moving to mexico -- resources

So, you have done the hard part.

You have decided to sell your house and move permanently to Mexico. Visions of sunlit beaches and snow-capped volcanoes samba in your dreams.

Now comes the learning curve. You are not even certain what questions you need to have answered. But there are some that have started gnawing at you.

• Should I bring my car?
• How do I ship all of my personal belongings?
• How do I get a visa?
• Should I buy a house or rent?
• What details should I consider in a purchase or rental contract? What terms need to be negotiated?
• Where should I live?
• What will my monthly costs be?
• Can I bring my pet King Cobra and Bengal Tiger?

I decided in 2006 that I was going to retire and live out my last few years in Mexico. And I asked myself all of those questions -- well, maybe not the one about the tiger -- and a lot more.

Because I am a traditionalist, I bought every book I could find about retiring in Oregon and pored over them every night in my hot tub. I posted a list in 2007 of the books I was reading (lamps unto my feet). Fourteen years later, I suspect the material is dated. but new editions may have been published.

The books were very helpful in covering the categories of questions I should ask, and the authors did their best to provide adequate data to answer some of the questions. But, by their very nature, the books could only provide general information. And I needed answers to questions relating to my situation.

Based on the books, I narrowed down my search to six cities in Mexico. I planned to audition each place for six months and then move on to another. (That plan fortunately soon crashed on the shoals of reality.) To prepare for those moves, I needed to find people who knew each area.

That is when I discovered Mexico blogs. Wayne on Isla Mujeres. Joanna and Teresa in Mérida. Gary in Mexico City. Jennifer in Morelia. Felipe in Pátzcuaro. Babs in San Miguel de Allende. Nancy in Mazatlan. Andee in Chacala.

Not only could I learn about living in their portions of Mexico, I could also get a feel of the lives they chose to live by reading their past posts. It is one thing to read a book written by someone whose background you do not know. It is far more reassuring to take advice from people whose lives make contextual sense.

All of them were willing to provide advice and none was bashful when it came to opinions. And that was exactly what I needed. I wanted raw reality, not Chamber of Commerce fluff.

Of that group, Wayne has hauled his writing over to Facebook, Gary has moved back to England, Teresa has moved to California, Nancy continues her blog at Lake Chapala, and Andee died just before I could meet her. In fact, most of the blogs I relied on in making my decisions are no longer being written.

Unfortunately, it appears that Facebook has attempted to fill the gap. And it fills the gap quite inadequately.

I belong to several Facebook groups that purport to offer advice to people who are considering upgrading their lives with a move to Mexico. I suppose some of the questions are answered to the satisfaction of the posters. But I am not certain that answers to such questions as "How much does it cost to live in Mexico?" are very helpful when answered by people who live all the way from a simple home in Oaxaca to a penthouse in Mexico City.

Part of the problem is the format of Facebook. Complex questions and answers are reduced to bumper sticker slogans. And the person who asks the question has no idea of the veracity of the person who answers.

I also suspect trolls are responsible for what appear to be the most inane questions: "Can you buy prescription drugs in Mexico?" -- "Do Mexican women make good wives?" -- "Are there fruit markets where I want to live?" I have often imagined that the old KGB office in Moscow is filled with operatives peppering Mexican Facebook pages with these gems.

If I were making a decision on the details of my move to Mexico right now, I would avoid all of the Facebook advice pages unless you have always wanted to play Diogenes.

I would start looking for updated versions of the books in my list (or others) to build a proper framework of questions. I would then start reading well-written blogs from the areas you are curious about. There are also some valuable internet resources listed to the right of this essay.

If you are currently going through the decision-making process, I confess that I envy you a little. Making all of these choices was one of the best experiences of my life -- even when I was fully aware that each decision would be swept away when the tide of time swept across it.

Enjoy the move. Mexico is not paradise, and life here is not perfect. But every day in Mexico will let you appreciate simply being alive.

And that is good enough for me.       

 

keeping our eyes in our heads

One of the things I miss about flying is getting to know the person sitting next to me.

Bill Buckley reportedly said: "Ninety-nine out of a hundred people are interesting. The other one is interesting because he is different."

I have certainly found that to be true with my cabin mates. Everyone has a tale to tell, and I have learned a lot by just getting to know new people for the short hours it takes to get from airport to airport.

In 2016, I was on a flight from Portland to Los Angeles on my way home to Mexico. The youngish man sitting next to me was engrossed in a book when I sat down. I waited until he put it down and introduced myself. He responded in kind: "Nice to meet you. Ruben Navarette." He paused for a moment to see if the name meant anything to me. It didn't.

During the flight, I discovered he was a newspaper columnist. I probably had read some of his pieces, but I had no idea what his politics were.

We started talking about one of our mutual favorite topics -- immigration. I had just read a series of books and articles on the topic -- including Jorge Castañeda's Ex Mex: From Migrants to Immigrants, that had given me an entirely new set data to analyze immigration from Mexico to The States.

We had probably talked about immigration for close to an hour when he informed me, in addition to column, he also had a podcast, and  he wanted to know if I would like to be interviewed. Even though I was intrigued by the idea, I told him I had no qualifications other than regurgitating what I had recently read. He laughed. "How would that be any different than any Talking Head?" You have to like someone that sardonic.

Since then, I have read his column whenever I see it. Sometimes, I agree with his position. Most often, I do not. But he always makes me think about the topic -- often through new analytical tools. I am far more interested in the path than I am in the conclusion. THat is probably why I find George Will's writing so compelling.

This morning, I was pleased to discover Navarette's column in the morning newspaper. His subject matter was not what grabbed my attention. What looked like a throwaway line in the fourth paragraph turned out to be the hook that drew me in.

[E]ven my actual best friends and I don't agree on everything. I'm old school. Back in the day -- before social media taught us to "unfriend" those who think differently -- you didn't have to agree with someone to be their friend.

I do not know when it began, but I have noticed a rash of "total unfriending" among people I know. Tempers have become so raw over the virus, politics, and whether ketchup on hot dogs is evidence of moral degradation that long-time friends have split the proverbial sheets. 

A woman I have known here for at least a decade and I had a conversation on the topic this week. I had not seen her recently in the social circles with which I associate her. When I asked her why, she informed me she would not associate with people who had politics that differed from hers. The way she worded it, I knew there was nothing left to discuss.

I found that a bit sad. Like Navarette, I disagree with most of my best friends on a lot of topics. Some of my best conversations have been with atheists, socialists, and anti-immigrationists. Even though their views are not mine, I always learn something new. Probably because we argue interests instead of positions.

The trick, of course, is that we respect one another. And, because we do, we can focus on the intellectual joy of working through ideas and concepts. Hatred cannot get a foothold with that respect.

For the first time since I started Mexpatriate back in 2007, I have been forced to make a decision to ban a commenter. And it was a tough decision because he always had an interesting bit of information to add to discussions. Unfortunately, he also had a tendency to personalize issues in a manner that evidenced itself in personal attacks, attacks that have caused several readers to complain. Eventually, he made one too many Larry-Grey-at-the-dinner-party slurs.

Buckley and Navarette are correct. People are interesting, and the best friends are people with whom we can disagree and from whom we can learn.

That is one of the joys of being adult. Reverting to the toxic social hierarchy of junior high does none of us any good.

Mahatma Gandhi seems to have a good contribution to almost any discussion. I suspect this is how he would sum up this "defriending" culture (even though he probably never said it): "An eye for an eye will leave the whole world blind."  
 
Here's looking at you. 

know yourself; know your enemy better

"Know your enemy and know yourself, find naught in fear for 100 battles."

I should have remembered my Sun Tzu when I strapped on my gear to do battle in my patio. But I made an even more basic error. I did not know who my enemy was. And that is a perfect recipe for defeat.

Since last May I have been battling an insect invasion in my cup-of-gold vines (something is bugging me). It is always questionable to rely on northern experiences to define problems in Mexico. There are simply too many variables. But I disregarded that pearl of wisdom to conclude my vines were under attack by mealybugs.

Several of you offered some kind advice last Spring on dealing with my new-found competitors -- from using a water hose to spray them off to calling in a chemical airstrike that would lift the hopes of any Dow shareholder.

Nothing worked. The infestation was so bad that most of the vines were denuded of leaves and the exudation that rained down on the heliconia leaves was thick enough to prevent photosynthesis. The landscaping was on the verge of deat.

I took what seemed to be the last resort. I cut down the vine and let it regrow. And grow it did. Without a mealybug (or whatever they were) in sight.

But, alas, the bugs returned a couple of weeks ago in larger numbers. They appear to be more resilient than the Taliban.

The same day I noticed their return, someone posted photographs on a local Facebook page asking what the insects were that were currently sucking her plants dry. I could have taken the same shot of my vines.

My friend Dan Patman posited a theory I had not considered. He suggested that they looked like cochineal, the scale insects that were the second most-valuable export (following silver) from Mexico to Europe during the Spanish colonial era. Dan first introduced the insects to me during a trip to Copper Canyon.

I had not even considered that possibility. For one very good reason. Mealy bugs were part of my personal experience. Cochineal were not.

So, I took a closer look at the invaders, did a bit of research, and applied the scientific method to my new-found database. There were two major problems with the cochineal theory.

First, even though cochineal are scale insects like mealybugs, their sole food source is cacti -- primarily nopal. As an interesting side note, cochineal are native to Peru and Mexico. Scientists now believe they were endemic to Peru and were exported to Mexico on traded food products between Peru and Mexico prior to the arrival of Columbus. The trade turned out to be a very beneficial one for Mexico.

Second, the value of the insects is that when the females are crushed, they produce a carmine dye. They were used in Europe to produce the bright carmine found in the get-up of Catholic cardinals and in the military jackets the British soldiers wore to subdue the inhabitants of its empire.

One of the methods I have used to clear the vines is crushing the insects. The color they produce is not carmine. It is more like the yellow of grasshoppers hitting a car's windshield.

Based on all that, I have eliminated cochineal from the enemies list. And that is a bit disappointing. I was hoping to farm and sell the dye-producers. It is a lucrative market. I could open the house with no name to tourists interested in crafts.

Where does that leave me? My research has verified that the bugs are scale insects. But that is a broad category.

The reassuring part of that discovery is the treatment for all scale insects is similar. The less reassuring part of that discovery is that I have tried almost all of the treatments in the past to no avail. The Jack-and-the-beanstalk method may be my only solution. Again.

After looking at the images of the various scale insects, I have reverted to the conclusion that I named (if not claimed) the correct enemy. They seem to be mealybugs.

For some reason, while leafing through my copy of Sun Tzu's The Art of War, I see nothing directly on point about battling mealybugs. Perhaps, I just need a bit more extrapolation.

There is always this. "All warfare is based on deception. Hence, when we are able to attack, we must seem unable; when using our forces, we must appear inactive; when we are near, we must make the enemy believe we are far away; when far away, we must make him believe we are near."

I just need to learn how those mealybugs think.    

scaling the heights

This afternoon I was slogging my way through the current issue of The Economist stuffing my head with arcana about corruption in Kenya, women protesting in Mexico City over tampon restrictions, and why China is doing such an abysmal job in vaccinating its population, when I heard voices.

No. Not that type of voice. The type that urges you to burn down your neighbor's house. Just conversational voices. The type of talk working men indulge in when amidst their profession.

The source was no surprise. Whenever I hear voices that sound as if they are in my patio, I have learned to look a hundred feet in the air. And that was the source of this afternoon's voices. Men working on the communication tower that abuts my property.

Yesterday we talked about Omar's change in professional aspirations -- from dentist to accountant -- as he enters university (news on the omar front). That led to some interesting conversations about job choices. And the effects of those choices.

While I stood in my patio watching the technicians work, I thought about how exciting their work must be. To work so high in the air with the minimum of safety equipment. Especially today.

We have had some rather brisk breezes this past week. Today is no exception. The wind blowing through the tower's girders emits what might be best described as a wavering moan. The sound effect simply adds to my admiration of the work those men do.

Not too long ago I saw an article about people involved in extreme sports. The kind of guys who jump off cliffs in their "flying squirrel" outfits. Several of them said they were offended when people call them adrenalin junkies. They claimed the whole theory was wrong. They simply liked pitting their skills and succeeding at pursuits where death is highly likely, but then avoided.

Even though I am not involved in any extreme sports (as long as we exclude Facebook posts), I understand exactly what they meant. During one of my first driving lessons with Dad, he told me that every time a driver puts tires on the road, he is dead. If he returns alive, he has had a good day.

Maybe that is why I look at those tower guys with a bit of envy. Certainly I had my exciting moments in the Air Force and as a trial attorney, but the thrill of climbing a tower in high winds to work on antennas must be akin to tending sails on a eighteenth century tall ship. The stuff of tales.

For the moment, though, I sit here in the patio listening to the clang of the safety belts on the girders, I can share in a bit of the thrill of doing something beneficial while surviving danger.

It truly is a good day.

   

news on the omar front

We all tend to see the world through the lens of our own experience.

Take careers as an example. When I was 12, I decided I wanted to be a veterinarian because I wanted to own a circus. The logic was tenuous. But it was a perfectly good dream for a 12-year-old boy. 

My career path took a sharp right turn when I was a freshman in high school. Politics was now going to be my chosen field. To get there, I would be a lawyer. That dream at least had the advantage of some logic.

When I was at university, I was surprised at the number of my friends who had not yet made up their minds about a career and would change their majors more often than they would change their tie-died t-shirts. It was the 60s. Even in law school, a couple of my friends were not certain they wanted to be lawyers. And, even though they graduated with a law degree, they chose other fields.

Almost four years ago, I offered to assist Omar in his goal to become a dentist. And, even though I had stuck with my dream from 1964 (with the exception of the politics part that I exorcised from my life in 1988), I gave him the same advice my dad gave me when I graduated from high school. "Never do anything you do not want to do. Your work choice is one of the most important decisions you can make. Don't let anyone tell you what you have to be."

That did not seem to be a problem with Omar. He seemed to be focused on becoming a dentist to gain escape velocity to leave his village by the sea. But I did not want him to feel pressured to be a dentist simply because that is what he told me he wanted to be.

If you have been following his post-prepa-graduate progress on these pages, you already know he has taken two university admission tests for dental school. The first test score was not high enough. The second was invalidated because some other test-takers committed fraud.

But based on those two test results, the admissions office of the University of Guadalajara has admitted him at its campus in Autlán de Navarro. But not in a dentistry course. Instead, he has decided to become an accountant. As Max Bialystock would say (and did): You're in a noble profession. The word 'count' is part of your title."

I knew that his girlfriend Yoana was going to attend the university at Autlán to become an attorney. He told me last night that not only could they attend university together, but when they graduate, they could open an office together to offer their respective services.

The decision appeared to be rational. At least, it was more logical than my circus owner-veterinarian connection.

When I asked him when the courses begin, he told me "today."  

Until the virus is brought under some semblance of control here, university classes are being conducted virtually. That means the house with no name will now be an affiliate of the University of Guadalajara while Yoana and Omar poke their noses into their computers to start their professional educations.

I wonder if I can get one of those subsidies the Biden administration is handing out to schools?

a tale of two lines

I took a vacation to our county seat of Cihuatlán today.

Well, it was a vacation in the same way that Omar uses that word to describe my trips to Oregon on family business. Maybe he is correct. They are working vacations.

And work I did.

When I was last in Cihuatlán, I paid for my car registration for the year, but the clerk told me I needed to return in three or four weeks to pick up my documents (home is the hunter from the hill). At the time, I thought that was odd. For the last few years, the documents were printed on the spot.

Friends told me that the registrations were now ready, so, I scheduled a trip for today. I had also heard that covid-19 vaccines were available for a limited period at the IMMS Clinica 80. Because I was not certain how large the crowds would be at the clinic, I parked between the two destinations, and walked to the clinic.

I suspected that in the third or fourth day of vaccinations, there would be long lines. There were. Because the registration documents for my car were more important than getting vaccinated today, I walked over to the equivalent of a DMV -- fully expecting a long there, as well.

I was wrong. There was no line. As you can see in the photograph. Two clerks. One person being served.

Upon receiving my receipt, the clerk serving me retired to a desk in the back, hurriedly sought assistance from someone else, and returned with a plastic card. Something new.

In the past, drivers have received a decal to put in their car window (the equivalent of a license tag) and a paper card that acted as a registration form. Apparently, the new card has replaced the other two. It will sleep in my wallet.

All of that had killed about ten minutes. When I walked back to the clinic, the lines were about the same length.

Even though it initially looked as if the process were chaotic, I started paying attention to the flow. Two lines led to tables where earnest young people were filling out forms.

The form was then handed to the person in line who would walk over to a third line that led into the clinic.

I joined the flow and was impressed that this whole operation had been created out of thin air to respond to a pandemic that was not in anyone's emergency handbook. It understandably had its clunky moments, but it was getting the job done.

Last week there was anxious chatter on the local Facebook pages that the vaccine was on its way and there was an on-line process to set up an appointment for those of us sitting in God's waiting room. After looking at the signup procedures, I asked some Mexican friends what they were going to do. To a person, they said they were simply going to show up.

And that appears to be what happened in our group today. Almost all of us were drop-ins.

As is true with all of these stand-in-line events, there are people who think they have better things to do than be like the rest of us. I saw only four or five instances of bad behavior out of the two hundred or so of us who were waiting to be vaccinated. An older northern man who had one of those rolling anger fits that ended up erupting into "no one in [his country] would ever stand for this [Nixonian expletive deleted]." His wife led him away.

The process was simple. I stood in line for about 55 minutes to receive my vaccination form. THe only document I needed to produce was my permanent resident card (including my CURP number). I then stood in the get-vaccinated line for an hour and 40 minutes. The line would move at a steady pace -- and then just stop. (I soon discovered why.)

The vaccination itself took no more than a matter of seconds. A security guard directed the post-shot set to a covered area behind the clinic where we were to wait at least 30 minutes to ensure we did not end up as an anomaly in the vaccination data.

We also had to wait for a group of young women to process the paperwork for our second vaccination. Mine is tentatively set for 14 April. I will be called and notified where that will be.

Mexico has purchased a grab bag of vaccines. Pfizer. Oxford-Astrazeneca. The Russian vaccine. Two Chinese vaccines. Because the clinic did not offer a cafeteria approach, I was stuck with the vaccine on offer: Oxford-Astrazeneca. If it had been the Russian or one of the Chinese vaccines, I probably would have declined the jab. But, it wasn't, and I bared my arm, despite what we now know of the British vaccine and its limitations. After all, all medications have limitations.

The reason the vaccination line slowed to a stop was the pace of the check-out process. It was deliberative. When all of the chairs in the area filled, the vaccinations stopped.

That is not a complaint. It is merely an observation. Because, overall, I am still amazed that this type of mass operation worked as efficiently as it did.

By the time I was released, I had spent just under four hours getting my first covid-19 vaccination.

While I was standing in line, I was interviewed by a woman with a camera asking me how I felt about Mexico's generosity in vaccinating people like me -- and not just native-born Mexican citizens. I told her that I was very grateful to the taxpayers of Mexico for their generosity, and that I was one of those taxpayers. I will probably end up in some Morena political ad.

It was a long day, but a productive day. All of my first-of-year payments are complete, and I may -- or may not -- have boosted my natural defenses against the virus.

To me, that is a good day in Mexico.  

knocking on steve's door

Home ownership is a mixed bag of benefits and responsibilities.

None of that is news to anyone who has owned a home -- from the first Neanderthal in his cave to the British Queen with her string of palaces.

When I moved to Mexico from Oregon, I swore I would never again own a house. I wanted to be free enough to pick up my bed and drive whenever the urge hit me. My rule was simple, I would not acquire any possessions that I could not load into my Escape on one hour's notice.

That plan worked well until I bought the house with no name in Barra de Navidad. The ink was barely dry on my fideicomiso with Bancomer when I started filling the house with art, books, and all kinds of kitchen gadgetry. All of that, of course, at the cost of my liberty and moral accountability.

I would vow to keep my life simple. Then I would turn around and accumulate some new stuff.

One of the most effective gadgets I bought was an electronic opener for my garage doors that was recommended by a fellow blogger in Pátzcuaro. I had seen a similar setup at his condominium where I have stayed a few times.

Prior to installing it, my SUV was dented when the wind would swing the doors into my fenders while I was driving into the garage. The electronic doors helped solve that annoyance back in 2016 (knocking on heaven's door).

Our coastal weather with its high temperatures and humidity accompanied by clouds of brine is not conducive to the well-being of electronics. When I lived on the beach, my computer died within four months. But the electronic doors have proved to be more resilient. Until this month.

A week ago, one of my twin garage doors decided to go on strike. One door would open, but the other was just as unresponsive as any golden retriever puppy I have owned.

The sole electronic method to open the doors is with a remote. One button opens one door. The other button opens both doors. No matter which button I pushed, only one door would open.

Using my Sherlockian reasoning, I concluded the motor that opened the east door had burned out. Occasionally, the synchronization of the doors goes amiss, and the doors close in opposite order. I thought that mishap could have been hard on the motor.

So, I steeled myself for a hefty repair bill.

Hugo, the owner of the company that installed the openers lives just one village over. He was at the house within an hour of calling him.

Hugo took the remote and tried one button. Only one door opened. He tried the other button -- and as is the way of these repair tales -- both doors opened. I would have felt embarrassed if I had not tried both buttons myself.

He laughed when I told him I had tried both buttons because, as he explained, the problem was not in the remote or the motor, but in the synchronization between the doors. So, he pulled out his screwdriver and ladder and spent the next two hours attempting to customize the synchronization of the closure.

Admittedly, Hugo, Ozzy (my friend who was helping me with the project), and I spent a healthy portion of the two hours talking about a stream of topics that would have made up an afternoon's news coverage on local television.

When Hugo was done, his requested fee was 200 pesos -- or about 10 US dollars. For two hours work. I padded it a bit with a tip. Our conversation was worth the total price.

Once again, I can easily move my car in and out of the house. 

Doors, for some reason, have always reminded me of the line between life and death. And how easily it is to step over the threshold of one into the other -- though I suspect the process only goes one way. Maybe that is why keeping my doors in operating order is an investment in my future.

It couldn't hurt.