henny penny goes to hacienda

One of the disadvantages of aging is that I have recurring Henny Penny moments on the same topic.


Yesterday "Eddie Willers" posted a piece on his blog concerning a new Mexican tax. Effective 1 July 2008, Mexico will impose a 2% tax on all cash deposited in a Mexican bank during a month in excess of 25,000 pesos. The tax is called Impuesto de Depositos en Efectivo (IDE). And, just like the United States, the bank will act as the tax collector and send it off to Hacienda.


I remember reading about this reform earlier this year -- and ran around as if I had been bonked on the head by an acorn. From a personal standpoint, I was worried that my buying power in Mexico was going to be reduced by another 2%. My plan had been to have my retirement checks electronically deposited in an American bank account and then I would electronically transfer whatever amount I needed to qualify for my FM3 visa to an affiliated Mexican bank.


It looked like a very clever plan. After all, quite a few expatriates do just that. It keeps a minimal amount available in a pesos account and the bank can then provide the necessary statements for the annual FM3 renewal.

But the loss of 2% would be a big financial hit to take merely for the convenience of some paperwork.


Now -- go back up to the third sentence of this post. The reason I should not worry is right there: "2% tax on all cash deposited." The electronic transfers will not incur the tax. Only if I redeposit money as cash in excess of 25,000 pesos per month will the tax kick in.


I had read earlier that the Mexican government is attempting to find methods to increase its tax base. Economists love terms like that. To the rest of us, it means that the government is trying to smoke out the tax cheats -- and to take more for itself.


Anyone who lives in or visits Mexico knows that the place is a cash economy. Rent? Cash. Groceries? Cash. Gasoline? Cash. A check? Sure, as long as it clears before you accept delivery of your goods. Credit cards? As rare as an honest politician in Illinois. And, as in any economy where cash changes hands, very little gets reported to the tax man.


This is a rather blunt weapon that will affect small businesses more than large corporations. But the obvious attempt is to force Mexico into a more modern economic model. And that translates into a system where the government can better track the flow of money to ensure that Hacienda can touch it for one brief moment and make a portion its own.


My libertartian spirit mourns the loss of another bit of liberty. But, even we libertarians realize that government needs a minimal amount of money to provide services. I would like to believe that is where this money will go. But I may as well believe that I will not act like Henny Penny the next time I hear about this issue.

why I can't speak greek -- o español

I lived for a year in Greece back in the 1970s. I have little to show for it. A few photographs. A peasant shirt I can no longer wear. And a Greek grammar book. If I look hard, I could probably find a little Greek dictionary.


The two books were my companions wherever I went. I took lessons from a beautiful young woman -- Sia was her name. I read Greek newspapers. I studied -- hard. And I was great at reading the newspaper, at translating from my grammar book, at reading almost anything in Greek.

What I could not do was speak it. In my village, an older woman ran a restaurant. She spoke no English, but she was one of the kindest souls I have ever met. I could listen to her and understand almost everything she said. But when I tried to speak Greek -- well, it was all Greek to me -- and her. (I was going to apologize for diving into that cliché temptation, but you would have all done the same.) She simply could not understand me.


I don't think I felt self-conscious -- not with her. The fear that adults have of making a mistake in the presence of another adult.


However, most Greeks and Parisians have at least one thing in common: they do not like anyone misusing their language, and, if it happens in their presence, they feel free to mock the linguistic miscreant.


I once stopped at a gas station in the afternoon and greeted the elderly Greek men from central casting that sit in front of almost every open doorway from Athens to Patras. "Kαλημέρα," said I. They stared and started laughing aloud, repeating my mistake louder with each repetition. The man I took as the ringleader fixed me with a Socratic stare and informed me that it was past noon, and I should either say "καλό απόγευμα" -- or say nothing. It was the nothing that stung.


I am reading David Sideras's latest book: When You are Engulfed in Flames. He has written several essays on his inability to learn and speak French -- even though he lives in France. He writes that he has internal conversations where he wishes that he could put together a complex sentence like: "Tell me, Jean-Claude, do you like the glaze I've applied to my shapely jug?" Instead, he writes, he will often resort to reducing anything complex into something like:

"Look at the shapely jug."
"Do you like the glaze?"
"I did that."

When I read that I literally roared in laughter. Startling the dog. I know exactly how he feels.


I have started my Spanish lessons again. I have learned all types of interesting information. I now know the doctor eats the bread. (El médico come el pan.) That the girl has a ball (La chica tiene una pelota.) That the ball is blue (La pelota es azul.)


What I want to know is how I go about getting the doctor to talk to the girl about whether John Locke had a good grasp on the intricacies of property ownership or what are the odds of a recession in Veracruz?


Of course, what I really want to do is to be able to speak Spanish with the same fluency I have in English. I may as well wait until I invent the perpetual motion machine. It just is not going to happen. My goal is to be able to talk with my neighbors in Mexico. And I know I will not gain that fluency until I actually put my few skills to practical use.


For the moment, I will put the mocking Greek grandfathers out of my mind -- and be happy for the girl and her blue ball, and that the doctor has his daily bread.

un cañonazo se oyó alrededor del mundo

1776. The year of American independence. At least, the year a bunch of cocky Americans told the Hanoverian King George that they did not need a bunch of dukes and earls telling them how much tax to pay on their tea. And then came the price for taking on one of Europe's greatest powers.


Five years later, they had their freedom -- and a nation torn by sectional strife, barely limping along economically. But a small group of colonists had beat the European tyrant. And not just to exchange one group of power-grubbers for another. They fought a war because they held "these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness."


And those words were heard around the world. When a French dictator invaded Spain and toppled the monarchy, patriots in the Spanish Americas rose in revolt -- against Spanish rule. If the British colonists had a grudge against their British overlords, the Spanish colonists had a far greater case.


If you want to read some inspiring biographies, read about the warrior priest, Miguel Gregorio Antonio Ignacio Hidalgo y Costilla Gallaga Mondarte Villaseñor, and his military ally, Ignacio José de Allende y Unzaga. Both were inspired by the ideals of the Declaration of Independence, and both died traitor deaths just as their war for independence began.


Mexico has not had a happy history. Even when independence came, there was no George Washington to inspire a nation and show that power could be peacefully relinquished. Instead, Mexico took an emperor and then suffered a series of assassinations and usurpations.


But on September 16, 1810, when the priest raised his Grito de Dolores, Mexico dreamed of a better future -- one it is beginning to find. The map at the top of this post is generally what the Americas looked like 1n 1776. If things had gone differently for Mexico, what might that map look like now?


Today is a day we can all celebrate that all people are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness.


Happy Independence Day to all.

el jacuzzi vive

I do believe that my hot tub is toying with my superstitions.


I called yesterday to set up a repair appointment for the hot tub for next Tuesday. Just out of fun (because I do not really believe that inanimate objects have recuperative powers), I pushed what was a non-responsive button this morning. It engaged and the pump to the filter started up.


Of course, I cannot call off the repairman. Holiday tomorrow. Not open on Saturdays. Need 48 hours to cancel.


But, I am happy to be in hot water again -- as soon as it warms up. I think I did see Maria Callas dart out the back gate earlier today.

el jacuzzi está muerto

If this was the opening scene of a costume drama, the high priestess would slash open some poor small critter, and pull out its entrails. The crowd would gasp. The omens are bad.


Well, I am not launching a thousand ships to assist in fetching the wandering wife of a minor Greek potentate. I am simply planning on moving to Mexico. And I am not certain what the omens are telling me.


Let's start with the prop in the center of the stage. You have all met Mr. Hot Tub. I dine there. I read there. I relax there.


It was the first item I bought for my move to Salem in 1993. In fact, the hot tub was set up even before the remodeling on the house was complete. If I were ever to describe myself as a person of place, the place would be the hot tub.


And you may recall my cries of anguish when I thought it was dieing. In tub with a view, I concluded that the tub had stopped heating water. In tinkering with tomorrow, we learned that I think I have no handyman skills. In smug as a bug in a tub, we learned I am handier than I thought: I fixed the heater.


But maybe not. Now I have lost all power to and through the tub. Nothing works. Nada.


And here is where the omens come into play. To get a repairman to simply come out and look at the tub: $150. Then there will be the cost of replacing aging electronics.


If the hot tub is the symbol of why I came and stayed in Salem, my decision to not resuscitate it may be the omen that it is time to move on to Mexico. But we already knew I was going to do that. It just feels good that everything is pushing me that way.


If I see the spirit of Maria Callas hanging out at the hot tub, I will know why she is here. She is merely auditioning for another stab at Medea.

marching to harare

It was 28 August 1963. A Wednesday. I was within four days of being a freshman in high school, and had ridden my fancy two-speed Huffy to see my friend, Mike, who lived right next to the brand new school. We were going to take a look at the building that would imprison us for four years.


I cannot recall if we ever made it onto the school grounds. What I do recall is that he was watching television. And it was not a baseball game. It was a huge rally in Washington, DC, and there were speeches. I remember only one of them -- Martin Luther King's famous "I have a Dream." We sat mesmerized.


But those are the nice pictures I remember. I also remember news footage of a young black girl walking bravely to class through taunts and jeers in Montgomery. Of Birmingham fire hoses, truncheons, and dogs coming in force against unarmed men and women who only sought a better world for their children. And of committed young men and women from the north who came south to be freedom riders -- some to die in dark piney Mississippi woods.


Neither Mike nor I could have possibly known how those brave Americans would help give birth to new social attitudes -- a better America. Where the natural God-given rights of the Declaration of Independence would continue to show their power.


Today I wonder if anyone is ready to make the same commitment that the freedom riders made to help the captive people of Zimbabwe. Robert Mugabe is a far more malevolent force than Bull Conners, George Wallace, or Orval Faubus. He is every bit as fascist as Fidel Castro -- and with none of the limited charm. The brave people of Zimbabwe believed they could use democratic processes to remove him from power. They were wrong. He responded by literally burning children and hacking young wives to death.


There is rash talk of deposing him with military force. I hope the world has learned that military force solves problems only if you are willing to use that force over a long period of time -- and to be met with more force.


Dr. King, Mahatma Gandhi, and Jesus had a different idea. You must meet evil with civil disobedience, but not with arms. That is what the lunch counter sit ins and the freedom riders were all about.


But where are they today -- the freedom riders who will go to Zimbabwe? Where is Barak Obama? Where is John McCain? Where are the churches? Where are the civil rights leaders?


Yes, of course. They give moral support. But where are the sandals on the ground? There is an opposition in Zimbabwe. They simply need to know the world is with them -- and that people will physically stand beside them.


I wonder if there is another 14-year old boy who is watching the terror of Zimbabwe unfold -- who is asking whether there is a better future for us all?


[Note: OK, Steve. Why are you asking all of these good people? What are you going to do?]

birds on a wire

I have been reading a new blog -- new to me, that is: Without A Net. The blogger is Erika, a young Canadian woman, living in Mexico City. Nancy of Countdown to México called the blog to my attention in a recent post. Then, "Juan Calypso" of Viva Veracruz commented in his blog on Erika's post: Me and Mr. Happy Pants.


I strongly recommend that you take a look at Erika's work. Her posts are always thoughtful and well-argued. Better -- they are very well-written. Most Mexico blogs (like most blogs) are basically on-line journals. The writers of those blogs have no pretensions about their writing. As Mack Sennett said: "Let W.D. Griffith worry about art. I'm just making pictures."


And then there are the handful of blogs that are a pleasure to read because they have style and character. Erika's blog falls into that category. I like reading it because -- I like reading it.


Her June 24 entry is a perfect example. Entitled Stairway to Heaven, it is a Canadian vision of the recklessness of Mexican construction workers. But, let's hear it in her own words:

Because up, way up, on the climbing roof of the building, were the majority of the workers, milling over the concrete and steel skeleton like ants on a dead gecko, pounding and pushing and tossing and stacking and hammering and hollering. Of the 30 or so guys, maybe five wore helmets. None wore gloves or protective eyewear. They stood beside towering stacks of unbound metal beams and climbed up
teetering columns on rebar. There was nary a harness or rope to be seen.

One of Erika's greatest traits is her self-mockery. She is very quick to point out that she knows her Canadian genes are bouncing up against centuries of macho Mexican behavior. But she needs to cry out: Don't you know you are just being stupid?


And I can tell her that all of the OSHAs in the world are not going to make a difference. Safety people think safety is great; worker's compensation carriers think safety is great; workers think safety is just something else to pull the testosterone out of their very bodies and turn them into the equivalent of Belgian file clerks.


I know Erika's horror. I have workers' compensation carrier eyes, and I see what she sees: men about to prove how honorable it is to live as widows and orphans.


Of course, American and Canadian men are removed from this behavior by only a generation. Take a look at the photograph at the top of this post. That is not Mexico City; it is New York City. Posed, perhaps. But the attitude is every bit as macho as any trabajador de construcción.