Fruit

Fruit is important. And usually delicious.

Today is brought to you by the fruit: pitaya

To come clean, today was not the first time I tried a pitaya. I think I tried a pitaya once in Okinawa, though it could have been once in Tokyo when my friend's grandmother shipped her a box of pineapple and mango from Okinawa. I do remember thinking at first that it was a rice ball with black sesame seeds - that's how it looked, a white, ball-shaped fruit speckled with black seeds.

And I'm certain I tried a pitaya in June 2005, my first time to Mexico. It was the end of the season, though, and the pickings were slim.

Now, though, pitaya season is just getting started here, and yesterday marked our first sampling of the fruit. They're an excellent delight, and a way to pass the time until the mangoes and avocados finish ripening.

Pitayas are spiky fruits that grow on cacti, and are native to Mexico (and may grow in Okinawa too...?).



The inside flesh looks like a brain, or intestines, or noodles, or something weird like that. It's all squirrely. They also come in all colors: white, red, pink, orange, yellow.



They're pretty tasty. They're not too sweet, but very fresh tasting. Quite refreshing in this heat we're experiencing. And the texture is not at all offensive. Because they're soft, one doesn't really notice the funny squiggliness.

They are, actually, much tastier than mamey. If one were to compose a fruit graph, say, the pitaya would be slightly more difficult to eat, on account of the spikes, but much higher up on the tasty scale.



On my fruit graph, pitayas fall between seeded grapes and peaches. Mamey, however, is easier to eat than grapefruit, but about as not tasty.

This graph, is adapted from http://xkcd.com/388/ on the site http://ealingwoodcraft.org.uk/fruit/index.php

You can disagree with my fruit assessments, sure, but you'll be mistaken.

Crazy and Bad People Who Need Time Outs

If you're in the mood to shake your head in disbelief, I recommend reading this:

http://blogs.discovermagazine.com/badastronomy/2009/04/26/neocarbon/

It contains a Youtube video of Representative Michele Bachman (R - MN) making no sense about carbon dioxide. I would just post a link to the video, but this blog already covers most all of the witty remarks I would make about it.

She basically states that because carbon dioxide occurs naturally ("is a natural byproduct of nature" is how she puts it, I believe, "carbon dioxide is natural. It occurs in Earth." Then she blathers on about how we all need it, even the plants and the vegetation. "As a matter of fact, carbon dioxide is portrayed as harmful." And then follows up with "nature, natural, nature, Earth, naturally, nature, nature, natural, Earth, nature, natural..." Clearly, carbon dioxide could not possibly be harmful (because naturally occurring = good?) and also could not be produced by humans. I need to stop quoting her, because pretty much every word out of her mouth is absurd. So just watch the video.


If you need more, consider this:

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/bonnie-fuller/hate-mongering-conservati_b_192412.html

This is a gem: "'What better way to sneak a virus into this country than to give it to Mexicans....then spread a rumor there there are construction jobs here, and there they come,' blathers Boortz."

It is now obvious to me that Islamic terrorists developed a new flu virus, released it in Mexico City, and then persuaded infected individuals to spread it to the US by illegally crossing the border in pursuit of promised construction jobs.

Clearly!

Besides the questions posed in this post, I would like to ask whether the terrorists also promised Mexicans construction jobs in Spain, New Zealand, and all the other countries in the world with confirmed cases of swine flu.


I'm always newly amazed...

Otherwise, I'll just say that our mountain is still on fire and I spent the afternoon making cookies with my nephew-in-law.

Kelp, Face Masks, Bus Drivers, and Flames

I should invent a funny story or joke about kelp, face masks, bus drivers and flames, but I’m not that clever. Instead I’ll just post commentary about my day yesterday. However, the clever among you may endeavor to spin a funnier story from those four elements, and I’ll reward the winner with applause and compliments.

Yesterday, instead of returning to Jaltepec to try again at ACA, I decided to go buy groceries at the Rich People Fancy-Pants Import Store in San Antonio: SuperLake. This is where one can find luxury items like asparagus and whole wheat flour. Or Oreos and Skittles, if that’s what you fancy.

I have mixed feelings about the place. On the one hand, I much prefer to shop here than at the new Wal-Mart that popped up a few months ago, which has since gained great popularity and has been successful at broadcasting how it offers lower prices, strengthens community, and helps families. These are the only two places where I can find many of the foods I so dearly want, and I choose SuperLake.

On the other hand, shopping at SuperLake is like being left alone in a room with a chocolate cake that belongs to someone else. I can’t afford a lot of the temptations I see on the shelves – like the tiny $29 jar of almond butter. Though, to extend this analogy, just as I would probably try to swipe a little of the chocolate frosting from the side of the cake, such that surely no one will notice, I occasionally tell my financially responsible self to look the other way while I throw something pricey into the shopping basket. Yesterday’s frosting: fresh tofu. It’s the first time I’ve seen it down here. I can hardly believe it. How could I not buy it??

So, I bought one small bag of groceries, which cost a week’s wages, if I were even employed, that is.

On my trip there and back, I noticed that locals have begun to wear face masks. I figure it’s only a matter of days before our area becomes as quiet as Mexico City, where news footage shows public life has virtually come to a halt.

On this topic, life here continues to be dominated by swine flu. Everyone is waiting to hear of the first confirmed cases in the state – probably in Guadalajara or Puerto Vallarta. All the local festivities that are coming up, including a number of May Day parties and a local food festival, have been cancelled, and now the government is telling pregnant and nursing women to stay at home and to not go to work.

I left the house anyway, as I was saying, not to go to work, because I remain gainlessly unemployed, but to pursue my hobby, grocery shopping.

It was on my way to San Antonio that I decided to share a little more with you about how great buses are.

One of the local bus lines:
(I took from http://www.sail-puravida.com/photo.htm)

First, dispense with the idea that buses run on any kind of schedule, or that you have any way of discovering when buses run, where they go, or when they might stop running. Naturally, there is no posted information, in part because there are no bus stops, but also because that’s just not the kind of thing we do here in Mexico. That would be like posting street signs – entirely unnecessary. Anyway, if we went to the trouble of posting information, we’d also have to put in all the work to make sure the information was inaccurate or at least presented in a misleading way. It would be a lot of unnecessary work.

Hailing a bus is kind of like hailing a cab, you leap into the street, jump up and down and waive an arm in the air. Sometimes, though, the buses won’t take you where you want them too, which is why it’s important to state your destination when you board. This provides the driver the opportunity to growl at you if he doesn’t like your destination, and you can quickly disembark. In general, though, buses will stop pretty much anywhere to let passengers on or off.

My favorite part of taking the bus is, without a doubt, the drivers. They really make the experience. Bus drivers eat, smoke cigarettes, flirt with passengers, yell obscenities at other drivers, hold long cell phone conversations, and pretty much do whatever they want while driving. Sometimes they play their favorite song on repeat on the stereo. I’ve been on a bus that scared a horse, and consequently suffered a cracked windshield. I’ve had a driver side-swipe a building, and, no, not stop. I’ve had drivers stop to buy snacks from street vendors. And I’ve had countless drivers navigate in reverse for multiple blocks because they couldn’t fit the bus past a parked vehicle on a narrow street.

So it was no surprise when yesterday’s driver, on the way to San Antonio, stopped the bus to chat with an associate. The driver eventually exited the bus to conduct some kind of business, it was unclear what kind. He was gone five minutes or more, and we all just waited, as did the vehicles behind us. Probably he had some kind of an emergency, like seeing his friend’s new truck or placing a bet on a soccer match.

The driver on the way back from San Antonio, however, was even more fun. Unlike many of the local drivers that decorate their buses with rosaries, crucifixes and the Virgin of Guadalupe, this man had chosen Disney stickers and girlie posters, which is, I think, a natural combination. Also, he had a custom stereo system, which allowed him to blast his favorite dancehall ballads, effectively transforming his bus into a discotheque. He even picked up a few cute women along the way, to lean on his shoulders and laugh at his jokes. Why not, I guess.

Drivers can really add a little pizzazz to an otherwise mundane trip.

To be clear, though, these are local buses. There are fewer options for local travel. For distance travel by bus, one can choose luxury lines, which are very comfortable and do not allow chickens on board. In truth, I find the bus system down here to be much better than in the US. Buses run frequently and go basically anywhere. They’re very affordable too. Because many people don’t have cars, the bus system is very… what’s the word? Robust.

In other news, our mountain is on fire. It’s been hot, highs in the mid to upper 30s (upper 90s in Fahrenheit), and dry. Something set a spark yesterday, and various parts of the mountain burned all day and through the night. The smoke has been really terrible, but seeing the flames from our window was kind of neat. No one is very alarmed, which is probably because all the building are constructed of brick, concrete, and adobe. Floods are a bigger concern than fire here. And I hope I haven’t just invited disaster, because the rainy season should begin within the next few weeks…

ACA Part I, Swine Flu Part II

I decided to leave the house today, which is kind of a big deal. It’s not that my house is that much fun, it’s that not-my-house isn’t. There isn’t really anywhere interesting or particularly pleasant to go, so mostly I end up at grocery stores, hardware stores, and the local paint shop. Just “going out” isn’t much fun either, not between the terrible air pollution, the litter and burning garbage, and the horn honking of men driving by. On that last point, apparently I don’t look 8 months pregnant from behind. Or maybe men here just aren’t that picky. In any case, when I don’t have groceries or hardware to buy, I have to devise reasons to get out. Today’s reason: visit ACÁ. http://ggs.com.mx/aca.html

ACÁ, Asociacion Comunitaria de Autosuficiencia, is a local NPO that fosters community self-sufficiency through organic agricultural training programs. It sounds like a fantastic organization, and my plan is to go there, discover amazing organic produce, and convince them to let me work there too, probably as a volunteer or maybe an intern. If it takes a while to convince them, I might just hang around a lot for a while until eventually someone let’s me get involved.

I’m pretty much beside myself with shock that this exists here. It’s the kind of organization I (half jokingly) told myself I wanted to start down here myself. To find something already here, and working, is wonderful. I’m excited to discover them.

So I left the house by 8:00 this morning, because the day rapidly becomes insufferably hot. I was disappointed when I finally arrived in Jaltepec (a small town between San Juan Cosalá and Jocotepec) and discovered that they hadn’t opened yet. I considered waiting around a while, but my need for sanitary facilities motivated me right back home again. Hooray for pregnancy! I might try again tomorrow.

I decided to walk there and back, because mostly the only exercise I get is going up and down the house staircase and my frequent trips to the bathroom in the middle of the night. Once I’m out of San Juan, I can walk along the ciclopista, the bike path, that runs along the highway. I’m a big fan of the ciclopista. Even if it’s regularly blocked by sand, gravel, horses (both with and without riders), goats, cows, firewood-laden burros, four-wheelers, mopeds, backhoes, men carrying large tree limbs, and the occasional parked vehicle, the concrete divide between me and drunk drivers makes up for it all and is the reason for my fondness.

I hoped to see something entertaining on my way, to share with you all, because I so often do encounter something wonderful, but as I was prepared with camera today, nothing presented itself. Here, though, is a shot of my route, which includes, from left to right, the paved highway, my friend the concrete divide, the ciclopista, and litter.



Here, too, is a picture of Lake Chapala and the mountain on the other side.



Meanwhile, as you’re probably aware, swine influenza is spreading in Mexico, and throughout the world, too, I hear. I don’t know what the popular sentiment is in the US, but down here, people are pretty scared. That’s probably because only Mexico has experienced swine flu mortality so far. Last I heard, there are 149 deaths suspected to be caused by swine flu. For some reason, the virus seems more severe down here.

The federal government has ordered all schools in the entire country closed, at least until May 6th. Many of the restaurants, bars and nightclubs in the country have joined the libraries, museums, and theaters in closing. The biggest sign that this is being taken quite seriously is that soccer matches have been closed to the public. Some big games have been played without a fan in the bleachers.

Yet, many still attended mass yesterday.

So far, there are no confirmed cases in my state of Jalisco.

In other news, Mexico City, home of most of the swine flu cases in the country thus far, also suffered a 6.0 earthquake this morning. No great damage was suffered, but that offers yet another reason I’m glad I don’t live in the capital.

Pig Flu

All over the news down here are images of Mexico City residents wearing face masks. City officials are handing them out for free to people riding public transit (Mexico swine flu deaths spur global epidemic fears), and pharmacies report that they’re selling at a rate of 500 an hour (Influenza Farmacias reportan ventas de 'pánico'). There is an outbreak of swine influenza.

There are reports that more than a thousand have become sick, and some 60 or more have died. City Officials have closed all the schools, as well as libraries, theaters, museums, and other public areas.

So far, most of the cases have been in the capital, though apparently some have been stricken in San Luis Potosí, Oaxaca and Baja California. There have also been eight cases reported in the US (Experts probe deadly Mexico flu).

It’s strange that the deaths have all been of young people and adults, the age group usually most resilient against influenza. This could be because children and the elderly are more often vaccinated than adults. But I like to think it’s because the most “at risk” groups are somehow more resilient naturally. I only like to think that because I belong to one of those groups now (Influenza Mujeres embarazadas, grupo vulnerable)

I haven’t heard of pig flu before, but I bet Mexico doesn’t have much of a vaccine stockpile, if such a vaccine even exists. One article says that Mexico has Tamiflu, a flu drug for the non-pig variety, that "seem[s] effective". “…Mexico has enough Tamiflu to treat 1 million people, but the medicine will be strictly controlled and handed out only by doctors” (Mexico swine flu deaths spur global epidemic fears). Or it could be 600,000 (Epidemia de influenza ataca a México: Salud). That’s really something, vaccines for 600,000 to 1 million people, when the population of Mexico City alone is probably some 22 or 23 million people.

There’s debate as to how the disease is spreading, whether it spreads from person to person or only from pigs to people. I’m betting on the former. Although one might be tempted to think that contact with pigs in the country’s capital would be rare, I bet it’s fairly common. Maybe I only think this because I get to hear the butcher across the street slaughter hogs every morning. Still, I bet we have a case of human-to-human contamination.

Do I think this is the next big global epidemic? Probably not. Yes, one is probably coming, as I’m told the experts predict. Why not? We humans are dirty, we live in dense populations, we’re very mobile, we do weird things like feed our livestock antibiotics. A global epidemic is probably in the cards. Still, every few years we have another big scare (like SARS). These episodes may be cause for concern, and for alarm, and maybe for changing the ways we do certain things, but I’m not heading for the hills yet.

Then again, it’s easier to remain calm when the reported cases are distant. In Mexico City, there is apparently a panic rush on drug stores to buy face masks (Influenza Farmacias reportan ventas de 'pánico'). So far, no cases have been reported in Guadalajara or the State of Jalisco.

Put Down That Apron!

So I may have up and become a housewife. You probably all saw this coming long before I did. Still, to me it’s a bit of a shocker. I haven’t settled yet on how I feel about this, or how long I plan on letting this go on. When did this happen exactly?

Looking back, it all makes sense, I suppose. But I feel like I turned my back for a moment, distracted by something shiny, probably, and wham! next thing you know, I’m putting on an apron of all things (mom, this is your fault), and planning my day around cleaning, cooking, and grocery shopping. And I don’t think that bumping the stereo neutralized the apron wearing.

To get to the bottom of this, I suppose we’d have to go back to getting married. But that doesn’t nearly explain it all. After all, Hernan got married too, and he’s not a housewife. He’s kind of the anti-housewife. Moving back in with his mother has nearly eliminated his ability to (1) do laundry, (2) cook, and (3) touch anything that resembles a cleaning product. Since my mother-in-law pretty much attacked him when he tried to cook something once, I don’t blame him completely. Sure, she’s all smiles at first, but she can get pretty fierce, let me tell you.

It has been pointed out to me, on more than one occasion, that I am … how shall I put this … domestically inclined? But I always sought to counter this modern woman’s dilemma by drinking beer and lifting things that were probably too heavy for me.

So how did it come to pass that he plays with power tools all day and I do things like cook chili and wash all the dust off the dishes?

I’ve identified a number of factors, but principle among them, I’ve determined, is this pregnancy business. That, and being unemployed. But, let’s focus on the baby, because, really? why not blame things on the defenseless?

Baby = no more beer and no more heavy lifting.

What, then, is a woman to do??

You understand, as I lose the abilities I once had to bend over, climb stairs without becoming winded, and see my own feet, I’ve also had to limit my participation in our construction projects. I’ve put aside hauling buckets of concrete, turned away from climbing ladders, and given up doing anything that involves being on the roof. I didn’t, for example, take any part in navigating the fridge up to our kitchen using ropes.

So that has left me where? Sanding boards, painting, and … being a housewife.

I can’t lie and say I’m not fantastically pleased to finally have a functional (though still unfinished) kitchen, in which I can cook the foods that I want to eat. Yet, I’m a bit alarmed by how easily I’m fulfilling my traditional wifey role. Next thing you know, I’ll be dressed in all pink and sewing. (I really hate sewing, and if you ever catch me at it, please stage an immediate intervention. It will never result in any good.)

I should be clear that this should in no way be interpreted as a dis on housewives around the world, not even the ones clad all in pink. It’s more like… an identity crisis, maybe. I liked being a bread-winner, as well as a bread-maker. (I also like being a bread-eater, fyi.)

Eventually, I’d like to go back to work, find a job that doesn’t involve hordes of screaming three-year-olds. Until then, I guess I’ll disguise the dish soap as a skilsaw and the clothesline as a wrench set and see where that gets me.

Dust

Two nights ago we had a dust storm. Really, there were only strong winds, but because San Juan is covered in dust, it became a dust storm. Dust got in through the cracks in the doors and windows and covered everything in the house – more than is normal, even. It usually takes only a day or two before a fine dust layer settles on surfaces. After the winds, everything was coated under a thick dust frosting, the kind of bad frosting that is piled on so thick it ruins the birthday cake. The kind of frosting that gets left on everyone’s plate in big, rejected heaps. The kind of frosting that probably causes birth defects and cancer. But the kind of frosting that’s made out of dust.

It’s so dusty here in San Juan because there is dirt everywhere. All the roads in town are made of rock and dirt, except for the highway that runs through town, which is paved. In the dry season, though, dirt roads become dust roads, and currently we’re in the dry season.

This is a shot of the dirt road that runs behind our house.



It’s the road I walk along on Wednesdays, when I walk to the other side of town before catching a bus to San Antonio and Ajijic to do my produce shopping. I walk along this road instead of the highway because I enjoy neither heavy traffic nor ogling.

I’ve posted a few more shots of the back roads of San Juan Cosalá, because they’re just that exciting.

Because it’s such a nuisance, the housewives and grandmothers come out every morning and water down the dust. Then they sweep it. Everyone sweeps the dirt here. Everyone is very diligent about keeping the dirt in front of their house watered, swept, and free of debris … even though they take their bags of trash and throw them wherever, or, better, burn them in the roads. Yes, litter and burning plastic: the sights and scents of San Juan.



So this is a neighbor grandmother, out sweeping the dirt road this morning. Please admire the sidewalks behind her. They are uncommon in San Juan, but of great value come the rainy season, when dirt roads become mud roads instead of dust roads. Sometimes, actually, they just become streams.

The house in this photo, with the firewood piled in front, is made of adobe. These houses are still really common around here. Our house, even, is partly made of adobe.



Finally, I couldn’t resist posting a shot of the creepy duck garbage can that’s up the road from us a few minutes walk.



Public rubbish bins are very rare around here (unless you consider empty lots and abandoned houses to be rubbish bins, which apparently many people around here do), so it’s existence alone is reason for surprise. A good question is whether it gets emptied and, if so, by who? A better question is whether anyone ever puts their garbage in there. But the question I most want answered is why it has a creepy duck head, and maybe also, how did it come to exist in this space.

Maybe the real question I need to ask is simply "Why?"

In this photo, you can also enjoy the raw sewage, which runs from the manhole on the left straight into Lake Chapala. Delicious!

So, dust. It’s what’s happening down here. Next month, though, the rains are supposed to start. You can probably expect a post all about mud.

Shopping in Jocotepec

San Juan Cosalá is small. I may have mentioned this before. “Village” is the right term. This means that I must venture to other towns to do some of my shopping. This is true not only when I’m shopping for exotic items like spinach and unsweetened yoghurt, but also when I’m shopping for things like dried beans.

Wednesdays I go to Ajijic and shop at the produce market there, so today for my non-produce purchases, I went west instead to Jocotepec. I like to mix things up. Keep it fresh.

Here’s a map, so you can get your bearings. Print this and keep it handy in case you need to come visit some day.



San Juan Cosala is roughly in the middle, on the north shore of the lake. East of San Juan you find Ajijic and San Antonio (where the spendy import store is), and then Chapala. West, you find Jocotepec. There are some other small towns in between, but you don’t see them here. The road leading north from Chapala goes to Guadalajara. This is from Google Maps, by the way.

To catch a bus, I went and stood in front of our house and waited about 15 minutes. Buses stop basically anywhere, in the middle of the road, or where have you. It’s convenient, but also annoying when passengers have the driver stop, oh, pretty much every half block. I’ve been getting good at catching buses, though. I feel I have the right arm salute for flagging them down, and they pretty much never pass me by anymore.

So I jumped on the first bus to pass by and even found a seat. Once in Jocotepec, I found the plaza and started scoping tiendas for good prices. Walking through the plaza, I was really surprised to see a banner advertising Okinawan karate.



The teacher even has a Japanese name and might even be Japanese. This is fascinating, because mostly everyone down here is Mexican, with a splash of white Americans and white Canadians (mostly in Ajijic). I’m considering posing as a potential student to discover whether anyone might actually be from Okinawa. Probably the growing watermelon under my shirt will ruin the disguise, but it’s worth a try, no? Maybe I could don a mustache and pretend I want to start karate to work off this beer gut.

It’s pretty silly really, what would I say anyway? “Hey! I went to Okinawa! I had an incredible time. I wish I could go back and visit my friends there.” Not very interesting conversation. It would be good to have an excuse to don a mustache, though.

Back on task, at the markets in Jocotepec, I encountered a funky brown fruit that I’ve been seeing around this winter. It’s called mamey. I brought one home to try.

This is the photo I ripped off Wikipedia. This is how they sell them here, too. I was just too embarrassed to take a photo of the vendors.



These are my shots.



I can’t say I was impressed by the mamey. It’s not bad, but not so great, either. It’s a pretty mediocre fruit. The outside is brown and rough; the inside is bright orange. It tastes kind of like a subtly sweet yam, and has a hearty weight to it. It’s more substantial than most fruits. The texture was smooth, kind of like a papaya or avocado. Apparently they’re native to southern Mexico.

If anyone has encountered the mamey before and knows of a delicious way to dress it up, please let me know. I’ll probably finish eating it with my ol’ fall back: lime and chili.

Politics, World Events, and the San Juan Black Hole

When I moved to San Juan Cosala, I felt like I’d dropped out of the world. No longer do I read the newspaper every morning, the electronic newsletters I receive from various sources, or the news stories my friends and coworkers used to email me during the day; no longer do I regularly discuss current events and politics with anyone, because there is no longer anyone around with much interest.

For better or worse, I grew up learning to eat breakfast over the morning paper, with everyone commenting over the stories in their section of it. In my new home, breakfast usually happens under the blare of the morning soap operas. I’ve sighted newspapers only a few times in this town, and always as packing material, not reading material. Most people don’t have telephones in their houses, let alone an internet connection. And if you think Americans are bad at geography, come ask a San Juaneco where in the world Ethiopia, Thailand and Haiti are, and whether those are countries or cities or what.

My extended family of in-laws has very little interest in politics. No one ever votes, for example, or even know what issues they could vote on. Right now there is a strong national television campaign to register voters for the coming elections this summer. I doubt a single one of my relatives has ever registered. That’s probably true for the whole town. The only person down here who shares my interest in politics has been my (very conservative) American brother-in-law, who visits San Juan often.

Obviously, there are a number of things going on here. Poor education and poverty are major factors. I guess I should be clear that I’m not slamming my family and neighbors, but it iss fair to say my life here is very different than it used to be.

An interesting aspect to this change, though, has been that I have had to become much better at articulating my opinions. It’s easy to get by on generalizations and judgments when the conversation participants all mostly agree with one another. “You know what I mean” has no place here, because no one ever does.

Surprised, and maybe perplexed, by my interest in politics, world events, and environmental issues and activism, my in-laws have put me on the spot to explain my support for or opposition to candidates, propositions, and laws. Sometimes this has been easy to do, but other times I found it was more difficult to really explain my opinions than I thought it would be, and not only because I’m doing so in broken Spanish.

I’ve been asked to explain the reasons for and the nature of US involvement in both World Wars, in Vietnam, in Afghanistan and in Iraq. I’ve been asked about US/Cuba relations, about US immigration laws, the reasons for the current economic depression, and why I think China has become so powerful. I’ve done my best to answer, but realize there’s a whole lot I don’t know.

Last week, Obama visited Calderon in Mexico City. Apparently they discussed drug and arms trafficking and climate change, (http://news.xinhuanet.com/english/2009-04/18/content_11209404.htm, http://news.xinhuanet.com/english/2009-04/17/content_11198589.htm) but the visit was largely a symbolic goodwill trip. At the breakfast table, over the loud telanovela drama, my mother-in-law asked me whether Obama would be any different than Bush, and what this could mean for Mexico. I realize I don’t really know.

Mexico is an interesting place to be, and being here is certainly influencing my perspective on some things. I’m going to keep working on this black hole feeling. I do, after all, have a (mostly) reliable internet connection. Three cheers for that.

Of Signs and Fridges

We knew it was a bad sign when the first fridge didn’t seem to have all the normal packaging new appliances are usually born with. Fridge #2 did. We checked at the store. We made them unpack it and plug it in so we could hear it whir. Fridge #1 did not whir. Fridge #2 whirs. Fridge #2 also makes things cold. We have experienced great success with fridge #2 so far. It whirs. It makes things cold. It does not glare at us from the corner.

This is reason for celebration. I might buy more cheese.

While on our way to Guadalajara to exchange Bad Fridge for Good Fridge, I tried to capture a photograph of my favorite sign in Mexico.



It proclaims Guadalajara to be the Silicon Valley of Mexico. I’m sorry it’s not a better shot. I’ll try to take a better one the next time we head up.

Before I moved to the area, I read on the World Wide Web that Guadalajara is known as Mexico’s Silicon Valley. Because the World Wide Web and Wikipedia, in particular, clearly know all, I was inclined to accept this as truth, despite some misgivings. I didn’t realize, however, that the city itself proclaims this supposed similarity. I wonder who decided it was necessary to use a sign to try to convince people of this.

I like this sign so much because Guadalajara isn’t really much like the Silicon Valley. We see this sign as we enter the city, and so we always enter the city with a chuckle. Sometimes we see this sign, and then we see a herd of cattle on the highway. Or a lane of traffic occupied by small children on horseback. Or semi trucks barreling down the wrong side of the highway. Pretty much all things I never saw during my stay in Siliconlandia. I’ll try to get some shots of these things too next time.

Guadalajara is a big, sprawly, dirty, smoggy city. We don’t really like it much, but we find ourselves there often. I'll probably write about it the next time we get stuck there, lost because of the lack of street signs.

I’m including two other signs I rather enjoy. The first can be seen when leaving El Paso for Ciudad Juarez.



The second is a very common road sign.



It instructs one to not leave rocks on the pavement. No Deje Piedras Sobre El Pavimiento. I have been tempted many times to do just this, but these signs are everywhere, spoiling my plans. I ask, was this such a problem in Mexico that there was a need for thousands of these signs?

The Fridge That Isn't

Yesterday was a brand new, happy, sunshiny day, until the day turned around and bitch-slapped us in the face. Pardon the language, maybe I should say that the day turned around, noticed our happiness and sense of accomplishment and proceeded to rip them from us and stomp them into the dirt.

We had finally procured our very own refrigerator. Refrigerators make an excellent addition to any kitchen. They are well known for their many conveniences, which include refrigerating comestibles, displaying artwork and lists, and looking sleek and classy. Ours came equipped with a freezer as well, especially handy for making things very cold, and indispensable for ice-making and ice-cream storing.

Our refrigerator, however, isn’t. That is to say, it does not refrigerate. Rather, it has turned out to be a large, metal, fridge-shaped kitchen closet. Instead of chilling food, it sits there and makes a plastic smell, and instead of making ice, it is actually warmer inside of the freezer than in the room. While it would still easily host an array of artwork, magnets, and to-do lists, it no longer looks sleek and classy now that we know it to be just a tease. A fraud. A con artist. Snuck into our home under false pretenses. And me with a grocery bag full of dairy products, purchased in gleeful anticipation…

So now we’re investigating returning it to the store, which, naturally, is in Guadalajara, so we’ll have to find someone who can lend us their truck (see Mexico: Land of Efficiency for why we no longer have our own). We’ve also tried calling the manufacturer, but thus far, they haven’t picked up. Getting the fridge in the first place was a multi-day activity, so I imagine trying to return or fix it will take at least as long. That leaves us fridge-less still, with a lot of yoghurt and cheese to eat up.

Here are two shots of our brand new kitchen closet. The second is a truer depiction, I think.



And for entertainment, Baby with the scorpion he befriended.

Semana Santa

Semana Santa (“Holy Week”) and Easter Sunday have passed. Being unfamiliar with either Catholicism or Mexican culture, I didn’t know what to expect. No Easter bunnies, no fancy hats, no…peeps? Apparently I’m also unfamiliar with Easter in the United States.

I’m told that most families head to the beach if they can afford it. We can’t, so we stayed home and partied it up with the locals. Most of the week our family didn’t do much that was special, but there were a few fun things worth sharing.

I learned that, at least among my in-laws and their neighbors, parents are not allowed to punish or whip their children during this time, from 8:00 Thursday until the morning of Sunday. It seems children run loose in their temporary freedom, not realizing their parents are keeping careful record of all the misdeeds they’ll need punishing for on Sunday.

My in-laws used to fast on Good Friday, but these days fast only until the midday meal, at around 1:00 or 2:00. We ate Capirotada, which is a sweet bread pudding. At the time, I wasn’t aware of it’s religious significance, but Wikipedia has enlightened me.

The basic ingredients carry a rich symbolism to the Passion of Christ, and the dish is viewed by many Mexican and Mexican-American families as a reminder of the suffering of Christ on Good Friday. The bread is for the Body of Christ, the syrup is his blood, the cloves are the nails of the cross, and the whole cinnamon sticks are the wood of the cross. The melted cheese stands for the Holy Shroud.

I can say that it was sweet and tasted pretty good with milk.

After lunch, we went down to the Melecon, the boardwalk that runs along the lake, and joined the rest of the town for an afternoon of beer.

We didn’t do much Saturday or Sunday either, until Sunday night. We went down to the plaza and found the Easter party. A local folkdance group, Son de Mexico, was performing traditional Mexican folkdances. Yes, they did dance around sombreros. There was much kicking and skirt swishing, and the performance was really a lot of fun.

During the final dance, some metal wheels mounted behind the dancers began to spin, shooting off fireworks into the crowd. We had to jump out of the way to avoid the shooting flames, which did ignite an electrical cord and a speaker. No one seemed very surprised or concerned, so as soon as the wheels had spun themselves out, we returned to our original spots to watch the last few minutes of the show.

Also exciting was the explosion of Judas. Paper mache Judas hung suspended near the church (also directly over some vendors and quite near a power line). At the end of the evening, the metal wheels surrounding Judas on four sides began to spin and shoot fireworks into the crowd and across the plaza (yes, this happened more than once during the evening). It turns out that fireworks are far more exciting when they’re chasing you than when they’re in the sky. After the wheels had finished spinning, there were two large explosions and Judas exploded into confetti, among the cheering and screaming crowd.

So that was our Semana Santa: beer, capirotada, roving fireworks. Not bad.

Mari

My husband and I moved in with my in-laws: his parents, his grandmother, and teenage brother. His nephew is also a regular, and many other relations drop by daily. It’s a heap more family than I’m used to having around, and I’m always grateful they’re as wonderful as they are, and as accepting too. Still, if you were to examine my life through the lens of a bad comedic sitcom, as I choose to do, you would undoubtedly find many cross-cultural miscommunications and comedic circumstances. Just think back to the episode in which I discovered my father-in-law had been using my toothbrush. Perfect material for a low-grade, 20 minute, comedic plot, no?

I have a favorite character on this show. Everyone calls her “Mari,” and she is 96 years old. She is my grandmother-in-law.

I rather like this woman, even though I rarely have a clue as to what she is saying to me. I’m pretty certain she has no concept of who I am or why I’m in the house all day, but she never fails to tell me to take a seat and to offer me the bananas and Pepsi that she squirrels away in her bedroom. Numerous times she has also offered to let me spend the night in her small bed with her, further support for my belief that she hasn’t a clue that I live in this house too. I haven’t, by the way, taken her up on her offer yet, but I’m sure it’s sincere.

She’s a funny one, though. She isn’t all generosity. We have to watch our things. Sometimes she takes objects from around the house and hides them in her room, where even my mother-in-law can’t find them. She’s fast, too. I watched her in action once and couldn’t hardly believe her speed or her stealth. She would make an excellent pickpocket, I think, and should we ever be in such dire need I may suggest this to my husband.

Things go missing, everyone looks for them, and then a week or two later they’ll resurface in Mari’s possession. Lighters, for example, or sometimes clothing. Once she took one of my flip flops. Just one though. My sister-in-law told me that one of her plastic aprons went missing, the kind barbers wrap around you during your haircut. Two weeks later the top part of the apron, the part that snaps around the neck, appeared in a wastebasket. Finally, they discovered Mari had been using the remainder of the “fabric” to create embroidered tortilla napkins.

And on the topic of embroidery, Mari still spends most of her time sewing, though she no longer uses needle or thread. She currently has a very lovely flower motif that she’s been working on for some time. Maybe three years, now.

She may seem like a kooky old lady, which I suppose she is, but she’s also tough as nails. About two years ago a cyclist knocked her over in the street. The fall broke her hip, but she was so determined to leave the hospital that it took two people to hold her down. While a broken hip so often leads to poor health and eventually the passing of life for the elderly, this woman is still up and around all day long. She even manages to carry a small chair with her to the back yard so she can sit and enjoy the sun while she embroiders. She sweeps up fallen leaves and flowers from the yard, and if we don’t stop her in time, she takes on more difficult chores too, like tidying up stacks of bricks or moving around my husbands tools. She’s tough.

Mari keeps an eye on everything and everyone. When someone enters the house, she calls out to whoever else is home that there’s a visitor or a customer. It startles many people, because she sits inconspicuously behind a brick pillar. I like to imagine a would-be thief sneaking into the house while we’re all distracted in the back room. Suddenly, Mari would call out from behind her pillar and the thief’s plans would be spoiled. Then again, she might just offer him some bananas and Pepsi.

Yes, Mari is my favorite character on the show. She’s funny and quirky, but kind and tough, too. I wish I could understand even half of what she says to me. But then, maybe that wouldn’t make for such a funny show.

Finally, let me share this thought with you. I’ve concluded that it’s often ultimately easier to decide that things are funny rather than irritating. And when one is all alone in this opinion, it’s helpful to imagine a laugh track playing inside of one’s head.

The Small Stuff: A Shower

Don’t sweat the small stuff, they say. But sometimes it’s the small stuff that can break you, the proverbial final straw. And when greater problems seem unsolvable, focusing on “the small stuff” is sometimes all you can do. Lesser problems can be more approachable, less overwhelming, and maybe even solvable.

So don’t think I’m kidding when I describe the source of my recent elation. It deserves to stand alone in its glory.

I have a shower.

I have my own shower. I share it only with Baby. And this isn’t just a bucket of water, a spray bottle, or a spitting camel. This is a veritable shower. It is a work of art. And it is mine.

Let me tell you what it is not. It is not the shower that I have been sharing with my husband’s family since September. It is not accessible only through my parents-in-law’s bedroom. It doesn’t smell like cigarettes. The floor isn’t daily coated with mud. It does not require a 20 minute wait for the boiler to heat the water. It is not inhabited by mosquitoes.

It is adjacent instead to my bedroom. I can keep it as clean as I like. I have both hot water and cold, on demand. It is lovely.

• This means there will be no more awkward trespassing on my father-in-law while he watches TV in bed.
• Also, no more sacrificing hygiene to avoid feeling like a trespasser.
• I no longer must get fully dressed before showering (so I can pass through public domain on the way to the downstairs shower and while waiting for the boiler.)
• I no longer have to carry all my toiletries to and from the shower with me – I can leave them where I’ll need them.
• I can keep it clean – of cigarette ash, of mud, of my brother-in-law’s dirty underwear.
• I no longer need expose myself to the evil resident Shower Mosquitoes.

I now firmly believe that a room of one’s own should be accompanied by a bathroom of one’s own.

Mad props to Baby for his excellent handiwork.

So maybe this makes me sound like a spoiled princess, or probably just very American. But if sharing a bathroom were it, I could probably keep it up. Having my whole life tossed up and roughly shaken, I’ll count my victories when I can. I’ll celebrate the small stuff.

Here are a few pics of my precious new shower and, for good measure, one of the kitchen walls, and another of the kitchen floor.

Mexico: Land of Efficiency

Mexico, renowned internationally as a country of great efficiency and order, has been discovered to have been engaging in a secret information obscuration endeavor. It has been discovered that government agents have been infiltrating the usually robust information dissemination networks throughout the nation with orders to hide factual information and spread lies.

The reason for the creation of this highly specialized agency, the Inaccuracy Dissemination and Information Obscuration Team (IDIOT), is yet unknown, but American analysts suspect it is a direct attack on the freedom of US citizens. One such citizen has already come forward to testify on the suffering the IDIOT has already caused her.

Emily Van Halen has been living in the Mexican state of Jalisco since September 2008. When the time came for her to renew the permits for her US vehicles she had no idea she had already fallen into the nefarious traps laid by the IDIOT.

"I thought, you know, it couldn't be worse than the DMV" said Van Halen "But even the DMV has a website and a phone number." Surprised to discover that vehicle permits could only be renewed at the US/Mexican border, some 700 miles away, Van Halen pursued the issue with local authorities. "After finding no information online, I started to ask around. I ended up driving to another town so I could ask a lawyer there. I wanted to be prepared."

Van Halen discussed the requirements for permit renewal with various individuals, but was unable to encounter anyone who could give her the information she needed. Each agency she approached provided Van Halen with a new set of recommendations, which only afterward was she able to determine were incomplete and inaccurate. "Even the lawyer told me she was going to call up her brother-in-law and ask him about it. I just thought that's how people must get things done down here. And an agency employee in Guadalajara actually told me that she didn't know much, but that a guy wearing a white shirt standing on the sidewalk out front probably could better help me. I approached him, and he did have a lot of information for me. It later turned out to be mostly untrue, though."

Van Halen was sent on an information scavenger hunt, directed from place to place, visiting four cities in all, unaware that she had fallen into the IDIOT web of misinformation. "It was weird, I asked so many people, but nobody knew anything. It was like no one had ever needed to renew a vehicle permit before."

Discouraged, Van Halen considered legalizing her vehicles rather than renewing the permit, but she encountered the same foul IDIOT handiwork. "Each time I spoke with someone new about renewing the permit or about making the vehicles Mexican, I felt like I got one more tiny piece to the puzzle." Vehicles can only be made Mexican if they are 10 years or older, "Luckily, our truck had just become ten years old," and only if they were manufactured in certain countries. "I had to learn how to decipher the VIN," says Van Halen. "If it begins with a J, the vehicle was made in Japan, and can't be legalized. Luckily, our Toyoto's VIN has a T, for Taiwan, and therefore qualifies. Also, the first digit can determine whether it qualifies or not, but I never quite figured out how. It was all very mysterious." Each piece of information came from different sources, "It was like everyone had heard a different tiny part of the policy."

There were only three points that everyone agreed on. Legalizing the vehicles would cost upwards of $2500. She could only renew the permit at a border town. She would need to have the primary vehicle, her truck, with her, but not her trailer. "Every single person agreed that we didn't have to drive up with the trailer too. It was such a relief. The only bit of good news we had."

When Van Halen reached an information brick wall, she and her husband started the long drive to one of Mexico's border towns. "It's ironic," observed Van Halen, "that the Mexican government would require tourists to spend time in border towns, what with their campaign to increase tourism and downplay the presence of drug cartels and poverty. You'd think they'd send tourists to Cancun or Acapulco instead."

Van Halen drove 16 hours straight to Nuevo Laredo, only to be denied a permit renewal. The basis for denial: they hadn't towed their trailer behind them. "We were outraged, but we were holding it together in case we could still get the permit somehow." The official they approached refused to explain the grounds for denial to more than one individual. He told them that either Van Halen or her husband would have to wait nearby while he explained the basis for denial to just one of them. "You know, because you wouldn't want too many people to have accurate information," commented Van Halen, "you can't have information like this get out. It might end up becoming public knowledge."

Frustrated to have to return empty-handed, and by the $400 travel expenses, Van Halen registered a complaint with the Bureau Of Grievances, United States (BOGUS), which tipped off authorities that the IDIOT is still quite active.

Asked what she would do next, Van Halen commented, "Since we have to drive all the way back to the border with the trailer anyway, we've decided to leave the vehicles in the US, where we don't need no stinking permits."

Meanwhile, the IDIOT remains at large, keeping information from the public and spreading untruth and mayhem.