stormed at with shot and shell

I skipped last night’s Independence Day celebration.


Across Mexico, citizens gathered in their town squares to hear a local politician re-enact Father Miguel Hidalgo’s call to exterminate the Spanish.


That was 201 years ago.  But it is easy to imagine the local crowd marching down the street and give the Bourbon king a bloody snout.


Melaque is no exception.  I have attended a couple of the celebrations.  But not last night.  I could hear rumblings in the distant that a storm was on its way.


And quite a storm it has been.  As if the forces of history mock the local reenactment of the Independence celebration.


Mexico did not get its independence on that night in 1810.  There would be over a decade of slaughter.  Rifles.  Cannons.  Beheadings.  The cries of bereaved widows and new orphans.


Through the night and the early morning, nature put on its own passion play of power.  Sturm und drang on steroids.



When thunderstorms come to the Mexican coast, they are not your sissy flashes of light with an occasional clap of noise.


Lightning here is pure Broadway.  Each flash illuminates an otherwise ebony sky.  Lighting the night from horizon to horizon.


And, depending on how close the flash is, the inevitable china-rattling boom soon follows.  Accompanied now and then with sharper cracks.  As if riflemen were advancing under an artillery barrage.


This is not your Washington Irving nine-pins thunder.  It is nature in its rawest form using human bodies as timpanis to echo its power and rage.


Mexico often wears its history as a burden.  The breach with Spain amplified what Jorge Castañeda Gutman has called Mexico’s fear of The Other.


But nature cares nothing for such political talk.  That is a human invention.  It is content merely to remind us that we mortals may believe we are in charge of events, but we need reminding that our celebrations do not even show up on nature’s calendar.


And after a night of commotion, the storm has passed.  Leaving the roosters to welcome a dawn as peaceful as life should be in Mexico.

them

 

If I have one enemy here in Melaque, it is ants.


Not just any ants.  Leaf cutter ants.


But you know that.  I have written about them several times.


When I returned from Pátzcuaro, I discovered that the summer rains had sent the ants into a feeding frenzy.  The list of stripped bushes was long.  Bougainvillea.  Hibiscus.  Coffee.  They had even launched attacks on my flamboyant, lime, and sour orange trees.


Their nests were easy to spot.  They had built mini-volcanoes throughout the garden to keep out the rainwater.  But the best clue was the long line of frantic leaf-carrying ants that crisscrossed the garden each night.


Along with the usual queen ant who would fall victim to my Dow-oriented ways.  That is one at the top of the post.  She made the mistake of visiting my reading table on her way to (or from) a rendezvous with her DNA-sharing beau.


I knew that the ants did not eat the leaves they cut -- even though they are very choosy about which leaves to take back to their nests.  For good reason.  They use the leaves to cultivate a fungus they feed to their young.  For the ants, that fungus is what determines whether the ant colony thrives or expires.


As often as I have heard about the fungus, I have never seen it.  Not surprisingly.  The farming usually takes place deep under ground.


Today that changed.  I was following a line of ants to their nest.  To get to the opening, I had to move several flower pots out of the way.  When I moved the first pot, I discovered it was filled with ants.  They had used it as an artificial mound.


But not just any mound -- a farming mound.  It was like uncovering a myrmecoid Archer Daniels Midland field.  Instead of corn; it was fungus.

A quick spray of Raid calmed down the ant frenzy.  And gave me a chance to look at the ant truffles.  The cultivated result of turning my garden into a 1945 Dresden.


I apologize for the lack of focus.  But you can see the structure.  As light as a dust bunny.  But obviously a fungus.


While I was trying to get a better focus on the fungus, I pulled back a bit, and caught this.  The ant’s handiwork and the pot rim added its own bit of whimsy.  Just as I found it.

pulling the chain

Let’s see.  Where was I now?


Ah, yes.  I was telling you about a few of things that had changed at the beach.  Such as, the unusual damage the streets have suffered with the summer rains.  (patton is my co-pilot) 


I should stop and take a photograph.  They are now back to their pre-graded condition.


But not right now.  I have another topic.  My laguna.  And it was really changed when I came back.  That is it at the top of the post.  You might notice that something is missing.  Water.  Other than a few puddles.


About a week before I returned to Melaque, the powers that be decided the water level of the laguna was getting a bit too high.  If left untended, the water will rise high enough to breach the beach sand dunes, and the water level will go down.


But if nature ends up relieving her problems in her own way, a lot of people would be flooded out of their homes.  Including a certain blog writer.  And he would prefer to keep his computer out of the water.


To avoid that result, the municipal authorities hire a cat driver to plow through the dunes and let the water flow.

 

But it is not just water that comes out.  You may recall that we have an ongoing battle with the water lettuce and water hyacinth.  And because it floats, it will swoosh right out to sea like the contents of a flushed toilet.


Well, not quite out to sea.  Out to sea and then back up on the Melaque beach.


I was not here when the vegetation was at its height, but here is a photograph taken two weeks later at one of my favorite eateries.  The owner told me the vegetation was up to his chest the day it was released.  Along with snakes, crabs, spiders, dead fresh water fish, and the odd crocodile that all went along on this community amusement ride.


The beach businesses were a bit displeased that all of this happened on a weekend while they were trying to make an honest peso off of the Guadalajara tourists.


Once the water went down, the beach breach started healing itself.  Sand is like that.  And the laguna began to fill up again.

 

This is a photograph of how much water has returned.  Our abundance of rain this summer will undoubtedly have the water level back up to spot where the crocodiles can return to our inlet and rest in the sun.


But that means I also have some work to do.  The flow was not strong enough to pull out our floating vegetation.  So, I need to pull out my grappling hook and start clearing the pond.


At least, that did not change while I was gone.

one day in november

It could be the title of a spy thriller -- or a bodice ripper.


But it is neither.


It is time for the Latin American Bloggers Group to reassemble.  This time for one day.  Saturday, 5 November 2011.


For those of you who have not been to Mérida, it will be a good opportunity to visit the “Paris of Mexico” -- as it so modestly labels itself.


Last year we had excellent facilities at the Tecnología Turística Total -- where I took great pleasure in doing a bit of on-the-spot reporting.


You may recall that I thought last year’s event was very helpful.  I did a bit of experimenting with ideas I learned from fellow bloggers -- and have retained most of them.  The ideas, that is.


As always, there will be discussions on how to improve our blogs and how to resolve problems with our respective blog applications.


But, best of all, there will be time to learn more about the people who write these prose love notes to an audience we barely know.


If you write a Latin American blog, come on over.  If you don’t, start one.  Dive on in.  The water is fine.


The conference has its own blog page and email address.

opening day at the home theater

Today was N-Day.


Netflix came to Mexico, and I signed up early this morning.


No one can say I do not sacrifice for the community.  I spent the day testing connections and selections.  From my vantage, the service gets a good solid C.


Let’s start with some givens.  I like movies.  New movies.  Old movies.  Black and white.  Color.  For a movie service to meet my needs, its selection has to have a good variety.


When I was in The States last year, I subscribed to Netflix.  At the time, it was best known for its DVD rental service.  But it had also started a streaming service that met the needs of people like me who have immediate gratification issues.  I have no desire to wait for DVDs to show up in my mail box.


The problem in The States was that the streaming inventory was rather sparse.  Not surprisingly for a company that made its name in DVD rentals.


So, the first thing I looked at with the Mexico service was the selection list.  In general, it is a yawn.  Most of the offerings are the type of films that were the mainstay of cable movie channels like Showtime.  Films starring post-teen television stars.


But that did not deter me.  Every video store has shelves of the same movies.  Somewhere there must be a colony of James Van Der Beek fans.


When I announced Netflix was coming, Jonna said she was interested only in finding a good source for television shows.  I am certain she will be disappointed.

The television offerings are rather lame.  Nothing current.  Nothing cutting edge.  Unless you live in a time warp where Grey’s Anatomy or Law and Order are considered to be au courant.


My biggest disappointment was the lack of a category for Recent Releases.  In The States, films show up on Netflix right after their theater runs have closed.


But not on the Mexican service.  That may have been a move to mollify the intellectual property right lawyers.  But it does undercut the value.


What you will find, are some classic films like Chinatown, Harold and Maude, Reservoir Dogs, Das Boot, Clear and Present Danger, and The Pink Panther (the original, not the atrocious Steve Martin release).


Here is the best news.  I had no trouble with the streaming.  The movies played without hesitation.  And there are even a few offerings in high definition.


But even the good films offer the a quirk that will keep you wondering who is in charge of the operation.  The film languages.


I despise dubbed films.  If a film is made in French, I want to hear the voices in French while I read the subtitles.  If the film is dubbed into English, all of the pacing and timing disappears.


Netflix seems to have no philosophy on the point.  Of the movies I watched, all were originally filmed in English.  Two allowed the viewer to choose both the film’s language and the subtitle language.  In addition to English, the subtitles are offered in Spanish and Portuguese -- after all this is a Latin America service.


But one movie (a Gus Van Sant piece) was dubbed terribly in Spanish with no subtitles.  And another movie was in English with Spanish subtitles embedded in the film -- subtitles that must have been designed for the hard of seeing because they blocked out almost half of the screen in large block yellow letters.  Considering the quality of the movie, that was a blessing.


Netflix is offering new subscribers free service for one month.  I am not new, so I am paying the monthly fee.


I am going to give it a try for a month or two.  If the inventory does not increase, I am going to fall back on the 400-some DVDs I brought down with me.

 

going greek in melaque

I am accustomed to doing without some foods I could once buy up north.


For the most part.


But not entirely.


The serpent tends to come upon me when I spy what I think is a northern treasure.  On Friday I was in Soriana (a large Mexican grocery chain) to pick up a few items.  They have several small displays with foods from other countries.  Imported delicacies.  Such as, Chex Mix.  You get the idea.  I was not expecting much.


On the Italian display I caught a glimpse of something black and oblong in a jar.  My hope meter pegged.  Could it be?  Kalamata olives?


And it was.  A small jar for a small fortune.  But I wanted them to make one of my favorite summer meals -- Greek salad.


Knowing that I was being a bit addled merely to look, I wandered over to the cheese case to see if any feta was available.  If not, I was willing to settle for fresh goat cheese.


But like some loaves and fishes tale, there it was.  Feta.  Packed in brine.  Real feta.  The fact that it was made in Denmark did not deflate my hopes.


With some local tomatoes, onions, and cucumbers -- and a jar of green Spanish olives (you know the type: stuffed with a bit of pimento) to augment the Kalamatas, I was on my way home.  And I knew it was a good day when I found a real lemon at my local grocer for the mint dressing.


The result is at the top of the post.  Now, I will admit without heirloom tomatoes, English cucumbers, Walla Walla sweet onions, and my favorite South African peppers, it is not quite the same salad I enjoyed in Salem.


But, that is the point, isn’t it?  It isn’t the same salad. 


It is a good salad.  And quite refreshing on these hot, humid summer afternoons.  A nice glass of water.  A few crackers.  A bowl of new Greek salad.  What more could I ask?

dog days of summer

I do not believe in omens.  Just another bit of superstition as far as I am concerned.


Well, almost.


I came close to falling into the augury trap during my highlands trek.  While driving around Lake Zirahuén, I had the feeling it was going to be my next stop in this Mexican adventure.


It wasn’t the mountains -- or the forests -- or the azure lake itself.  Even though all of those were factors.


It was dogs.  Well, a type of dog.  Golden retrievers.  I saw two of them on my drive around the lake.  If relatives of Professor Jiggs could thrive there, so could I.


Of course, that simply disinterred The Dog Question.  Am I about ready for another golden retriever?


And I knew that answer.  It was easy.  If I had a golden retriever during the past two months, I would not have been spending time in San Miguel or Pátzcuaro.  Traveling with a big dog in Mexico is difficult.  Very difficult.


When I get another dog, that will be an omen certain that I have decided to garage the Escape and put down some roots.  But not today.


Instead, today (or yesterday) I became the keeper of a dog.  A house guest dog.

 

Tamara is one of those medium-sized bat-eared beaglish dogs that are quite common in Mexico.  Her Aztec roots may not be strong, but they are there.


She belonged to a family from Guadalajara who left her behind at the beach.  She has been in foster care for a bit.  On Friday, she was spayed, and needed to stay someplace where she would not be bothered by other animals.


My landlady knew who to ask.  I still have not divested myself of most of Jiggs’s dog paraphernalia.  So, Tamara showed up for a stay at the Professor Jiggs Spa.  Eating out of his bowls and enjoying a yard he never saw.

 

She moves on to her permanent home tomorrow.  And she will be ready.  I took her on a short walk around the laguna this afternoon.  Any after-effects of the anesthetic is gone.  She wants to get out there and strut her dog stuff.


And when she goes, I will stow the Jiggs kit until I decide it is time to rejoin the dog class once again.  Maybe at Lake Zirahuén.