my club

Sometimes I feel like Billy Pilgrim.


I have not come unstuck in time, But I recurringly become unstuck in culture.


I have no delusions about learning the subtleties of Mexican culture.  I know a little history.  A little more politics.  And a lot less Spanish.


I get by.


I now know that when I enter a store in Melaque, I will encounter a clerk who speaks only Spanish and will not be able to answer more than a few rudimentary questions about the merchandise offered in the store.


That means I need to have an idea what I want to buy -- and I need to rehearse the conversation in my head.  For me, improvisation is limited to English.


But there are still times I forget where I am, and I let my guard down.  Always to my cost.


The first time I visited the new Office Depot in Manzanillo, I thought I had been transported back to Salem.  With the obvious exception of the armed security guard next to the door.


A clerk immediately came up to me, greeted me, and asked if she could be of assistance -- in English.  I was astonished.  Nothing like it had ever happened to me before in Mexico -- or since.


In Melaque, shoppers are left to their own resources to find what they want and then take it to an indifferent cashier.  (With the exception of hardware stores -- where the counter man becomes your partner in solving your construction problems.)


The Office Depot experience misled me into believing that an American brand name on the outside of a building would mean a cultural nursery thrived in its interior.


The whole idea was silly.  The Manzanillo Walmart has the same type of service as the Melaque stores.  The commercial language is Spanish (as it should be in Mexico), and no one is there to make your shopping experience anything other than an exchange of currency for goods.


Knowing that, I still fell into the same cultural tiger pit on my trip to Colima.


Ever since I arrived in Mexico, my expatriate friends have raved about the wonders of the Colima Sam's Club -- a two hour drive south.  The closest warehouse outlet store to Melaque.  (There is a Costco in Puerto Vallarta.  Four hours north.)


After I spent a good portion of the afternoon tramping around La Campana (stuffing my mouth), I decided to drive directly back to Melaque.  But my route back took me directly past what looked like a nascent Gringolandia.  Office Depot.  McDonald's.  Burger King.  And Sam's Club.


Earlier in the day, I had decided not to try to track down Sam's Club after I discovered my GPS thought the nearest one was in Puerto Vallarta.


But there it was.  Right in my past.  Almost as if the shopping goddess had plopped it in the midst of my voyage path.


Because I had no crew to lash me to the mast, I heeded the sirens' call and stopped at the Promised Land of All Things Material.


I know from past experience that Sam's Club is a members only outlet.  No card.  No entrance.  And my Costco card would do me no more good than flashing my MasterCard.  (I tried it in Puerto Vallarta last March -- the day before I broke my right ankle.)


What I did not know is whether I could go in to take a look around before I decided whether or not I wanted to join.  After all, why join a club when you can buy their merchandise anywhere else?


And then it happened.  I suspect it was all of those American-looking signs that sent me off on an Ameri-thought reverie.  Without any reflection, I asked the woman at the door if I could come in and look around. 


All of that in English.  Without even the pretense of a polite ¿Hablas inglés? And because I had not mentally rehearsed to speak Spanish, I just froze up when she stared at me.  (I had no trouble translating what was going through her mind.)


Inevitably, whenever I get to reenact the part of Steve the Fool, I end up spending money.  It must be some type of control issue.  But that is exactly what happened at Sam's Club.


I ended up at the membership desk doing my best to navigate the maze of application hell.  After more than one humorous misunderstanding (resolved with my driver's license and my FM3), I had a new photo ID in hand -- and in the other hand, an empty shopping cart.


I must confess.  I am a slow cultural learner.  Even after the language brouhaha, I must have thought I was back in Oregon when I started down the warehouse aisles.  Because it looked as if half of the warehouse had already been cleared out.


It hadn't.  The warehouses in Mexico do not offer a wide range of merchandise.  You can buy one of thirty brands of laundry detergent.  But cheddar cheese is as rare as unicorns at an NRA convention.  Almost all of the merchandise was indistinguishable from offerings at Walmart, Soriana, or Comercial. 


No Carr's crackers.  No Hormel pepperoni.  No computer deals.


OK.  I know they were silly expectations.  I told you I was a slow learner.


After a full turn through the store, I had two items in my basket -- a four-pack of deodorant and a three-pack of (tiny) mouth wash bottles.


For my $(Mx)550 membership fee and a two-hour drive, I probably saved about $(Mx)100.


But the peso savings was not the value of the trip.  Its true value was another opportunity to learn Mexico is not Oregon. 


In some ways, it is better.  In some, not as good.  In others, simply different.


And that is why I have chosen to live here.


Of course, it would help a whole lot If I would continue to work on and improve my Spanish.

travels with my ants

I was watching and listening to Dorothy Loudon's rendition of Losing My Mind and You Could Drive a Person Crazy on Wednesday night. 


The woman could convey madness with a glance.  Carol Channing with a Norma Desmond complex.


And I was just about there along with her this week.


We have been battling leaf cutter ants around here for the past month.  Not just a nest here and there.  We have ant condominiums.


For those of you who have not dealt with these devils, you cannot possibly know how aggravating they are.  For those of you who have (and I know several of you have blogged on the topic), you can sit in the amen corner.


First, let me make on thing perfectly clear (as the opaque Richard Nixon liked to say).  I admire ants.  I like ants.  I even love some ants.  They are an amazing social machine.  And these leaf cutters are unique in their determination to survive. 


A single nest can strip an entire bush of leaves in one night.  I wish I had a better camera to show how magnificent their lines of battle are.  Carrying their leaf trophies, they look like triumphant legionnaires returning to Rome with Celtic plunder.


But what I admire is what signs their death warrants.  Because they are so efficient at stripping leaves, they inevitably attack a plant in the garden that is the visible result of a gardener's love and nurturing.  Tamper there and there is a good death for you.


The problem is that these ant colonies are harder to kill than a vampire.  I have tried powdered poisons, poisoned nuggets to be taken back to the nest by foolish workers, and even the ultimate frustration weapon: Raid.


I have dead ants all over the place.  But they seem to keep right on coming.


I was feeling a bit smug on Wednesday night -- thinking I had wiped out all of the nests in the yard and around the malecon.  To celebrate, I invited The Professor out for dinner at Melaque's best restaurant.


The walk home was made easy by one of the brightest full moons I have seen in a couple of months.


As I walked along, I keep thinking of words associated wit the moon.  Lunatic.  Lunacy.  Things like that.


The words were prophetic.  Because when I got back to the house, the ants were taking advantage of the lit night.  Line after line of them.


I half-heartedly dropped a few pellets for them to take home to their young.  And went to bed.


There is time enough to fight that war.  If I spend any more time thinking about the ants, I will be doing my own Dorothy Loudon impersonation.


Note:  If you want to see the late great star performer in action, you can watch her at: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e8cCjb25tUw.
 

wet birds

Tuesday morning was going to be my birding morning.


I say "was going" because I did not get a very good start.


My plan was to get up at 6 (before our sun rises), have some cereal, and head out to the country to watch the birds start their morning routines.  Such was the plan.


And I was up at 6 -- to discover for the second day in a row the temperature was about 50.


Now, I am the guy who kept his house in Oregon at 55 degrees during the winter.  But, 50 in Melaque is just too cool to be up and about.  So, I wasn't.


Eventually, the truck and I were on our way.  I have birds in my Melaque back yard.  But there are some wetlands around here that are almost avian micro systems.  And I was headed to one.


Because I was already too late to catch the early bird special, I decided to take a little detour.


When I was discussing whether or not to buy a GPS for my Mexico trips, a message board colleague suggested a GPS was a hindrance to adventure.  Getting lost is part of the fun of touring Mexico.  You get to see things you never knew existed.  After all, it was a business model that suited the Spanish invaders well.

 

Now that I have my GPS, I get a kick out of watching the display show the truck heading off into uncharted hills.


And, as you know, for the past month, I have been been looking for little roads that seem to lead to nowhere. 


That is what I did today.  Dirt track road.  One lane.  Looking as if it was not regularly traveled.


If you are waiting for the revelation that I found the best site in Mexico, you will have a long wait.   What I found were cattle on the road, the ranches from whence they came, several small coconut plantations -- and quiet.


No sounds of machinery.  Just the wind in the fronds.  And bird song -- nearby, in the middle distance, and echoing from the far end of narrow valleys.  Simple beauty.


But the bird song reminded me I was on my way to watch birds in action -- not just in concert.

 

I have come to really appreciate marsh birds.  They are the monarchs of predators.  Especially, the herons and egrets.


Anyone who thrills at lions bringing down zebra should adore these birds.  Their patience, stalking technique, and striking speed make cats look like arrivistes.


But they were simply the stars.  With a supporting cast of ducks, coots, kingfishers, flycatchers, vireos, and snake birds.  Along with several species I could not begin to identify.


Some of these birds are just spending the summer.  I recognize almost all of them.  But most are year-round residents.  And they are new to me.


I am not much of a birder; I barely qualify as a hobbyist.  My lack of a Life List is proof enough of that.


But I do enjoying watching and attempting to identify what I see.


After about four hours of watching, I came to two conclusions.  (For those of you who say: "Yes.  You need to get a life", I guess that is what the Comments section is for.)


First, I need to purchase a good field guide to identify birds in Mexico.  I have received several good recommendations.  I will probably pick up two or three when I head north for a week in late February or so.


The second is that I need a better camera.  My Panasonic FZ35 was a big step up from my previous camera.  It takes great photographs.  But its zoom is not designed for wildlife shots. 


What I need is a DSLR with a couple of good zoom lenses.  I am certain that Gary Denness and Howard Platt will have some suggestions for me.


Until then, I will stick with my binocular and recurring trips to the internet.


The birds will not mind waiting for better equipment.  After all, they didn't even notice that I was on Mexican time this morning.

re-tired on the beach

The side road to the Melaque view point was worth the trip (forbidden fruit).


But the reason I was in these hills was to drive over to Cuastecometes for the day.


I have mentioned several times that I moved to Mexico to be near the water.  If I had retired in Oregon, I wanted to live on the coast. 


I have an affinity with the water that I cannot quite describe.  But I like it the same way I like tapioca pudding.  If you don't have the same passion, there is no way I can defend it.


The one thing that Melaque lacks is a good swimming-snorkeling beach.  There is Chicken Beach.  But when the beach in Melaque is crowded, Chicken Beach is packed.


But there is a far better choice.  Just over the hills is a lovely little cove.  At the village of Cuastecomates.

 

Great sand with a gently sloping shoreline.  Perfect for wading.  Easy to keep your footing.  With my ankle, that is starting to be an important criteria.


And the town is a tourist paradise.  With very good palapa restaurants.  The type of place that loses all human context the moment the sun goes down.

 

But the thing I like best are the rocks at the each end of the beach.  It is a great place to sit in the sun and read.  I did that the other day with my Kindle.


But I forgot one of the drawbacks of tropical beaches,.  Even though the butterflies are beautiful, their cousins, the mosquitoes, are not as welcome.  If I had remembered my DEET, I would have saved myself a few welts.


I keep forgetting to bring my snorkeling equipment with me on these rare visits.  The rocks should offer some interesting marine life.


Perhaps next trip.  And there will be one.

darwin comes to lunch

The joys of living in Mexico -- especially coastal Mexico -- never cease to amaze me.


Between my breakfast with Babs and the Cisco's Amigos fundraiser (breakfast with babs), I decided to take a look around the laguna.  My neighbors in the upper unit told me they had seen a large crocodile in the main portion of the laguna.


I grabbed my binoculars and camera, and walked over to where they said they saw him.  I saw nothing other than a large mound of floating debris.


When I came back to the house, though, I noticed what looked like offal (probably intestines) floating in the inlet just off the bank.  It is the photograph at the top -- and you do not want to enlarge it, no matter how pretty it appears to be.


I went to the fundraiser, and discovered there are now two large crocodiles in the main channel of the laguna -- Lumpy and Scar.  My neighbors probably saw one of them.


When I got home, I decided to rest in the hammock while pretending to read the newspaper on my Kindle.  It is hard to do that with your eyes closed.


I may have drifted off.  But I woke up when I heard a loud splash in the inlet.  My first thought was that whoever threw the garbage in the laguna had returned for part two of basura disposal.


But I was wrong.  When I got out on the walkway, I saw the source of the noise.  My little crocodile was back.  And he was looking for lunch.

He would approach the offal as if it were alive.  He would then slowly nudge up against it and smell it.  From the looks of it, it probably smelled horrible.


I thought that was going to be the end of this little Marlin Perkins vignette.  But, once again, I was wrong.


The crocodile grabbed the meat and did what I have seen crocodiles do before -- he spun.  Faster than a Kirov ballerina.


He then tried to deal with the long portion of intestine he had torn off by tossing it in the air.  When that didn't work, he smacked his head against the surface of the water until a consumable portion broke off.  No Emily Post rules at that dinner.

I have watched the crocodiles at La Manzanilla feed on the remains of bill fish.  They have all of the same feeding habits.  But they are not in the least bit shy.


This crocodile is shy -- very shy.  Each time I would move, he would freeze.  And rest in the water like a log until I stopped moving.


There may be two reasons for this difference in behavior.  The La Manzanilla crocodiles see lots of people every day.  This fellow does not.  Most of his feeding is nocturnal.


The second reason is his size.  He is quite small.  In his reptilian eyes, I may outrank him on the food chain.  And historically, that has been true.


As it turned out, the only thing higher on the food chain were mosquitoes.  I was so engrossed at taking photographs and video that I did not notice my lower legs were covered by the nasty little beasts.


It is ironic that those mosquitoes are vectors for diseases caused by even smaller organisms.  And yet we fear the crocodile.


The crocodile was still feeding when the sun went down.  Who knows what he started hunting after his offal meal.

breakfast with babs

This week has been one good thing after another.


Earlier in the week, Babs called.  She is in town and wanted to know if I would like to join her for breakfast.


As you know from yesterday (no candles -- no cake), I may have cut back on the amount of food I eat down here, but I have not cut back on one of my favorite pastimes -- social dining.  And dining with Babs is something I would never pass up.


I have known her longer than I have known any of my fellow bloggers.  We started corresponding while I was still trying to make up my mind whether or not to retire.


From the start, she has tried to recruit me into the ranks of the San Miguel de Allende lot -- to become a gang member, as Richard Lander would say.  And, once again, she put on a full court press. 


All the usual positives of San Miguel.  Music.  Concerts.  Art.  And just plain fun with good dining companions.  I have to confess, she always makes it sound very inviting.


But we talked about other things, as well.  How our personal lives are going.  The growing lack of civility (on almost everything) in American culture.  How the bloggers' conference went.  Updates and assessments of other bloggers.


The time went by far too fast. 


But I will give some thought to San Miguel.  I was hoping to get up there this winter.  I may be heading over to Guanajuato later in the month, but i doubt I will be able to fit in another stop.  At least, not on that trip.

 

Saturday was also a fund-raising day.  My land lady is very active in Cisco's Amigos -- the local organization that sponsors a dog and cat spay and neutering clinic each November.


The results of their work is very noticeable on the streets.  There are fewer stray cats and dogs than when I first starting visiting this area of Mexico. 


This last November 276 animals were neutered or spayed.  The number may not seem large.  But each year, it is that many fewer neglected animals on the street.


It is good work.  And I like to support it.


The organization has chosen to raise its fund through an annual bingo tournament tied to a silent auction.  The fact that most of the silent auction items are sold for more than their face values is proof enough that the people who attend the event know the value of the organization's work.


I have little interest in bingo, but I always bid on one of the restaurant silent auction options.  And it is always the same one: Victor's Place, where I had breakfast with Babs. 


I was the high bidder last year, and never got around to using the certificate.  And I was the high bidder again this year. 


We will see if I remember to use the certificate the next time I am there.  For some reason, it strikes me as being akin to using discount coupons.


But it was another good day.  Breakfast with one of my favorite people -- and giving a helping hand to the fecund animals of Melaque.


What could be better? 


Well, there was one additional event.  But that will be for another day.  Like tomorrow.

no candles -- no cake

"How did you celebrate your birthday?"


I had several telephone calls and email in that vein yesterday.  Some from people who have known me for a long time.  They thought I would be celebrating with friends all day.


With the exception of Thanksgiving, I am not very traditional on these events.


So non-traditional that I spent most of the day on my own.  Well, almost alone.  With one nice exception.


It was a day of food and relaxation.


I was up early to watch the sun rise over the laguna.  It was pleasant merely to listen to the early birds singing -- rather than getting their worms.


I do not use the hammock very much in the morning.  There is no reason why I don't.  So, I remedied that little omission. 


I prepared a bowl of corn flakes and poured a glass of water -- and took them to the hammock.  Where I read the newspaper on my Kindle and picked out various bird songs from the early morning chorus.


This past week, Felipe and I had a discussion about meals and meal times in Mexico.  I think I have acclimated to the Mexican meal schedule quite easily.


My usual breakfast is a bowl of dry cereal with milk and a banana.  Plus a glass or two of water.  In Spanish, the meal is desayuno -- or almuerzo for a heavier breakfast later in the day.  What people north of the border call brunch. 


We do not use the term almuerzo in these parts.  It sounds a bit too Mexico City for most of my neighbors.  They are working class people.  No hoity-toity late breakfasts for them.


The big meal of the day (comida -- also the word for "food") is eaten between 2 and 4 in the afternoon.  It is the equivalent of rural dinner time.  It is definitely not what Americans call "lunch" with their pitiful sack lunches and yogurt cups.


Yesterday, I went out for comida at La Rana -- the restaurant just around the corner from my house.  Rather than cook something at home, I decided to have huevos rancheros -- and that is about the usual size of my mid-day meal.


But I also had a special treat.  My former next door neighbor when I lived in the beach house was there.  We will call him The Professor -- Professor of Rhetoric to be more exact.


He was about to leave.  But, in the course of a half hour, we managed to discuss Plutarch's Lives, Ludwig Wittgenstein, concert music for one-handed pianists, Franz Liszt, Oscar Peterson, Erroll Garner, Carlos Santana, George Santayana, music theory, sound engineering, Elizabeth Taylor, Doris Day, and Claudette Colbert.


If they had all shown up in person, we would have had a crowded table.


After a lengthy siesta (a true indulgence for my birthday), I decided to prepare something a bit different for cena -- the light meal eaten between 7 and 9 around here.  It is simply something to tide the diner over until breakfast.


Usually, I will eat a small portion of leftovers.  Or do what I did tonight.


I have some roasted chicken (pollo asado) left over from comida several days ago.  I could have eaten it along with a couple of tortillas.  Instead, I decided to make soup.


Chicken and beans always go well together.  I have a bean and chicken soup recipe I picked up somewhere on the internet.  It calls for a chili-mix to be added to a pot of freshly-cooked beans.


And let me put this plug in right now.  Nothing makes a house smell homier than a pot of fresh-cooked beans.  In this case, the little white beans -- alubia chica -- cooked in chicken broth.


The recipe called for one chile poblano.  One chili never did anyone any good.  So, I chopped up two -- along with three jalapeños.  Sautéed with onion and garlic, they were a great addition to the soup.  Along with cumin and oregano.


One bowl of that was quite enough to put me in a mind for bed. 


I can always count on losing weight in Mexico.  Partly because I do a lot of walking.  But the food makes a big difference.  I consume fewer calories -- and what I consume is better for me.


All in all, it was just the way I like to celebrate.