Caution: Construction Ahead

When we bought our property in 2001 the lot next door to us was vacant. During the next three years, we built our house and the lot next door to us was still vacant. The owner, a cousin to our housekeeper’s husband and a San Pancho resident, offered to sell it to us every year.

Seven years ago, it was $30,000 USD; then $50,000; then $80,000... We would make an offer, he’d up the price, we would make another offer, and the price would go up again. Eventually we gave up.

Property values are a topic near and dear to the hearts of people in San Pancho. Real estate offices line Avenida Tercer Mundo, the main street in town. Rivera Nayarit, the State of Nayarit’s ambitious resort development plan, is full speed ahead. A bright pink “Cultural Center” (read, sales office) compliments of Lemmus Corporation squats squarely on the new malecon, our ocean-front plaza. Oh, and the new malecon? It was a gift to the town, in part, by another development group!

So, we weren’t completely surprised to hear that we’d be getting our own development right next door. The owner decided not to sell his lot after all, but to build instead. And that’s when the information stream got muddy.

At various times we heard he was building a two- story house with a palapa (thatched palm) roof. We heard he was planning rental units; two units, then four, then six. As is typical in our neighborhood, everyone knew something, and no one really knew anything.

We watched with trepidation as the construction began and the building began to take shape just inches from our garden wall. Every day we’d assess the progress and second guess the design. We could greet the workers each morning by simply stepping out of our kitchen door.

The building’s setback from the street suggested a parking area in the front. That’s good, we thought and we were encouraged. An attractive, well- thought- out apartment building might be just fine.

But then, activity began at the rear of the lot next to our kitchen window. A beautiful shade tree disappeared.

“More building, another apartment?” we asked.

“Yes,” our housekeeper said.

“No,” her husband said, “a laundry room.”

“Which is it?” we asked again. Shoulders shrugged.

When the roof for the first floor was poured we watched in awe as a modern-day concrete truck mixed the concrete and a huge chute completed the pouring in less than three hours.

We waited and waited. Weeks went by. Surely the concrete must be set by now. Work on the second story could begin anytime. But it didn’t. And then we left San Pancho for our trip back to the States.

“What’s happening next door to us?” we incessantly asked in emails to friends.

“Nothing,” they said. “It looks the same as when you left.”

A sense of relief, albeit temporary, prevails. Maybe there won’t be a second floor after all, or a palapa top. Or it won’t be rental units. Who knows? The only given in our burgeoning real estate/construction environment is surprise.

Guess who's coming to dinner

The two-hour conversation, we hoped, was ready to wrap. Anselmo was a charming raconteur but the get-acquainted meeting had grown out of proportion. Yes, he would be happy to take care of the garden. Yes, he would be happy to begin immediately. Yes, he would be responsible for watering and maintenance during our summer sojourn in the States.

One hundred minutes and several cervezas later Anselmo had shared his life story. My husband and I tried to follow the twists and turns of the anecdotes but Anselmo’s dialect transcended classroom Spanish. My niggling headache inched toward meltdown.

Anselmo made a motion to stand. We popped up in encouragement.
"It would be an honor to invite you to dinner," he said, using sign language to facilitate our understanding. "My wife makes excellent ceviche. She will cook for you." Anselmo kissed his fingers in appreciation of her cuisine.

"Thank you," I said. "We would be happy to meet her. Where do you…"
"We will come here, to your house. We will bring everything. Tomorrow, five o’clock."

Anselmo and Maya arrived on the dot dressed in crisp cotton pressed for a party. Glossy black hair pulled into a tight chignon, lipstick impossibly red, Maya was lovely in her middle years. She nodded hello, almost smiled. Plump arms embraced an assortment of bowls, sacks, the accoutrements of a confident cook. Dark eyes darted beyond me, assessing the kitchen. She bustled to the island counter. Anselmo followed toting a six pack of beer and bottle of tequila.

"The water was shut-off early today," I said. "We still have water in the tinaco (cistern). Will you be able…"
Maya shrugged. "No problema," she said.

My husband and I took seats at the counter. Anselmo passed us each a beer.
"It is the freshest fish," he said, his English broken but confident. "Huachinango, cooking all day in the lime." He proceeded to describe how Maya had cleaned, cubed the red snapper, submerged the chunks in a lime and water concoction that cooks without heat. As Maya pulled from sacks the rest of the ingredients, a vocabulary lesson ensued.

"Apio," she said, pointing to the long limbs of celery. "Cebolla…aguacate…ajo," she continued, spreading out on the counter onion, avocado, garlic. "Chipotle…cilantro…"

"I know cilantro," I said, pleased with myself. "I like cilantro."
Maya nodded. "Jugo," she said, pulling out cans of V8 juice.

Cutting board requested and produced, Maya set to work, the chop of her blade performance art. My husband and I pulled back a bit as we watched the speed and swipe of a pro.

Dinner was delicious. The ceviche tender, almost sweet, served atop corn tortillas crisped in salted oil. Sliced avocados on the side. Cold beer, tequila shots to cement a new friendship.

I wanted to repay Maya and Anselmo for the excellent dinner. I would prepare for them a specialty of my own: shrimp empananda, black beans, bananas baked in honey and cream.

We found Anselmo at his home, extended our invitation.
"What day is best with you and Maya?"
"Martes. Tuesday, next Tuesday," he said. Spanish chased by English to make sure we understood. "Six o’clock."

The following Monday I drove to Puerto Vallarta, 45 minutes south, to shop at a supermarket replete with food stuffs not always available in San Pancho’s small sidewalk stores. Shrimp, large and fresh, cream cheese, Parmesan, black beans, epazote and oregano. An assortment of olives, marinated crudites, imported wafers to whet the appetite.

I began preparation early Tuesday morning. Devein shrimp, saute with garlic, nestle on tortillas slathered in cream cheese, dust with Parmesan, fold in half, refrigerate until time to bake; cook black beans, mash, refry in olive oil, oregano, epazote; whip the sauce to top bananas.

At five-thirty I was ahead of my game. Food kept warm, tapas arranged on the coffee table, wine and beer chilled. My husband suggested I was trying too hard. Maya and Anselmo would be happy with whatever I could throw together, he said. I ignored him, rummaged in the cupboard for colorful cotton napkins.

Six o’clock and we were in position. Six-thirty came and went.
"Thirty minutes is not necessarily late in this culture," my husband said, checking his watch against the clock on the bar.
But seven o’clock is more than fashionably late, I decided. We nibbled around the edges of the crudite platter.

Eight o’clock, eight-thirty, nine o’clock. We decided there must have been a misunderstanding. I began to reheat dinner then opened the wine. We selected a DVD with plans to settle in for the evening.

Five minutes later Anselmo bounded down the stairs that led from the street to our garden living room. "I have the head of a camaron!" he said. He thumped the side of his head to demonstrate its physical similarity to an oversize shrimp.

Not waiting for an invitation to "Pase," he plopped down on the couch, spread his knees to accommodate belly girth, thumped his head again for good measure. Maya followed him down the stairs.

Their explanation was delivered with a flurry of gestures. They had gone to dinner at a friend’s restaurant. After a couple of beers and hefty blue-plate specials, Maya suddenly remembered our dinner invitation. So here they were.

"Uh," I began, "would you like something to eat?"
"Gracias," said Anselmo. "But we are stuffed to here!"
Cervezas, however, would be appreciated. Maya and Anselmo settled in for long conversation. Too polite to eat in front of them, we kept our dinner on the back burner.

The incident discombobulated me. But since then I’ve learned a thing or two about living here: sometimes people lose sense of time; sometimes people accept invitations just to be polite; and sometimes people hesitate to socialize with those who hire them.

My learning curve continues its ascent.

A Walk in the Jungle

San Pancho, population 2000 or so depending on the season, doesn’t really offer a lot of options when it comes to exercise: no gym, no Pilates, no Jazzercise, no spinning, no step. Even the beach is no good for swimming much of the time, thanks to an undertow. What we do have is a rutted unpaved road, full of steep ups and downs , that cuts through the jungle for miles. So Gail, Nancy, and I use it most mornings for an hour and a half walk that is a serious workout.

Ex-joggers, we know what a brisk pace feels like, and we spur each other on, barely noticing the spectacular scenery---chacalaca birds swooping through the trees above, surf pounding the sandy coves below, coconut palms leaning over the road along our route. The walk is good, and the talk is even better. We have a lot to talk about, sixty-somethings with multiple marriages, kids, and careers under our belts.

“What were the odds,” we often say to each other, “that we’d find kindred spirits in a tiny town in Mexico?”

Actually, the odds were pretty good, because of something else we have observed here. When you don’t have a lot of choices, you appreciate more the ones you have been given. So when a local baker makes whole wheat bread, a mom-and-pop grocery installs an ATM, or a cell phone tower appears on a nearby hill, you’re thrilled. Just as a former exercise class dropout like me savors a walk in the jungle with two friends I hold dear.

___________________________________________________________________

Mexican expression:
“Es más para allá que para acá.” S/he’s over the hill.

What Do We See In Frida?

Frida Kahlo by Oaxacan ceramicist Josefina Aguilar

Frida Kahlo’s intense eyes gaze at me in every gift shop along Avenida Tercer Mundo, San Pancho’s main street. Tiny Frida self-portraits pasted on matchboxes. Giant Frida faces imprinted on scarves. Frida and her pet monkeys decoupaged onto the frames of mirrors.

I have assembled a small collection of Frida items -- two pink tote bags; an evening purse; a doll; a Frida-with-monkeys picture; and, most precious of all, a six-inch high ceramic statue that I bought in Oaxaca.

Of course Frida is a world-renowned artist, but what is it about her that makes me and a lot of other people want to buy Frida paraphernalia? How did she become an icon? She’s practically a symbol of Mexico.

If we know the circumstances of her life, maybe she inspires us, or we identify with her. She survived personal tragedies, physical disabilities, and tempestuous relationships. All those life experiences became the substance of her art.

It could be that she touches our desire to challenge convention, as she did. To me there’s a message in that famous eyebrow and in her little mustache: “I am who I am, and I’ve got my own idea of what’s beautiful. No apologies.”

And beautiful she was, all decked out with flowers, ribbons, and jewelry. The exotic persona she created was a work of art in itself.

When I carry my Frida tote bag in New Haven, where I live when I’m not in Mexico, strangers stop to compliment me. Frida may be commonplace in San Pancho, but she’s a rarity in Connecticut. All of my Frida mementos are in Connecticut, because, when I have my Frida things, I’ve got a little bit of Mexico with me.

Traveling

It was late, the road was dark, very dark, and it was starting to rain. We’d been driving for more than ten hours and we were exhausted. On our way back to the States from San Pancho, the short cut from Guadalajara to Zacatecas had been a mistake. It had been hours since we’d seen anywhere to stay the night.
Just outside of Saltillo, my husband Bill and I saw the sign flickering in the distance.
“Does that sign say ‘motel’?” he asked me.
“I think it does” I said. “What a relief. And I don’t care what it looks like, we’re stopping!”
I didn’t have to be so emphatic. Bill pulled into the courtyard without hesitation and stopped near the office. We looked around, amazed. The courtyard was softly lit, the music of a fountain, barely audible. We were surrounded by what appeared to be two- story houses, garages on the ground level, apartments above. An office, with large glass window, appeared positioned to provide surveillance similar to air traffic control. A woman from the office approached our car. I got out to greet her.
“Buenas noches, good evening,” I said.
"Buenas noches, good evening Senora.” she replied.
She asked how we were and I asked her as well. She was fine, we were very tired. I asked if she had a room available.
“Por cuanto horas, Senora?” she asked. For how many hours? Hmmm, did I hear that right?
I leaned into the car and repeated the question to Bill. She wants to know how many hours we’d like to have the room. Bill looked at his watch, its 11:00 pm, and did a quick calculation. “Seven or eight, we don’t want to have to leave at dawn,” he said.
Seven or eight hours I suggested.
“Siete o ocho horas, Senora?” she asked in an incredulous tone. I’m puzzled.
“Is this a problem?” I asked.
She shook her head and smiled. No, she assured me and asked for 400 pesos,
“Its forty dollars,” I said.
“Fine, tell her its fine.” He handed me the money.
She pointed to a garage just behind us, number 3, and motioned to us to back up. Signaling to someone in the office, the garage door opened, and we pulled inside. The automatic door slid down silently.
We both got out and looked around as if we had just executed a moon landing. From all indications, we were still earthbound; it was just a garage. We walked toward the spiral staircase that was directly ahead of us and flipped a wall switch which sent soft lighting upward toward the door at the top.
We entered a room which could only be described as a bed with a room around it. It was king-size and then some. Directly across from the bed was a panoramic mirror bordered by light bulbs reminiscent of a Hollywood marquee.
"This is amazing," I said, staring at the furnishings. Bill was wandering around the room. He picked up the menu on the dresser.
"Look, they have snacks, beer and wine." he said. Reading the menu over his shoulder, I noted, "mostly beer and wine."
"And it arrives via this little dumbwaiter," he said, demonstrating the way the order would arrive.
"They've thought of everything,” I added, waving the condoms that I'd discovered were on the night table and in the bathroom.
Admittedly, we were tired. But it took us awhile to put it all together. The room rental by the hour, the closed, secure parking, the mirrored wall and enormous bed, the dumbwaiter; we’d have a good night’s rest in one of Mexico’s famous “no-tell” motels.

Front and Center at the Circus

I remember it was Ash Wednesday when the circus came to town. Even the hoochy koochy dancer had a smudge on her forehead.

All day there had been a great to-do in the pasture across from the soccer field in San Pancho. I dallied as I walked to and from the store and joined clusters of townspeople watching the circus men setting up. The elephant carried heavy things and pulled on ropes, an experienced part of the team. Spindly bleachers, a stage, a tall center pole and a canvas curtain split by a ticket booth around the outside. This was a big circus, as Mexican touring circuses go. Besides the elephant, a giraffe, a pony, and an emu lounged in a corral under the enormous tulipan tree. Well back from the gaggle of children, barred circus wagons contained five tigers and three lions.

At least half the town of San Pancho gathered for the eight o’clock show. Our little group of foreigners contemplated the ten peso bleachers or the thirty peso plastic chairs by the ring, and, feeling a little embarrassed at being such big spenders, went for the back rest. Our chairs were so close to the wooden blocks forming the ring that we used them as a foot stool.

After the opening act—a chubby little teenager dancing like she was twirling a hoola hoop—a clown ran around the ring with the emu on a leash. That turned out to be the pattern: an act, then the emu. There was quite a good tightrope walker on a very high rope. She was pretty and spangly and practically overhead as we sat up against the ring. She had a smudge, too. Then the emu. Acrobats and jugglers. One slip and we could have been beaned with a club. Again the emu.

The elephant was brought out. It did the usual elephant tricks: standing on hind legs with trunk curled, balancing on front legs and trunk, four legs together on a small platform, and, between each trick, it defecated. The crowd screamed with delight. At ring side, we collapsed in laughter and held our aching sides. As each pile was deposited, a clown with a wheel barrow and shovel ran out, loaded up, “accidently” dumped it over, loaded up again. People were nearly falling off the bleachers. Finally, the departure of the elephant and the appearance of the emu allowed us to regain some composure.

Something for the kiddies. Here came the pony, no saddle or bridle. Overhead a boom was attached to a central pole so that it could swing around 360 degrees. A harness was strapped on a little boy who had eagerly run up when volunteers from the audience were called for. From the harness a rope passed through a ring on the tip of the boom and down to the hands of one of the jugglers. The child was placed on the pony which trotted off around the ring but with nothing to hold onto, the child began to slip. Now clearly the juggler was supposed to pull the rope and swing him up into the air just in time. Well, he didn’t. First the child hit the ground, hard, then he was pulled up, swinging wildly. The crowd thought this was nearly as hilarious as the elephant. The mother ran out, laughing too, and caught the child when he came back down and the juggler covered with a Ta-Da sort of pose as though he had performed a great feat of skill. I suspect this act was intended to have several little victims, but under the circumstances, we were diverted by having the giraffe, rather than the emu, paraded around the ring.

There followed a clown comedy act featuring a stuffed phallus—always a crowd pleaser—then a girl performed high up on a dangling rope with a fat older woman alternately swinging or steadying the bottom. The girl was in full costume; the woman in a none-too-clean t-shirt, as if she were invisible to the crowd.

The elephant reappeared to give rides to the children. The pony debacle forgotten, kids clamored to be handed up, first to the top of a ladder and then to the broad back. Five at a time, with little legs splayed and holding on to the child in front, they bounced off for a rapid trot around the ring.

Naturally, the best was saved for last. The roustabouts ran out with heavy sections of iron caging. These were assembled in a circle close against the inside of the wooden ring—about a foot from our knees. Platforms of different heights were placed inside, the circus wagons were pushed up to a raised door and all the tigers and lions were let into the cage. We decided we didn’t need the ring blocks as a footrest after all. The lion tamer entered and whipped the cats to their pedestals. They roared, snarled and batted their paws in classic fashion, but we could smell these guys, we could see what looked very much like real annoyance, or worse, in their eyes. It was actually scary—I had never before appreciated the courage of a lion tamer as he turned his back and postured for the crowd. No wonder he had found time that day to go to church for his ashes.

The cats jumped from pedestal to pedestal, rose on their haunches, leapt through flaming hoops. Then a lion got off her pedestal and wouldn’t get back up, snarling menacingly. Part of the act? Suddenly, a dog—our neighbor’s cocker spaniel, in fact—apparently decided that enough was enough and ran up close to the bars, barking ferociously. The cats turned in unison and looked at her. Another lion got down from a stand and snarled in the direction of the dog. With the cats distracted and disoriented, the tamer prudently took the opportunity to declare the act over. The exit door was raised and, with lots of whip cracking and chair thrusting, the cats were induced to return to their wagons.

Cue exit music. Thoroughly entertained, the crowd dispersed into the sultry night. As we strolled home, Mataleón (Lion Killer), as we called the dog ever after, trotted nearby, around the corner and into her yard, head held high.

"Manana" means "not today"

For eleven months, I waited for repair guys to fix my new stovetop. It needed a regulator to temper the flames that shot a foot high and blackened my pans with soot. The regulator was on order and coming from Brazil, the repair shop said every time I called. It would probably arrive “mañana.” Week after week, month after month, the answer was the same.

The swoosh of fire startled me and guest chefs whenever we turned on a burner. Black grime coated not only my pots and pans but everything they came in contact with---hands, counters, sponges we used by the dozen. This was untenable, I repeatedly told a hapless clerk on the other end of the line. But apparently I was wrong. At the six month point, I stopped calling, dedicated a rag to the exteriors of my cookware, and unconsciously decided to live with the stovetop as is. Five months later, I happened to be home when the repair guys showed up with the part, happy to be of service, no apologies offered or expected.

Mexico, at least small town Mexico as I know it, has taught me the same lesson over and over: Don’t sweat the small stuff. Like that great scene in the old movie “Meatballs,” where Bill Murray chants “It just doesn’t matter, it just doesn’t matter, it just doesn’t matter.” You finally get that, in your gut, if you live here long enough. For me, it’s not about settling for less. It’s about letting go of a sense of urgency. When I allow that to happen, I feel light and free.