he figured out some basic human behaviors. It’s what makes us tick. That six dollar tip was a ‘reinforcement’ and is shaping the young monolingual waitress’ behavior – human operant conditioning. On her next shift, she will know a little more English and what do you want to bet she has done some studying in between on her own?
Skinner was famous for his ‘boxes’ and that’s what we used in the animal labs. Pigeons, rats and sometimes humans like me too! Ha! I wonder if it wouldn’t be somehow possible to take the young waitress’ ‘box’ and put that in the communities and schools where kids just don’t learn English very well. Or maybe we have to change the communities, the parents and to a certain extent the students themselves. Change the box…
With access to thousands of PhDs and experts, you would think such a state as California would be able to define language fluency and not push it down on the local districts to define it for themselves. Come on. The miserable high school drop out rate and even lower college graduation rates hurt more than just the Latino community.
Where’s the pride when a kid can’t go to college and has to work his entire life in jobs that require no English? How can that happen in America? It makes no sense.
Skinner would say we have just set up the wrong box and we deserve the results we get. But Skinner was a behavioral psychologist, not a humanist or advocate for Spanish speaking Latino kids or Spanish speaking waitresses.
Would the right box help realize their potential?
Jack D. Deal