Part 5: CRUNCH

The kinfolk are coming today! Yep, we will be playing host for about a week. All seems to be going well. I swept, vacuumed and Tonya mopped. Fresh sheets, blankets towels-everything is in order.

By sheer chance, while putting the finishing touches on the restroom, Tonya discovers that after all the prep, the toilet doesn’t work! Well, it works, it flushes and fills, it is just that the bowl does not fill up.

Great, the parents coming in and they will not even be able to use their own toilet. This is the way to get things off to a great start. What do you do? I suppose you greet your visitors and just kindly point out to them that in spite of all the comfort you have tried to provide, they will have to pee and pooh someplace else. So be it…at least the shower works!


Out the door and off to the airport. This is the first time to make this journey. I had asked that Tonya get directions. Did she? No. To her, directions are ‘just drive and we’ll find it’. To me, this spells disaster in this crazy place. We have about 40 minutes to get there.

Looking down on sprawl, approaching the airport

35 minutes and counting and we are nowhere near. We are sitting in traffic. It annoys me to no end that Tonya talks to me and tells me street names like I am some one-toothed cab driver with a comb over, whose been trodding these streets for decades. All the names and directional quotes mean nothing. Each cab that inches up beside us tells Tonya a different route. We end up behind some market in front of a sign advertising tattoos and piercings. The kid in the van next to us may hold the key though…Tonya leans out and asks him how to get to the airport. He waves his hand with the cigarette then puts it back in his mouth and tells us to follow him. We do. I know when it is my time to exit when the hand with the cigarette comes out of the window and motions me to the left. We wave and smile and peel off in the opposite direction. That was a nice kid…even if he did smoke.

By the time we make it to their airport and find our way up to the arrivals area, I see the parents already outside with their bags. I feel like a heel, but get out and run to them quickly. We exchange hugs and pleasantries and I grab their bags and start loading them. Thankfully, they’d only been outside about 5 minutes! This is a relief, because it gives us ample time to get lost on the way home. We do this with utmost precision.

some mosaic lumps under an overpass

I am surprised at how cool Dad is. He just sits in the passenger seat and watches the city go by, “Watch that la..”He starts to warn, but too late. My side mirror hits her fruit cart. Yes, the trip up home definitely provides the folks with an up close and very personal view of the city. We ask for pointers from cops, and of course, and cab that happens to pull up. Dad tries his best Spanish once or twice, with an unsteady “Hey…senior…”. At least it gets the cabbies attention.

We end up in front of a place with an archway, like an ancient entry into a city, but this is less glamorous. This is ‘Barrio 18’. Dad doesn’t mind, instead he just quips that, “I am enjoying getting my tour of the city out of the way first!” Thanks.

Barrio 18

At home, we unload the folks and show them around the place. They want to see all sorts of stuff. I am quick to point out to dad that his private toilet will not be working. He fiddles with it a bit (he’s infamous for putzing around with stuff) and gets it to flush. He snoops a bit more then deducts that the inner wall has been broken and the water is going straight down the pipe. How could this be broken…we just had Mr. Cruz in to dispense some magic with his handiwork? It turns out that is exactly why it is broken; Mr. Cruz’s handiwork. We carry on and they get the full tour.

We discuss dinner and then decide to drive to the grocery store. No problems, we know this path very well. We get a pleasant surprise when we check out because the folks pick up the tab! Yowza, and to think we skipped on wine and steaks.

Back at home, things began to fall into place nicely. There is chatter in the kitchen, Dad putzing around on his computer, the dogs wondering in and out, and the perfect time for me to do a little pc’ing.

I sit on the couch and start to type out something like this continuing journal. It feels good having visitors already here, especially that they can take it on the chin that their toilet doesn’t work. The food smells great too (then again, Tonya is a world class cook. Always amazing! I start to get busy on my project and Sunny comes and sits beside me. It is always comforting to have one of the pups near by. I have no idea how far into typing I was when I notice Sunny fidgeting next to me. No big deal, I keep going. To be honest, I was not keeping time or paying too much attention to what was really going on around me. Then I hear a loud ‘CRACK’.

“What the…” was my first thought. When I hear a loud ‘CRUNCH’ and something break in the process, I decided it best to investigate.

Sunny (aka skull crusher)

Since the noises came from beside me, I figured it must be Sunny. I turn to see what he’s chomping on and reach down to check what is in his mouth. He will not open, and he is on full lock-down mode. “Gimme that!” I say as I reach to pry his jaws open. After wresting with him a moment, I snatch the object out of his mouth.

“SUNNY!” I yell as I am shocked to find what I am holding in my hand. “UGH. GROSS!” was just a knee jerk reaction as I realize I am holding a stiff boomerang shaped, half-decayed black squirrel in my hands. Sunny’s crunching was due to this little squirrel’s skull. I look down at my handful or rot and shriek like a girl. Immediately I fling it onto the floor. Almost as soon as it hits, I realize that was a mistake. Now the other dogs think it is playtime with the new dead-thing.

“A Squirrel!” and I get up holding the stiff dead thing as far away from me as possible and head straight to the door. I cannot get to the trash can fast enough. With my foot, I slam the door behind me to keep the line of excited dogs inside. I am so grossed out. I can feel bacteria, germs, probably black plague even, crawling up my hands and onto my forearms. I want to gag, but I don’t smell anything. I toss it into the trash and head back inside.

Everyone is curious as to what is happening after the screams and door slamming. I walk into the kitchen with my arms up in a pre-operation procedure pose, “It was a rotten squirrel” I tell Tonya. She looks horrified. ‘Where is it?” she asks. I stand there with both arms up holding my breath for fear of ingestion more rotten decay, and tell her the deed is done.

“Can you press the soap thingy please….I have to wash my hands!”

She obliges. She give the pump a half-assed pump and a measly, pea size morsel of soap falls into my disgusting palms. I look at her with utter contempt, but she has no idea. She has already gotten back to her cooking. With her back to me she adds “Make sure you clean it up good, and shake all the cushions”. I reach down and with the back of my hand, press down to get some more soap out. I scrub like a brain surgeon pre-Einstein op.

I walk back into the den and see tufts of black hair on the couch and ‘crumbs’ of something around on the floor. I cannot tell you how grossed out I was as I grabbed the cushions and shook them, watching hair and debris fly off. Sweeping up the left over animal bits, I was holding my breath just hoping that when I tossed the squirrel that none of these hairs or koodies ended up in my nasal passages or mouth.

No one wanted to sit on the couch anymore that night. Obviously, Sunny went without any affection for what would be the next 12 hours or so. He was the designated leper of the night. Thankfully though, dinner went off without a hitch and we all had a great night. It was good to have some familiar faces here.

Part 4: The Fear

I am a firm believer in not living one’s life in fear. It is the great inhibitor. However, I find it hard to not have fear after hearing countless horror stories of Mexico and all it holds. I find it hard to not have fear when everyday one can read about drug lords gone wild. I also find it hard to not have the fear of a place that blatantly puts pictures like this on their maps and tourists guides…

look closely at the arrows...

...a close up of the image

another example of the tourist friendly literature.

You tell me, the fear of kidnapping, is it truly unfounded or are they just having a laugh?

This afternoon I was painting in the house and I hear a guy outside screaming. I hear a small crowd cheering him on. When I heard “Viva Mexico!” and the crowd echo it back, quickly followed by a boisterous string of bellows, I started to wonder if at any moment I would hear the door come crashing in and the angry mob come and grab this hard working gringo never to be seen again. Ashamedly, I do admit fears of being the foreigner here. Anytime at night I hear people yelling, I know it is about me. Every night could be my last.

Thankfully though, I have awakened every morning, safe and sound and ready to begin a new round of fear for each new day.

My biggest recurring fear is water. I am in constant fear of the water here. I cannot fathom that if the Aztecs, Olmecs & Mayans were such great civilizations, why can’t this country have sorted out its water issues after all this time? I really cannot understand how you can build pyramids and have your calendars conveniently end at the day the world ceases to exist…why can’t that knowledge have been passed down to be able to have clean, running, drinkable water?! It astounds me to no end.

Bacdyn. No home should be without this. Sterilizes water, fruits and veg and loads more.

The other morning I get up and we do our regular morning routine. While sipping a pre-dog walk cup of coffee, we are having typical morning small talk and I notice that Tonya is looking at me funny. She just stares for a while with wide eyes, not saying a word. Me? I just think it is morning bleariness and nothing else.

“Wait” she says sternly.

I sit and blink, waiting for the rest of the line of commands to come forth. I take another sip and stare over the rim of my cup.

“Stop. Put it down.” Tonya said. “I think I filled the coffee pot with tap water…”

OHMYHEAVENS! In one of the fastest moves of my life, the cup was on the table and my hands in my lap. I sat and stared at the cup, then her.

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“Pretty sure” Tonya replied. She reached for my cup, “I’ll dump these out and make a new pot with the bottled water. I just sat, stupefied. This was the moment I had been dreading. I could just feel all those tiny bacteria laughing as they were multiplying like rabbits in my guts. I knew there were a few amoebas thrown in for good measure too. This was what all Mexican microbes wait a lifetime for-to mess up a gringo. Truth be told, I was afraid to attempt to walk the dogs, because I knew I would be hit with a sudden attack of Montezuma’s revenge.

Tonya was milling around the kitchen like this was no big deal. I started to wonder if the Mexican in her had overcome all sensibilities, and she was out for revenge. LA RAZA!

I had enough anxiety to last for years. It was all for nothing. I made it through the day ok. In hindsight I kinda thought this was a little bit alright. I mean, if some junk had infiltrated my system, then it would mean that I would be becoming more immune and perhaps overcome the dreaded ‘fear of the dark’ (know what I mean?).

Look closely...toilet paper on the bus driver's gear shift. He knows where I am coming from.

I thought I was a tough guy now. So much so, that a few nights later I decided rather than use bottled water while brushing my teeth, I would just go for it. I said my prayers before brushing my teeth, and went for it.

Like some sort of sissy, I spat and spat and spat when rinsing my mouth out. I washed my brush out thoroughly and shook it dry. I walked to the towel and wiped my mouth off. I felt brave.

“Did you just brush using regular water?” asked Tonya. I just nodded like I was Steven Segal or something, and that I did this kind of stuff everyday. “I’m proud of you”, she added.

Good thing the lights were off and she was asleep in no time. Where was Segal when I needed him? I lay there wondering if I dried my mouth good enough. ‘Did I spit enough? Did I get it all out?’ I asked my self. I was about to drown in my own saliva. My mind was making my saliva glands work overtime. I was swallowing and swallowing, each time thinking that just maybe, some of that filthy water was still in my mouth. I was going crazy. It was monotonous; swallow - fill ‘er up, swallow – fill ‘er up, it just went on and on. I was beginning to worry that Tonya would wake up because of my constant gulping. I supposed I swallowed myself to sleep, because all I can remember is swallowing every few seconds.

When daylight broke I could hear the sound of birds…I knew that once more, I had made it.

I am learning to live with this fear now. I read an article the other day in some book about living in Mexico, and it kindly reminded me with the utmost assurance, that no matter what you do, you will succumb to the dark menace. I am still going to fight though; I want to stave it off as long as I can. Maybe I can be the guy who breaks the record books.
(I will save you the detailed drama of sticking my head under the faucet to rinse my hair, having water go in my nose and mouth…a two pronged assault.)

One day at a time. I have heard that saying so many times that now I know what they mean. I will take it as it comes; face my fears as best as possible knowing that somewhere out there, there is a gang of bacteria holding a photo of me, just waiting for their chance to strike.

Why worry about bacteria and water, when driving to the grocery store you see truckloads of cops with machine guns and shotguns…like this!

Just another day in the D.F.

Part 3: The Cruz, Snakes & Saints

Perhaps I have forgotten rule #1 for life in Mexico. No, it is not ‘do not drink the water’, but more like ‘don’t expect anything to be timely and efficient’. In short, everything is half-assed. For instance;

Mr. Cruz walks with a cane, hobbles a bit and when he talks he uses his hands in a funny manner, usually expressing himself with both palms out and fingers fanned. The bigger the hand is exposed, the more glorious and dramatic the situation. Mr. Cruz is also expected of maybe liking a bit of cerveza in the morning, or so it seems. He has said he can do some repairs around the house that need doing…and it is suspected that he may be a ‘yes man’. He showed up later than expected, slurring and a bit wobbly, but ready to work.

One problem, no tools. How can one work with no tools. He says he needs to get some tools. Funny, after being gone about 15 minutes, as we are walking the dogs, we see Mr. Cruz talking to a neighbor in the driveway. He is not seen back at the house for about another 45 minutes. Tools? Booze? Talking politics with a compadre? Who knows? He is finally ready to work. His chore is to sort out the kitchen faucet. Mr. Cruz tells us he has to turn the water off to get the job done, but it will not take long. It is around 11 a.m.
All hygiene and other necessities are put on hold until further notice.

It is not too long into the procedure that we are informed that Mr. Cruz needs some new hoses, because his aren’t long enough. We take him where he needs to go. We take him to more places he needs to go… Refer to rule #1 of living here.

It is now nearing 3 pm, and Mr. Cruz is seen standing in the kitchen swigging from a coke, his shirt soaking wet and his wobbly, fat feet standing in a few inches of water on the red tile floor. I do not know if it is sweat that covers him, or just water. He sighs, puts his drink down, wipes his forehead and smiles. He points to the sink, shakes his head yes and lays back down into the puddle of water and crawls up under the sink.

Tonya says to look outside. In the back, Marie Antonia is bathing with a hose in the back yard. How do you bathe with water outside if the water is turned off? Tonya said that Maria Antonia says you never really lose water here. If it is off inside it works outside. If it is off outside, it works inside. (Refer to rule #1). We laugh at the sight of her cleaning up with the hose and in the kitchen, Mr. Cruz still messing with the sink.

Marie Antonia, out back washing with the hose. (Mr. Cruz and his mess not pictured)

Sometime after 4pm, Mr. Cruz informs us that the job is done. He hails us into the kitchen. It is disgusting. There are bindles rags everywhere, water still standing throughout the kitchen, his empty coke bottle on the counter and he, soaking wet, smiles and points to the faucet. He hobbles over and draws us closer to his magnificent job. He holds a finger up as if he is Einstein and has just had a fantastic idea, it turns out it is almost as brilliant as Einstein. He says he’s done the job, but wants us to look at one little problem. He turns the handle towards the wall, and it stops dead against the back wall. Yes, the handle turns, but not enough to allow water to flow.

I can’t believe it. Almost 5 hours of work and he didn’t think to adjust the handles to suit the position of the faucet. Tonya almost drops to the floor with frustration. I tell her to tell Mr. Cruz to reposition the handles so they will turn. The light bulb in his head clinks on, and he smiles and shakes his head. He pops off the top off a handle and starts to loosen the screw. The he grabs a nice Wusthof knife and pokes it into the handle to aid in the chore, after all, when no Phillips head is around, nice pricey kitchen tools work just fine. I can’t believe it. I run to the other room and grab an old, dull knife and bring it to him. “Here, this one is better!” and I shove it in to his hand. He takes the old knife and continues to do the final touches.

Mr. Cruz finishes almost 6 hours after the ordeal started. He leaves us with a working faucet, a wet floor, enough wet rags to stop up a leaky dyke, a few buckets and standing water still on the floor. He will be back on Tuesday for another round of house repairs.


Marie Antonia is the maid who helps out once a week. She used to do more, but now she has another job and keeps busy trying to earn as much as she can. She is a hard worker. She is 17. She comes from Vera Cruz and her mother lives in a ruddy place complete with a trodden dirt floor. She has two brothers. One of them has just returned form the U.S. “Never say you can speak English”, he told his younger sister. “Always say you speak a little. If you say you can speak, the Americans will just go on and on so fast, and will never stop asking questions”. This is what she tells us in one of her late night impromptu chat sessions.

Not too sure of her actual job, all we know is that she works in a former bull fighting ring which now houses public baths of some kind. She can pull some long hours. It is not the most pleasing job, as even she will attest. She pops in at home around the same time each night. She is always bright and friendly, even after working over 15 hours or so. Usually, she comes in and does a few things she needs to do. She says hello then disappears for a few, then she’s back, usually propped up against the couch or the wall and ready to talk. This can go on for quite some time too. She is rambunctious and has a heart of gold. Marie Antonia can talk, and even if only by means of translation, she is totally fascinating.

Her brother used a coyote to go to America. He left with 20,000 pesos in his pocket (about $2,000). I ask if he was afraid of the trip with the coyote. “No”, she says in a flash, then points out the only Mexicans afraid of coyotes are Oaxacans and Tolucans, and smiles brightly as she informs us of the others’ weakness. “Oaxacans and Tolucans are afraid of everything.”, she adds.

The other brother moved away from home, then moved back. He stole from another home so now he cannot leave. “What do you mean, stole from another home? Did he rob a place and go to jail?”

“No. He stole a girl”
“You’re brother is a kidnapper?”
She laughs at my naiveté. “No! He stole a girl. She is young, so now he must stay at home…”. Obviously I do not get the subtleties of Mexicans telling of how their siblings have ‘robbed the cradle’. Got it!

Camera shy, caught in the middle of story telling.

She weaves in and out of things here and at home, the topics changing wildly, but mostly she wants to talk about home. I thin it comes form Tonya asking about her mother. Marie Antonia goes to her room and brings us out some photographs. She wants to be a model, and shows us how good she can look, showing us her favorite photo. She shows us her family and her brother that went to America and “…got fat from eating in Chinese restaurants”. She is proud of her nephews too, and shows several pictures. In every one, the family is posed outside what looks like a corroded dirt mound or inside the simple home, bare light bulbs overhead and dirt floor beneath their feet.

“There are parrots everywhere at home. They are all up in the trees, everywhere you look. It is beautiful.” I tell her to bring us one after she visits next time. She says she will try. “You used to be able to just grab them when they are young, and then you can train them”, and she tells of how the villagers go about clipping their wings. They wised up though. When they realized how people wanted them as pets, now they catch them all and sell them to the foreigners.

Next she tells of how a tiger was loose in her village. “You sure it was a tiger?” I asked. I look to Tonya and ask how a tiger would be loose in Central America. Tigers do not belong there; it had to be some other big cat.

‘No, it was a tiger! We saw it!” and she described…a tiger. “No one knows where it came from, it just showed up.” She is animated as she tells the story of the rampant tiger, she reaches up as if she is grabbing something, “when he was seen, they rang the bell so that everyone would know it was dangerous, and to go to their houses”. The tiger would prowl through the village at night and rip up people’s clothing left out to dry. He would rummage for food, and dig holes in the dirt outside. You could see his big paw prints and his claws left big marks on the ground, she said accenting the description by motioning as if she were digging and holding up her hands, imitating a tiger with huge claws.

Wildlife was the hot topic last night. It encompassed toucans and all sorts of birds and animals around her home. Then it got a bit weird.

“My grandmother would talk to snakes”, she started. Tonya looked at me odd, her eyes lit up.

“What do you mean she talked to snakes!”? I laughed out loud. This was definitely going to need a glass of wine for accompaniment.

“She talked to snakes! She would stand outside and all the snakes would gather round and be attentive to her. She would stand and talk and be surrounded by snakes…and they listened to her.” Hmmm. Some kinda voodoo stuff, no doubt. “In my village, there is white and black magic. My grandfather practiced white magic. He would take away the spells of those who practiced black magic. He taught my grandmother many secrets. He taught her how to talk to the snakes. It did good things for the people and the other ones did not like him. That is why they killed him.”

What do you say to that? I was curious though, so I asked how he died. She said that the black magic practitioners had schemed up some devious plot. They used their hoodoo to encompass the grandfather. He was kidnapped from his simple home by some of the known evildoers, and never seen again. To this day, no one has ever seen him again. This affected her grandmother very much. She was distraught. Obviously deeply hurt, she wanted to know why these things had happened. She happened upon God, and forgot her evil ways. She lost all her abilities and tricks. It is if she had her mind wiped clean, according to Marie Antonia. “Now she can go outside and when she sees a snake, it is as if nothing ever happened. She no longer speaks to them or talks about it. She treats them as anyone else would…they are just snakes now, not special spirits.”

Her tales of life in her village are fascinating. Even more so is her conviction of her spiritual beliefs. Obviously growing up around all sorts of hoodoo voodoo stuff can have an impact on you, as well as being a Mexican growing up in Catholic central, Mexico. She claims to be spiritually aware, but not Catholic. “I believe in God, but not the way the Catholics do…”. She asks what we believe. She does not really know what Baptist means, but we have a lot in common as we would discover.

Her lecture on Saints went on for quiet some time. They re pointless, and she thinks it is silly the way Catholics cling to them. “Why waste time asking the Saints to talk to God for you? That is like me asking my brother to tell mom something, when I can talk to mom myself. Why do I need my brother to talk to my mom for me, when I can do it myself?” she says smiling. “Why waste time. Talk to God yourself…you do not need anyone to get in the way”. Her simplicity is fantastic. Her and Tonya go on and on about Saints and the role they play here in Central America.

A saint can be anything according to Marie Antonia, and she gives examples of typical Mexican views on their spirituality. She points at a make believe icon somewhere across the room, “You pray to your little ‘burrito’. You pray everyday for help and guidance…” and she shakes her head in disbelief. “You think your little donkey can do anything? No! It is your faith that does the work…not that little donkey!” Her choices of examples are entertaining to say the least. We are all laughing, agreeing and disagreeing. Obviously, she is lit up, and continues on. God forbid, she even starts in on the Virgin!!!!! “ The Virgin. You go to her in church. You pray to her”, she says with her eyes wide with excitement. Pointing to her head, she says in wonderment, “She has eyes” and she shakes her head in disappointment, “but she cannot see. She has ears, but does not hear you. She has feet, but cannot move..” She shakes her head and pleads with why anyone would look to a statue for help. The tales of saints and sinners and wildlife goes on until after midnight. The bottle of wine was only half full to boot!

This is the 17 year old who was out bathing in a hose in the backyard. This is the housekeeper, the young girl who is privy to whatever kind of craziness happens daily in the public baths. She keeps a notebook handy and writes down commands in English for the dogs. Wise beyond her years. Simple. Typical of a teenager, she wants to be beautiful, to be a model. I look forward to many more late nights and conversations with Marie Antonia. I understand why Tonya loves her so much now.

A copy of Marie Antonia's favorite photo of herself.

Part 2: A Week's Worth of Knowledge

It has been just over a week...well, about a week and a half, and all is going well. I have every intention of keeping a low profile and being a good 'ambassador' to this new land. I will do my best to fit in like a real Mexican. In these few enjoyable days, I have learned a few things...

Language: I have visited here before, but now this is 'home'. I am still amazed at how accommodating my real home is, as opposed to this place. Don't get me wrong, the people are so nice and friendly. However, they don't give a hoot about doing ANYTHING bi-lingual. For all those bleeding heart PC right-on types, when you come to Mexico, you best speak and read Mexican! I have yet to find a carton of milk with English and Spanish...or laundry soap, or signs hanging in grocery stores-or even exit and entry signs! No! To them it makes no difference if you are a foreigner, you speak and read the language. (too bad Americans can not learn this and take it to heart!)



Food: Awesome! I can't get enough. I am proud that all of have ingested and no potty problems. This is no small feat when you consider some of the home-brewed pepper concoctions swimming in plastic bins at the market from fat guys wearing stained white shirts. I have no idea what I am doing! It looks great and tastes great! Funny, so much of the stuff I buy is from strangers (usually sitting) with dirty hands and even dirtier hair. No way I would buy food stuffs from a dirty handed stranger at home. I have quickly adopted the bean filled tortilla'(?) or is it a gordita as my fave. Lucious! The duo that peddles the stuff arrives everyday at 1:30 in the local market.

Better than a peanut butter sandwich.

Holy Mole! Yes! Vast bins of the stuff, just out in the open for all to sneeze on and to serve as playgrounds for passing flies. "Taste...go ahead, taste!", the lady says, and Tonya just sticks her fingers in and grabs a hunk. Ugh...how many others have done this with even dirtier hands...stranger, dirtier foreign hands!!!!

(no flies or foreign fingers pictured)

peppers...anyone?

Beans in a bag. This is a crazy concept. They sell refried beans in a plastic vacuum sealed bags.

Mini-pancakes. The little old lady on the way to the church sells some mean mini-pancakes, about the size of a quarter. You tell her how many, she grabs a sheet of brightly colored tissue paper and rolls up your 'cakes in a bright tight roll. Tasty indeed, and neat to hold.



Cabs: Everything you read and everyone you ask says DO NOT HAIL CABS ON THE STREET! What does Tonya insist on? "Let's take a cab." I have actually done this a few times, making sure it was mid afternoon. Gone are the little green Volkswagen bug cabs, now they have all been painted maroon and gold.

Truthfully, my first cab ride was in a back neighborhood somewhere, and on a dirty smelly street in broad daylight, I stepped off the trashy curb and into a stranger cab. I must confess. I was freaked out. I kept my eye on the sinister looking driver. I watched his hands, and kept a constant eye to all sides every time we would slow down and stop. Hey, I read the stories, I know they will ambush us at stop lights. We made it safe though. I would like to think any driver shuttling strangers around with Jesus on a crucifix over his change box should be of equal moral aptitude...right? I am not crazy about it, but we have done this a few times. I may a vow to photograph every cab I ride in, starting with my first ride.

Terror ride #1

This guy is a lover not a fighter (that is the impression I got from his dash)

Half-assedness:* Bountiful here, in all areas. Prime example, three days in a row of power outages. Each one over 2 hours long. This can seriously hamper your plans. The flip-side is, it is kind of nice to sit with your girlie and drink wine by candle light and just relax and talk. It is NOT fun however, to try and cook in a small kitchen by the same means-candle light.



Americans: It is pretty obvious that I am not one of them. Atleast I think so. It was obvious to the waiter the other night. He brings me my soup and a beer. He brings me my tacos. He brings me more tacos and another beer. He then comes and stands beside the table. "Why is here?" he asks Tonya. "All the news that we see and all we read, it seems like all America does is say not to come here. It is dangerous, Mexico is full of delinquents." The waiter was truly puzzled why a gringo would come to his country and his city, in the midst of all the chaos.

I laughed and told Tonya to tell him I had no idea why I would come here either, but I am here, and it is ok." The waiter smiled and said "It si not true. There are problems, real problems, but we are not all bad. I hope he will see this...". Last time I ate in this restaurant I made a little Mexican friend, and this time it seems I have done it again. I smiled at the guy and said thanks, and I do like it here. It is a bit sad, there are many goodhearted people here. Just like anywhere else, everyone is out to make a living and survive. We all want our fun and laughs and to be with those we love. This guy is no different, nor am I. I regret to say though, there are some of a different mindset and they carry very big guns. A few bad apples, eh?

The neighbor's place, or 'casa' as the natives like to say.

My Neighborhood: I am truly fortunate to be in a wonderful neighborhood. I am positive this will affect my outlook on life here. Believe me, there are definitely some neighborhoods here you would not want to venture in to. Curiously enough though, no matter what neighborhood you are in, the Mexicans love to throw trash around. It is somewhat of a comforting thought, because I thought they only did that when they were in my country! Nope, no matter how nice your place is, or how much rent you pay, there will be empty plastic bottles on the ground. Somewhere in the near vicinity there will be dog poop and undoubtedly some food scraps too.

Looking down the street...

...and looking the other way.

Still, my neighborhood is great! Wonderful markets, odd shops, beautiful houses and quaint parks. One could hardly ask for more (albeit it, decent coffee would be nice).

On the way to the park

Inside the park

Cinqo De Mayo: On the drive down I was kind of excited to see what is would be like to be in Mexico on Cinqo de Mayo. Hmmm. Nothing happened. The day came and went without any fanfare. We were driving around the city, listening to the radio and never once did I see Mexicans out in the streets, shouting with pride as they seem to do in America. From this honky's perspective, I was quite shocked. I lived it y'all, now I can vouch that they don't give a sh*t about this 'holiday'. The only place they care about it is in the USA, and most probably in some hokey Irish pub at that! Shocking, to tell the truth.



So, not too bad for a week's worth of stuff, is it? I look forward to what lies ahead...

*(during the process of writing this, the power went out again!)

Part 1: The Drive

Some thoughts about the long haul down here...

Truth be told, the drive was not as bad as I imagined, we actually really enjoyed it! The only bad part was coming in to Mexico City, where we hit an evening traffic jam. Yes, it was stand still traffic-and that is NOT cool after being on the road for almost 12 hours.

We were worried about the dogs and how they would react to the journey. The initial haul to San Antonio was taxing on them...they had never gone for such a long ride! However, after a few days hanging around, they were fine. The stretch to Laredo was better.

The crew.

Sunny, always the oddball, persisted on trying to receive the Oscar for best dramatic lead, and refused to eat unless lying on the bed with his food laid in close proximity.

'Nero' and his meal.

Laredo itself was weird. All they do late at night is drag race, yell and scream and drive loud cars. Oh, and the occasional rampant drug lord shooting spree. Dinner from Denny's, a crap 'salad' with chicken.

Sleep was non-existent. Dasha and Winston slept(?) with me. Every time the clunky old hotel A/C would turn on, Winston would leap out of bed and pace. Since this occurred every 15 minutes or so, you can see how bountiful sleep was. Whenever there was a car door slamming and someone screaming, Dash would sit up and stare at the door. My heart would pound just waiting for splinters to come flying in and sweaty, grimy Mexicans with AK47's to start yelling at us.

It never happened. Thank God! We hit the road at around 7am and started a few blocks down for the border. Yowza! Mexico, here we come!!!!

Early morning, Texas Mexico border. Not too thrilled about this sight-leaving Texas. Already there are huge lines of folks coming to the promised land (and acting as mules laden with dope).

We breezed through the checkpoint. Over the river, at the visa joint, we got to encounter Mexican efficiency first-hand. Fill this out, walk away, go see that guy, get a stamp, go to counter 4, stand around while the workers bump into one another and mill around. I was hungry and tired and ready to get it on, not stand in some bland building and watch workers bounce off one another like cheap bumper cars.

Of course, after we get our 'papers' in order and exit the compound, the first like we stop at, the legless bum peers over the other traffic and immediately hones in on us. As he hobbles over, the light turns green, he sticks his hand out and i speed off. "Sorry dude! I got places to be!!!!"

Straight outta Laredo...

I was maddened by the lack of signage on the highways. You can drive a looooong time before a small sign can be seen with a brief note of what direction whatever town may be. Do not expect to see a countdown of miles as we do at home. You take a wrong turn, well...you can be way outta your league by the time another sign is seen. STAY ON THE TOLL ROADS was the most stressed bit of advice-oh, and DO NOT STOP FOR ANYONE. Oddly enough, several miles through Laredo there is a second check point as you leave the city. We crawled though slowly and nothing happened. I assumed we were cool, and started to accelerate. Immediately doing so, an alarm sounds and a soldier raises his hand. I just knew bullets would come flying from behind. I hit the brakes, dogs and luggage slam forward and cursing emits from Tonya's mouth. I yell back. No bullets were exchanged, but plenty of heated foul-mouth banter was. The guard walks over and asks for papers. he asks what we are hauling. He sees the dogs and asks if we are bring them in to race.
"No"
he then wants to know what else we have. I roll the back windows down a bit, he peers in, Sunny moves forward thinking he made his first international friend, the guard steps back in fear. he kept a few paces back, trying to peer in over the dogs and Tonya re-assured him we were cool...there was no TV or blu ray player or anything of the sort under those blankets...not at all!

Obviously not too interested in getting to close, he hands us back our papers and tells us to beat it. happily, I do.

Sunny.

The scenery started to pick up towards Monterrey. I was told to stay away from this place. Bad news. Drugs, guns, violence a plenty. Plus, they do not like 'chilingas' or those from Mexico City. I was a gringo hauling contra-band.

First sight of the mountains in the distance.

Part of what made the drive surprisingly pleasant, was the scenery. As you approach Monterrey, the mountains start to appear. You get bigger ones as you drive towards Saltillo. All along the way there are endless plains and rolling hills of Joshua trees. I am sure it helped being early morning and quite nice out too. In any case, we were happy to stare out the windows at the scenery, and watch the mountains get bigger as we got closer. The downside is, my plans of filming everything went poopsie about an hour into all this. The old video camera ate the tape. Now I would be forced to take snaps while driving. This was quite a stunt which freaked me out some, and definitely was not seen as daring or cool in the least by Tonya. I am glad I did though...

Lovely...(especially that U2 are nowhere to be found)

All through the journey, they 'guys' (the dogs) were great! Mostly they slept, without any real restlessness. Winston would shake a while and drool, then lay down. The slightest loud talk and quick jerk of the car (usually me, running off the road trying to snap a pic) would make him jump up and start quivering and panting again.

The up and down of the mountains was nice. I thought it would suck doing the journey at night. Not only a lack of signs, but NO lights along the way. Some of the cliffs and drops would be painful if you tried them out.

Cuttin' through somewhere around Saltillo.

We had a few stops along the way to switch drivers, do a pee pee and managed to fuel up and grab a 'Sandway' and some roadside eatery. Yes, Sandway-not Subway. Still, the hot ham sandwich with jalapenos and mustard was ok...far better than the snack food we were existing on so far. The dogs loved getting out for a stretch too.

We eat-they eat.

I was told plenty horror stories of bandits and drug-crazed Mexicans out to high-jack your stuff. I was also warned if the men in black and machine guns wave you to halt, do so-or else. It is true that Mexico is doing their best to stop the drug mess. I did see a convoy of these men in black. Traveling in a convoy of three (just as the tales are told), machine guns mounted in back of their trucks, full bullet proof gear and faces hid under black masks. Luckily though, I was going the opposite way...and I do not mess with drugs. Why should I care????

The scenery alternated between fields of Joshua trees, open roads and po-dunk villages. Tempting as it was to stop and have a looksie, eating was out fo the question. Big fear #1 : diarrhea on the road in a strange land. Not cool. So, a view from the windows was good enough. However, I know there is some amazing food out there somewhere!

Hmmm...

...beer-thirty, maybe?....

The strange thing was while driving, we would hear loud SPLATS and gunk would be all over the window. the wipers would be enlisted to clean through the goo, doing only a half-assed job. This would happen every so often. After one particular shower of goo against the windshield, we finally discovered what the translucent sticky stuff was. "Bees!" Tonya yelled, as she ponted to the wipers. There were a load of bee bodies laying atop of both wipers. I never knew they had no color to their guts, or that their insides were so gelatinous.

Casualties on the wiper blades.

yuck

The hours wound down, our butts grew more sore and our stomachs rumbled more. The dogs started to get way 'over it', yet just laid there, patiently awaiting the final stop. As we neared the city and hit traffic, every few few of stop and go would make them get excited, thinking the long haul was over. We still had a few hours of this mess until we arrived 'home'.

We made it in about 12 hours or so. Stops along the way...traffic, not too bad. We stopped in a local grocery store and grabbed necessities for the next day. Grabbed some hot food for dinner and made our way home.

Once here, we sat dazed and ate. Didn't say much, but it was nice to be still and to finally be done with it. I was thankful. the car held out, the dogs were great and no hassles along the way. I was actually starting to feel fortunate to be able to have made that drive and see as much of the country as we did. I would do it again! I am not sure why the iPod played so much Depeche Mode though...it was not suiting.

Yours truly, the morning after, fighting fit!