| NAWANA's profileA latitude changePhotosBlogLists |  Tools  Help |
|
September 17 The BeachJust a few hours away are some of the quietest and most beautiful beaches on the Pacific ocean. Forget about crowded Puerto Vallarta or even modestly upscale Manzanilla. Instead, try the black sand beach at Cuyutlan. About three miles away the 2005 Mexican surfing championships were being held but on the day we were there, despite beautiful weather and a water temperature that was at least 80 degrees (it felt like warm bathwater) there wasn't a soul surfing and very few people swimming. There were a few families picnicking, some kids playing frisbee and the occasional swimmer, but basically, you could stroll down the beach in utter privacy or stop, sit down under an umbrella and order a beer or coconut drink. It's amazing to watch these being prepared. A little girl no more than ten took a big machete, sliced the top off the coconut, stabbed a hole in the exposed nut and stuck a straw in, mmmmmm, great! After several hours of listening, mesmerized, to the surf and gulls, we drove back through Jalisco, past the Volcan de Colima (last eruption May 2005) and across the Sayula lagoon where hundreds of birds were wading and feeding. Quite a beautiful day in spite of the drenching rainstorm (it's still the rainy season for another few weeks). We came back home just in time to avoid 16 de Septiembre traffic and in time to watch the midnight fireworks and hear the El Grito--Viva Mexico! Viva! September 11 The AduanaLast month we flew back to Los Estados Unidos del Norte to pick up our cars and some of our personal belongings. The flight was long and troublesome (the Mexican border people are far nicer than the American ones), but it was finally over and we were in Colorado Springs staying with former next-door neighbors. Our neighbors were delightful hosts, but we encountered some surprises with regard to Alessandro's house. The tenant (I just love to garden) had not watered the plants and half of the garden was dying! When we left in June we arranged for a former student to garden and care for our two cats, but the tenant (I just love to garden) had dismissed our arrangements, allowed the yard to go to rack and ruin, and the cats had disappeared. The first evening one of our cats reappeared and firmly attached herself to Alessandro's leg. She had decided to come back to Mexico with us. The other cat could not be found, although several neighbors had seen her. We arranged for her care if she could be found, packed up some of our household furniture, books and art in our two cars (along with the aforementioned cat) and left early Saturday morning to drive back to Ajijic--some 1,800 land miles away from Colorado Springs.
Our first night on the road was spent in Albuquerque with Alessandro's daughter and family. Alessandro had told them we were coming but had given them the wrong month--he said we would be there in September. Fortunately we found them home and had a nice, if unexpected, visit. Gabriel, Alessandro's son-in-law, is Mexican and was the first to direct us toward Lake Chapala where we now live. Several years ago he had told Alessandro that the Lake Chapala area had a number of websites with property information (you remember the hundreds of realtors in Ajijic?) and looked like a hospitable corner of Mexico. He was delighted with our descriptions of the area and promised to visit soon. He advised us to spend the night in Ciudad Juarez at a Holiday Inn and drive through the border crossing early on Monday morning. So, with the best of intentions, that is what we planned. We left Albuquerque Sunday morning about 10:30 and arrived, uneventfully, in El Paso around 4:00. Our cat, Blotter, was riding with Alessandro (not letting him out of her sight), so we stopped several times on the way down to let her out of the carrier and encourage her to walk around. But rest stops in America are overrun with dogs, and she usually stayed firmly inside her carrier, refusing to either eat or drink. Consequently, we knew we needed a hotel that would allow us to bring her in and let her roam about the room safely. That is just what we did not find in Ciudad Juarez.
All our experiences of Mexico, to this time, had been on public transportation, friends' transportation, or by foot. To say that we were unprepared for the lack of street signs, the convoluted streets and alley crossings, Mexican drivers and the lack of parking, just doesn't begin to cover the problem. Friends who had made the crossing before had loaned us some walkie-talkies so that Alessandro and I could keep our cars together. But, we never figured out how they worked, so they lay happily (and uselessly) ensconced in Alessandro's backpack while we roamed the streets of Ciudad Juarez looking for the aforementioned Holiday Inn. When we found it (after many wrong turns and going down one-way streets the wrong way), the rate was high and the hotel was pretty upscale--moreover, no pets. Hmmm. We made the decision to travel farther down the highway, cross through the Aduana, and find a small-town hotel a little past the border crossing that would allow us to have a cat in our room.
"What's an 'Aduana'?" I asked, full of trepidation after our experience in Ciudad Juarez. It is, as it turns out, the "official" border crossing where you get papers to bring your car in, your tourist visa, and the border guards inspect your car for any contraband. Friends in Mexico had warned us to have Mexican auto insurance, titles to our cars, vet certificates for our pets and an inventory of our car contents--all in triplicate. "They'll open up all your boxes so don't seal any cartons," they warned. "Don't take anything in that you have just purchased--that's illegal. Take everything new out of its box so that it looks as though you've had it forever and you're just bringing in household goods," they said. "Stay together," they admonished "and have extra cash to pay bribes if you get stopped." "There will be long lines; you'll wait for hours," they concluded. Sounds terrifying doesn't it? Well, we did have Mexican auto insurance and the titles to our cars, and we also had a vet certificate for our cat but everything else . . . didn't do it. So this is what the Aduana was like for us.
We arrived about 5:30 Sunday evening and the buildings were nearly deserted. After some misadventures we were directed to the correct building (why label anything, the Americans can't read Spanish anyway?) to find two bored young officials who stamped our papers and told us to go to another desk where, for 20 pesos ($2), a nice young man made two copies of our passports, car titles and driver's licenses. Then we sat in line for about fifteen minutes until a young woman came back from her lunch break and got the line moving again. We were third in line, and it took nearly ten minutes for her to find the make and model of our vehicles on her computer, authorize our credit cards for the $30 fee (per car), and issue our permission stickers. No one asked us for proof of insurance. We went back to our cars, placed the stickers carefully on our windshields, and prepared to be inspected by the border guards. They were taking a break--literally, standing around, guns draped over their shoulders, laughing and talking. We drove up to the gate, one of the guards pushed the button until the green light came on, and they waved us through. "Pase," they said as they continued talking and waved at us as we drove by. Hmmm. No inventories? No inspection of cartons? No unpacking the cars? No checking vet certificates, drivers licenses or car insurance? No bribes? Really? En Mexico, asi es.
So we drove to Ahumada (a little cowtown sixty miles from the border), spent the night, and then proceeded through Chihuahua state (ever driven through Kansas? Thought it would never end? That's Chihuahua.) and spent the night in Torreon at a very nice Best Western that does not allow pets but was more than willing, on a quiet Monday evening, to let two guests drape their sweatshirts over their cat carrier, sneak in their cat's litter box and pet food, and spend a quiet evening, in addition to having a good dinner in the hotel dining room. We left Torreon Tuesday morning rested, full of good food and hot coffe, and excited to get home. Ahead lay Guadalajara, the second largest city in Mexico (six to eight million people), and directly in the path of our route to quiet little Ajijic. Our tourist map shows a route around Guadalajara--the Preferico--that connects to the Chapala Carretera (highway), so that's the route we planned to take. "No problem," we thought, "we'll get there about 7:00, drive around Guad and then be home by 8:00." It didn't happen exactly that way.
First of all, the four-lane roads in Mexico are toll roads "cuotas" as they are affectionately described by the Mexican road signs. But, the toll stations between Torreon and Guadalajara occur about every thirty miles. Now the tolls are not high--around $8 per car, but they are so frequent! By the time we reached Jalisco state, we had spent nearly $100 in tolls. So we decided, around 4:00, just outside of Fresnillo, to leave the cuota and take the "libre" (two-lane secondary road), the 200+ kilometers to Guadalajara. It was beautiful! Agave fields, forests, tiny towns clinging to the sides of mountains, rivers, waterfalls, narrow winding roads, sleek horses, cranky burros, farm trucks, bicycles, well . . . you get the picture. We finally reached Guadalajara around 9:30. It was dark, we were tired, the road signs were confusing, there was construction, insane traffic . . . in short, we got lost. I believe I am sitting here writing this today because of the kindness of 7-Eleven clerks, Pemex station attendents and cab drivers in Gaudalajara, Mexico. I am convinced they are the kindest, most helpful and most patient people on the planet. We found our way, we lost it. We stopped to ask, we followed directions, we got lost. We stopped to ask, we followed directions, we got lost. Fortunately, even with our terrible Spanish, we eventually found ourselves on the road to Chapala. We reached Ajijic just before midnight. We had done nearly everything wrong, but somehow we had succeeded. That bottle of wine, purchased before we left (wasn't it a year ago?), was delicious. Ajijic remained the same--serene, beautiful and home.
July 30 The Great Mosquito War In addition to learning how to get gas, water and internet access, I have an ongoing war with the "bichos" (bugs) of Mexico. Although we have great screens on all our windows and doors, the front and back door have a gap under the door (and screen) just large enough to admit a variety of bugs. Now anyone can understand why I would not like to have cockroaches and scorpions in my house--they live outside, I live inside. But the millipeeds and crickets are another matter. No matter how much "chalk" I put down under the doorsill, no matter how carefully I close the door, the morning finds millipedes rolled up into little balls under my desk, under the couch, piled up in corners . . . they are like little tanks and when they die they look like pebbles. Okay, I can't keep them out, so I just sweep them up everyday. Crickets are another matter. Alessandro says they are good luck and I can't kill them. So, when they want to come in, they come. But so far, with the aid of Off and our overhead fans, I have been able to keep mosquitos out of the house, until last night.
It all started with Miguel. When we moved into this house we told the rental agent that we didn't need a gardener. Our yard is ridiculously small and Alessandro likes to garden. It's his exercise and contemplation time. But, no one told Miguel and so he came anyway. "You'll have to let him know," I told Alessandro. "But he has a family," Alessandro argued "and we can afford to pay him. Besides, I don't have a lawnmower." So Miguel continues to come three times a week and Alessandro pays him 150 pesos every Friday. He stays about an hour, mows the lawn, trims the trees, trims the edges of the grass and cultivates the flowers. He smiles, answers our stupid questions about plants and Spanish (he speaks no English) and probably thinks we are a little touched. He has to bring the lawnmower through the house to do the backyard because there is no entryway from the front to the back and the whole yard (front and back) is walled. It seems odd, since there is so little crime here, but one of the reasons is probably the 15 foot walls around everybody's property with broken glass and razor wire on top. Our wall doesn't have either of those things but it doesn't have a gate into the back either. So three times a week Miguel rolls his lawnmower through the living room. The front door will not stay closed unless it is locked and this week, when Miguel left, Alessandro neglected to lock the door behind him. Consequently, it gently slid open. We didn't notice because there is a yard, another wall and a gate between our front door and the street, but the mosquitos did! Sometime around 11:00 it began to rain and I turned off the overhead fans in the living room. We were having dessert and watching The Fugitive when the first wave struck. Suddenly they were all around us in a cloud. I was bitten several times and so was Alessandro. "Where are they coming from?" he asked . . . and then I noticed the front door. We spent the next two hours walking from room to room, turning on lights, standing on chairs and chasing mosquitos. We must have killed thirty or forty before we gave up. But, they were not completely deterred. This morning I found a dead one in my nightshirt and some hastily spun webs in the corners of our rooms--the spiders feasted last night.
July 24 LatitudesMexico . . . well, I don't pretend to know very much about Mexico--it's a big place. But, I've been here a month and I am learning about this little corner, here on the shores of Lake Chapala in the village of Ajijic. Ajijic has cobblestone streets, tiny tiendas, hardworking and cheerful citizens, a wonderful climate (it only rains at night) and burros and horses that share street space with cars and buses. It also has high-speed internet, million dollar homes, one realtor for every three citizens (that's an exaggeration, but not an extreme one), and an organization, The Lake Chapala Society, that caters to ex-pats. While the United States is enduring a heat wave we are comfortable in homes that have no heating or cooling (other than the wonderful ceiling fans) at about 81 degrees. Of course it is much cooler at night when the rains thunder in, but they clear early in the morning leaving everything fresh and bright. Apparently you can grow anything here. I have seen avocado trees literally groaning with their load of fruit, mango and banana trees and a lemon tree that drops juicy yellow globes onto the grass bordering our patio. My first week here I learned to soak vegetables and fruits you intend to eat raw in an iodine bath (not too different from treating water in Colorado for giardia), order bottled water from the Santorini man (leave a note on your gate that says "Agua" and have 45 pesos ready) and gas from ZetaGas (be prepared to pay when he delivers too!). I can kill cockroaches and check for scorpions and I know to spray myself with insect repellant before I go to the Bodega for dinner. I can speak a little Spanish, and it's very necessary to do so as most people here speak very little or no English. But I can order a meal, install a high-speed internet line and buy earrings from a sidewalk vendor in Spanish now so I am coming along. In many ways it seems we have always lived in this house, it is so comfortable, quiet, clean and pretty. Sometimes the old world, the world where the President and his policies are an embarrassment and a source of shame, seems a million miles away. At others, when I grade papers for my internet students or answer emails from friends or listen to a familiar CD, it seems as though I have never left. But one thing is missing, here I have the time to listen, to think, to reflect and the stressful life I left behind has left me like a weight being lifted from my shoulders. I no longer read the newspaper with great anxiety every morning. I no longer worry about buckling my seatbelt or making appointments or dealing with angry parents or anxious colleagues. It is not hard to leave that behind nor is it hard to learn how to speak a new language, remember to tip the ten-year-old who sacks my groceries or to excuse myself when I pass someone on the sidewalk--"con permisso" I say and they respond "facile." It isn't just the stress that's fading away, it's the hurry, the anxiety, the worry, the anger. This could actually be good for me. |
|
||||
|
|
