what you dig is what you eat

Welcome aboard the serendipity express.

Yesterday, I had a post in draft stage, but I bumped it in favor of my black dog of summer piece.  As luck would have it, my blogger pal Al beat me to the punch.  In a way.

Al and Stew live just outside of San Miguel de Allende in one of the most beautiful spreads I have seen in Mexico.  You met them two years ago in peace center.

On Thursday, Al posted an essay about the abundant produce they are harvesting from their garden.  Locavores, eat your heart out.  "Lemon cucumbers, a couple of types of squash, five or six kinds of tomatoes, including three heirloom varieties, along with various types of beets, radishes, carrots and a seemingly endless cavalcade of different lettuces plus Swiss chard and kale." 

It is enough to turn a guy to thoughts of vegetarianism.  Well, with a bit of chicken thrown in here and there.  Here on the beach, chicken is considered a vegetable.  Just like bacon.

By the way, if the term "locavore" is new to you, you are undoubtedly not one of America's elite foodies.  A locavore is a person who will only eat food grown within 100 miles of the dining table.  The type of person who would vote socialist, as long as it did not adversely impact their 401K plan.

When my niece worked in a foo-foo produce shop in Bend, Oregon, a local woman brought a hand of bananas to her at the checkout counter and asked if the bananas were locally grown.  You do not need to know much more about locavores than that.

I suppose I am one, though.  At least when it comes to fruits and vegetables.  Almost all of the vegetarian fare we eat here in Melaque is grown on our narrow flood plain between the ocean and he mountains.  Easily within 100 miles of my casa.  And that has its benefits and costs.  We get great-tasting vegetables -- with the notable exception of tomatoes.

The tomato dilemma has prodded me to find a solution.  The most obvious is to grow my own.  And that would be great if it were not for the deadly tobacco blight that tends to turn most tomato plants into a back goo overnight.  Or the army of leaf-cutter ants that have an almost pregnant-obsession with potted plants.  Or the fact that I am away from my place for longer periods of time than any farmer in good conscience could ever be.

So, I have no vegetable garden.

I do have a compost pile, though.  Well, it is a vegetable and fruit dumping ground.  I seldom tend it as a compost pile should be tended.  Not regularly, at least.

A recent trip to the compost pile convinced me that it may be time to take a stab at emulating Al and Stew.  The first thing I noticed was a vine of some sort.  Squash, I assumed.  Whatever it was, the next day it was gone.  The victim of my nemesis the ants.

The most unusual volunteer was a stalk of corn.  Not a Kansas stalk, mind you.  It looked more like a Rhode Island size.  But there it was.  Unplanted.  Untended.  And with an ear forming.

I have no idea how it got there.  I certainly did not put out seed.  And the only corn that has gone in the pile was of the cob variety.  Boiled corn does not babies make.

As far as I am concerned, it was a mystical sign that it is time for Mexpatriate to put down roots.  Buy a dog.  Plant a garden.  And fight the leaf cutter ants on a daily basis -- rather than on my infrequent visits.

Chicomecoatl, the Aztec goddess of fertility and corn, just might smile on my efforts.  Though, I am not certain I would like the Orozco version hanging around my garden.

roof with a view

I am up on the roof today.

When there are no renters in the upper unit of my place, I come up here now and then to enjoy the view.  Now that the flamboyant tree has been put to the axe and the ficus has been sheared, we can actually see water from up here.

But I did not come up here for the view.  I needed a place to sit and organize my thoughts.  The garden would usually work, but the breeze on these hot, humid days is better on the third floor.

And, somehow, I feel a bit lifted up from our little burg.  I love living in small towns.  But with every benefit there comes a cost.  And in small towns, smallness is almost free on the open market.

There is no need to bore you with the details, but every decade or so, the black dog comes for a visit.  And this was the day.

Actually, it has been building for a couple of days.  I can always feel the symptoms.  Sleep is elusive.  I stay in bed until noon.  Meeting people slips from a pleasure to a chore.

I have been mulling over some thoughts for an essay on the deaths of Lauren Bacall and Robin Williams.  In a way, I will miss her more.  She was one of those screen presences whose work will survive -- even when her role was nothing more than supportive.  Seeing her twice on Broadway in terrible vehicles was still a treat.

But she is one of those celebrities who I had thought died years ago.  Fame is fleeting.

Robin Williams is in an entirely different category.  Whenever a celebrated person commits suicide, people are baffled.  One of the most common responses is: "How could he do that?  He had everything."  Of course, most people who say that have been sucked into the cult that wealth and success buy happiness.  And we know that is not true. 

I was still in law school when I first saw Robin Williams on television.  I believe it was the summer of 1978.  My classmates Bill and Doug were watching late night television.  One of the summer midnight specials.  This one was from San Francisco where a young new comedian was about to take America by storm.

The three of us knew we were seeing something new.  For some reason his impression of Superman on speed struck us as hilarious.  I still remember what I said: "This guy is nuts."  Over the years, I discovered I was correct, but in darker ways than I had thought. Williams was one of those celebrities who almost wore "tragic ending" on his forehead.

Watching him on stage was like watching a mental patient who was barely managing to keep his fingertips wrapped around the throat of reality.  No tight-rope walker made audiences hold their breaths hoping that the unexpected would not happen.

It usually didn't.  Usually, he left an audience behind still wondering if they had actually experienced what they thought they had.  It may be why some of his best acting roles cast him either as a therapist or as a mad man.

I recently lost a talented friend to the vagaries of alcohol and depression. All of us around him could only stand helpless while he took one tragic step after another. It was like watching someone standing on a frozen lake while the ice broke up around them.

My blogger pal Shannon Casey just posted a very touching essay on the topic of depression: The Thin Line.  She recounts a series of famous people who have been toppled by depression.  One of her commenters added that some gentle people who suffer depression may commit suicide because "they are too gentle for this world."

Both of them are correct.  But there are other people who suffer depression, and their condition drives them to face their demons with violence.  We have seen a series of bouts worked out throughout the world where someone suffering from mental illness decides to commit suicide by killing others and letting the police kill him.

All of that has very little to do with me and my reverie on the roof, however.  Even though some of my family members have used knives and baseball bats to work out their own mental problems.

But I am not one.  For starters this mood is not clinical depression.  I am simply indulging in the type of childish revenge musings that pull small towns apart.  And rather than continue the cycle, I have decided to stay up here until the mood passes.  Staying away from company is always a good idea when my mind treads these corridors.

Well, to be honest, it already passed a couple of hours ago.  To celebrate, I walked over to La Oficina to enjoy some of Juliana's spinach pasta.  It was good to be in the company of people again.

At least, for now.  This may be the sign I was waiting for that it is time to move on to something new.

 

signs of the time

Well, this is something you are most likely not going to see in Canada or The States. 

Not the sign to the left.  That is a product of the American Old South.  I am talking about the advertisement below -- an advertisement that would cause the claxon of propriety to sound a warning.

The advertisement is for an apartment in Morelia -- I believe.  It sounds quite attractive.  Even with the requirement for a six month lease.  The surprise comes in the third to last sentence. 

Fully furnished, remodeled two bedroom apartment in el centro, one block from the Mercado San Juan and close to downtown restaurants. Extra large living room, dining room, kitchen, one bath. Private entrance, completely secure. Main level features two patios and a separate storage room.  An upper level offers sweeping sun-rise views, a new built-in barbecue, bar area and patio big enough to hold a dance on. Cable TV and Internet provided.  Owner prefers male renters or mature women. A small, well-behaved pet is acceptable. Six months minimum lease required.

"Owner prefers male renters or mature women."  One can only imagine what the walls of that apartment have seen to result in that odd restriction.

I remember seeing similar advertisements when I was growing up in Oregon.  "Single gentlemen only."  "No children."  "No single ladies."

A long line of legislation has erased those restrictions from the classified advertisements -- well, at least, where classified advertisements still exist.  I suspect they have almost all migrated to the internet these days.

Of course, the sentiments survive.  If a landlord is reluctant to rent to young men, she can simply not rent to them -- always risking a visit from the fairness police.  And a subsequent fine.

Mexico simply skips the hypocrisy step.  If you own a piece of property and you don't want to deal with your own prejudices, you simply put them out in public to be read by all.  And, if someone gets offended, they just need to learn to deal with it.

It makes those of us from the north just a bit uneasy.  After all, "male renters preferred" does not create the same visceral reaction as "No coloreds."  And, even though there are huge historical differences between the two, they still strike northerners as -- well, wrong.

And if I find the advertisement offensive?  What can I do?  Here's an idea.  Mount your moral horse and don't bother responding to the advertisement.  Even if you are a preferred male or mature woman.

Who knows, after a few snubs, we northerners may conform Mexicans to our particular brand of hypocrisy. 

Who says cultures can't learn from one another?

the seasons turn

The streets of Melaque look as if John Ford has stopped by to film the climax of a western.  The big shootout could happen any minute.

In the early afternoon on a Tuesday, our streets were almost devoid of human activity.  Even our homely town square was empty.

For the past six weeks Melaque has been awash with tourists.  Mexican students get a relatively short vacation during the summer, compared with students north of the Rio Bravo.  But their families use it wisely.  Often at the beach.

During my first four summers here, the tourists came mainly on buses from Guadalajara or the surrounding towns of Jalisco.  Two years ago, there was a noticeable change.  Middle class families started showing up in expensive SUVs -- the type of families who previously spent their vacations in Puerto Vallarta.  It has been proof positive that the middle class continues to grow in Mexico.

Last Saturday, I had lunch at a restaurant across the street from the only bank in town.  When I first sat down, all I could see was a field of cars and SUVs double-parked in the street.  I assumed most were using the ATM.

By the time I had finished my meal, the street was empty.  The bank parking lot was empty.  A better writer could have conjured up a tale of pestilence and plague.  Of course, the families were on their way home to get the kiddies back in class.

These six weeks of summer vacation are incredibly important to the economy of Melaque.  Even though the largest revenue source, by far, is agriculture, the Mexican tourists bring in the second highest amount -- during the summer, on weekends, and the ever-important Christmas and Easter vacations.

I will confess that my revenue numbers are anecdotal.  They have to be.  We have no Chamber of Congress and there are no readily-available statistics from the Mexican government.  But my business sources are all unanimous in their assessment of the importance of Mexican tourism to Melaque.

And they are just as unanimous that northern tourism comes up third in overall annual revenue.  There are plenty of businesses that cater almost solely to one trade or the other.  For instance, several of the restaurants I enjoy are open only during the winter season.

But that is changing.  I have a friend who has run a high-end hotel here for years.  In the past, she would close in the summer.  She now stays open through the year and has found the Mexican trade in the summer to be very lucrative.

The same goes for the restaurant I was sitting in at the beginning of this essay. In the past two years, it has become a regular summer haunt of middle class Mexican families.  It gives me an opportunity to practice my Spanish by eavesdropping on conversations.

And that is why I often have to ask followup questions when someone asks me about the "season" in Melaque.  The only thing that is constant is that the tourist year has it own life cycle -- just like the laguna.

In truth, I will miss the tourists who have just left.  I know the waiters will.

grampa is reaching for his wallet

Duck!  Here comes Grampa Steve with his baby pictures.

One of the thrills of living on Villa Obregon’s laguna is witnessing the cycle of life.  And it is as raw as jungle life can be -- with death, birth, and struggle served up with daily shows,.  Matinees on Wednesdays.

Of course, my favorite act is the hatching of the crocodile eggs.  I have learned a lot about the maternal instinct from this little drama.  Who knew that mother crocodiles could be so nurturing?

The best part of the cycle, though, is watching the hatchlings do their best to survive in a hostile world.  Last year, I took a series of great photographs, if I do say so myself.  (LINK)  I had hoped that this year would be even better with my relatively new camera.

But circumstances are different this year.  Very different.  Last year there were over 40 babies spread across a large portion of our arm of the laguna.  This year I have counted only five.  And they have remained secluded.

For good cause.  A wave of hungry birds and avenging neighbors bent on molesting the young has washed over the small beach where the babies try to hide and survive.  Two nights ago, two older women were throwing large stones at the babies, calling them “bad.”

Now, how could that face be "bad?"  It might even be smiling.

Any wildlife that moves around here is subject to a shortened life throw stoning, stomping, or hacking.  And most of those things that slither, scurry, or scuttle are either benign or helpful to the ecosystem.

Trying to reason that there has not been one reported injury of a human by a crocodile in Melaque will only fall on deaf and fearful ears.  Even I admit these large reptiles knot the stomach.  Especially at night when I am expecting to see only ants.  But crocodiles are in far more danger from us than we are from them.

I suspect I will not get many shots of this hatching.  So, indulge a proud grampa.  After all, the babies will move on in one fashion or other.

And here is a bonus for indulging a sentimental old man.

maybe frida had the right idea

I have vowed several times that "this is my last post on crime in Mexico."  But the topic just keeps coming back for another visit.

This time two different incidents (one involving neighbors; another involving an acquaintance) have caused me to start re-assessing how to live with one of life's realities.  You know the one: as good as life is, there is a lot of evil in the world, and some of it is very close at hand.

Here are the two stories.  A Canadian couple owns a house on the beach about four blocks from my house.  Last Thursday they suffered a burglary -- the type of burglary that gives most of us goose flesh when we hear about them.

They had retired for the evening to their air-conditioned bedroom -- with their door shut.  During the night, a burglar entered through a second floor bathroom window and wandered through their house for almost 75 minutes, stealing some valuable items along the way.  He had also armed himself with several knives.  They know the details because the whole incident is recorded on their security cameras.

The cameras managed to catch several good images of the burglar.  The homeowners copied the photographs and provided them to our local police.  Within two days, the police had arrested a suspect.  Based on his interrogation, he is the guy.

That tale had a good outcome.  At least, so far.  I have often doubted that a security camera photograph would be very helpful in nabbing a crook.  I was wrong.

What is disturbing about the story is that we have had a series of nighttime burglaries around here -- while the occupants were asleep.  I will confess I have spent more than one restless night after listening to those tales.

But the second tale is a bit more alarming.  And, so far, it has not come to a good ending. 

On Saturday, an acquaintance went to the bank in Melaque.  When she returned to her house, she was confronted by a couple of thugs, who pistol-whipped her, and relieved her of her money, her credit cards, and her passport.  When I saw her Sunday morning, she had the stitches to show for it.

The matter is now in the hands of the police.  Her friends are offering her their support.

But both of these incidents reminded that, wherever I am in the world, I need to be aware of my surroundings.  Even here in Melaque.

After hearing about the first incident, a friend emailed me asking: "So much for your theory that there is no crime in Mexico."

I was a bit surprised that I had such a theory.  Because I don't.  I have previously commented that Mexico has crime, just like any other place in the world.  Including Bend.  Just ask my mother.

What has changed for me is that I am tired of being afraid.  To quote one of my favorite cheesy movies: "We will no longer tolerate and we will no longer be afraid.  It's your turn to be afraid."

And what does that mean?  I am not exactly certain.  There are all forms of self-defense methods people can use to take back some control over their own lives.

Several expatriates I know in town have legal firearms in their homes.  And individual local police officers have advised sevdral of us to purchase handguns.

I have never been an advocate of that approach.  But I have read a couple of works recently that give due credit for many of the advances of the American civil rights movement -- from emancipation until 1964 -- with the number of individual blacks who armed themselves within their homes to protect their families.  Colt, the gun manufacturer, played off that sentiment in an early advertisement: "Lincoln may have freed all men, but Sam Colt made them equal."

Mexico is not the United States.  The laws are different here.  The culture is different here.  But there has long been a tradition in Mexico of protecting one's family.  And, when a family can afford to own a gun, they sometimes do.  Legal or not.

I most likely will not take that course.  Everything I own is just stuff.  And I doubt I could kill a total stranger merely for taking a few trinkets.  Human life is too important to me to waste it on trifles.

But armed nighttime burglars and thugs who pistol-whip women are not merely the gatherer of trinkets.  It is they who are changing the picture.

And some of us are willing to take up the challenge.

Maybe I need to marry a modern-day Frida -- without all of that Commie angst.
 

big moon and shooting stars

Get outside tonight and look up.

You are going to be witness to two -- count them, two -- big astronomical events.  A super moon and a meteor shower.  The fact that one will overpower the other is just the way nature works.

The term "super moon," of course, is one of those media abominations.  Nothing can be just what it is.  It needs to be extraordinary.  Especially, in the northern land where everybody is above average.

You may recall the last time Mexpatriate talked about, and gazed at, the last super moon in Bend was the night of my mother's unintended starring role in "Evil and the Night Visitor" -- (COPS comes to bend).  That was July.  And the moon was reported to appear larger than it had since 1993.

Here we are, a month later, and the astronomers tell us that tonight's moon will seem even larger.  In the polling business, we would call it within the margin of error.  That means: "not that you would notice." 

I took a look at the moon on Saturday night.  It was bright.  It was beautiful.  After all, it is the moon.  That chunk of rock that we have all built dreams around.

But "super?"  Not so much.

Having said that, here is my advice: don't miss it.  Go outside tonight when the moon coming over the horizon (just about sunset), and you will swear it could gobble up a good portion of the horizon.

The other spectacular scheduled for tonight is a heady show of the annual Perseid meteor shower.  The earth will pass through a debris cloud left by the comet Swift-Tuttle.  At its height, 100 meteors per hour will streak across the sky.

That is, 100 meteors can be seen under optimum viewing conditions.  A super moon hogging the sky stage is not optimum.  In Sunday school, we might sing about letting our little lights shine.  But, the little lights will go unnoticed tonight.

Astronomers predict the show rate will be 15 to 25 per hour.  That should be good enough to spend time on a warm summer night with someone you love.  I am going to see if Mama Croc is available.

After all, a super moon and shooting stars are a free show not to be missed.  Even though one steps on the other's lines. 

Maybe it is a Mexico thing.  Trying to accomplish two things in one night is simply indulgent.

So, enjoy the timpani rolls of the moon.  And consider the meteors to be the harp accompaniment.