THIS IS THE MODERN WORLD...ISN'T IT?

A snapshot of a chaotic world and forgotten peoples.  The last few weeks have provided a huge contrast to any bits of news gleaned from an odd TV sitting in the corner of any given shop, headlines on discarded papers and flashing stories on the internet.  After all, this is the modern world…isn’t it?

This is the place where the very same Indian women who skin is covered in dirt and scales sit begging on the sidewalk and still find time to pull out a cell phone from underneath their clothing and check a text message or make a call on their cell phone.  An odd contrast.  Are you begging for money for more text time or to simply pay your monthly bill?  Is it mandatory that everyone have a cell phone, in the most poorest of areas?  The modern talon sticking deep into our daily lives for sure.

We have a new Pope!  I know this because I stood at the counter of a small paper shop while buying a roll of tape.  The customers using the computers came up to see who the new Pope was when the announcement came ‘Habemus Papam’.  Foreigner and native stand side by side as the announcement and unveiling of the new man happened.  The small TV behind the counter proved to be a historical moment.  The first Argentinean Pope.  My tape was 18 pesos.

Later, I ask a friend what the stage was being built for in the town square. There is a public protest, the town is enraged of the incident of a young girl. He tells me the story of a girl, 22 years old, who was absconded and held for ransom.    The amount was roughly $2,000.  The kidnappers were paid and the girl’s throat cut and dumped out in the countryside.  It made no sense.  She was deaf and dumb, an easy target.  Did the kidnappers know this?  Was this accidental, luck of the draw that they grabbed a victim who could never say anything or tell anyone anything?  According to the story, the bad guys told the parents not to seek help; they did, so they killed the daughter-after getting a paycheck.

North Korea are running television ads boasting burning down the Whitehouse and setting off a nuclear bomb in New York City.  One of the commercials shows a tired young Korean, laying his head down to sleep and having a wonderful dream of NYC skyscrapers on fire after the massive detonation.  I hear a ruckus in the street and go to see what all the fuss is about.  Mexican ingenuity.  A large ladder is full extended across the street, up to a rooftop.  A second, smaller ladder is on the opposite side of the street, propped up against the large ladder midway, to provide support.  A huge crate rests on the curb, ready to be hoisted up by a group of guys pulling the huge item up the over-extended ladder with long ropes.  I stand and watch the team try.  They huff and puff and barely raise the crate before it becomes painfully obvious it will all come crashing down unless there is proper support.  The foreman runs to the woman of the house and tells here, “I am going to have to find another ladder to put beneath it.  I will be back as soon as I can”.  She smiles, waves him on and steps inside.  Traffic, both of the automobile type and human type are left to pass underneath the looming bad luck monolith.

The President’s approval rating is in freefall and the catchphrase is a simple one, “drone”.  The newly elected Mayor has bought new patrol cars for the town.  They even hung a huge banner proclaiming the grand event near the shopping center.  Every cop in town is cruising extra slow these days, making sure all eyes are cast upon their hot new patrol cars.  The best part is that the Mayor has put his term in dates on every patrol car so the populace is well aware that this great new arm of the law will only be in effect for three years.  When he leaves, we will have to resort to lord knows what.

There is a crash of symbols, and the sound of brass instruments.  It is drawing closer and closer.  The sound ricochets down the corridor of the narrow street.  I open the door to see exactly what is up.  There is a donkey wearing a hat and a small girl leading him on.  There are two giant papier-mâché figures following the donkey, followed by a marching band, which in turn is followed by revelers celebrating their friends getting married.   Do drones even exist in this world?  At least for now they don’t, everything stops so the procession can wind their way through neighborhood streets.  This is about the joining of lives, not the intrusion and destruction of lives.  Hope and change are in full effect at this very moment, but not as we Americans know it.  They are making grand plans for this joining of hands and we are getting the brunt of a far reaching power grab.

We have to drive to the mega-warehouse shop in the following town.  As we wind down the stretch of highway I see a rancher burning off part of his field.  Another rancher driving his livestock across a dusty field, with a single cow visible and all other lost in a cloud of dust as each one adds to the height and density of the rolling cloud.  There is a father riding a three wheeled bicycle in a ditch, with his young ones in the front cart, snuggled between two front wheels and free to breathe in the exhaust of the passing cars at eye level.  On the radio a local radio personality tells us about what is going on out in the countryside.  Two dentists are volunteering time to go out and teach children how to brush their teeth.  Yes, even in the age of sexting, Tweeting and torrents it is shocking to hear that people still do not own toothbrushes and toothpaste.  It is a real problem in the vicinity and almost too much for two concerned dentists.  The voice on the radio asks for others to donate and help with the cause.  She then goes on to ask for help in getting people clean drinking water.

I then find out that there actually is a correlation between kids and dental care and health and education.  Speaking to a nurse, I am told that yes, even in America it is a real concern that kids in the inner city learn to brush their teeth and take care of themselves.  Believe it or not, the line can be drawn between high school drop outs and kids not brushing their teeth.  All this and the headlines tell me that Madonna is protesting for gays to be allowed in to the Boy Scouts. Droning and moaning and meanwhile donkeys roam the streets, and kids can’t brush their teeth.

Will the world look any different through Google glasses?

Los Burros and the Bad Boy

It is a very well known fact that the Lord does work in mysterious ways, as was the case with this particular bad boy.  He had not been doing well in school and his grades were not where his parents thought they should be.  As with most parents who hope for their children to succeed, his parents thought it best that he be punished for his lackluster grades.  Of course this little boy was upset, he knew that something he really wanted would be denied him and sure enough it was the annual family vacation.

This young boy was the son of a prominent German businessman who had risen to the top of the pharmaceutical field.  The family was one of the biggest names, if not the top name, in the pharmaceutical field in Germany as well as starting to branch out world wide.  Being a boy having fun and doing the things that young boys do was much more important than studying and doing ones homework throughout the school year.  He was living day by day, not thinking about what may come when the grades were issued at the end of the year. 

When the father announced the punishment, it was a blow to the young boy.  This was a special trip, as the father had planned something truly wonderful. The family was going to go on their vacation back to Germany, but one member would have to stay at their new adopted home here in Mexico.  This particular vacation was a grand one.  They would have to travel up through Mexico, across the United States to New York and take a leisurely cruise across the Atlantic.  After spending some time back in Germany, the family would then take a special flight back home on a new flying machine.  Imagine the grief this young man felt, now hearing this fantastic news about this splendid adventure, and yet he would have to sit at home while his parents, brother and sister enjoyed the wonderful summer jaunt.  This was the vacation of a lifetime, but one would miss out.

The young boy stayed in Mexico as the family started their wonderful adventure.  He wondered what they would do, what they would see and especially about the fantastic new flying machine that the whole family would be flying on to return to America.  This was the thing which bothered him the most.  The thought of his brother and sister being able to forever taunt him of this fantastic flight would surely be a huge burden to carry, especially on such small shoulders…it was almost too much.

It was now early may and the family would soon be home.  The family had written and contacted the young boy, asking how he was and telling him of the sights and fun they had along the way.  He would think about school during these times, and if only he had done better and actually done his homework rather than playing and reading. The young man was sorely upset.  To him, this part of the journey was to be the best.  The family was in Frankfurt and was preparing to return home via one of Germany’s latest flying ships.  They would be suspended in mid air, and float softly through the sky for three days, looking down on Europe and the Atlantic, and eventually they would see America.  The thought of being in the sky for three days, eating, sleeping in the sky was beyond belief.  This is the part that hurt the young boy the most.  If only he could experience this…

His family were passengers on the luxury airship, the Hindenburg.  He never saw his parents again, and his brother would never be the same.  His parents and sister were burned to death and his brother survived, being unrecognizable due to the damage of the fire-but he survived.  The greatest vacation he would ever be presented with then denied would change his life forever.  He and his brother were now orphans.  It is impossible to imagine the amount of grief and anxiety over the whole incident.  He missed the vacation and lost most of his family.  What would he and his brother do now?  The Lord does work in mysterious ways, and for a fleeting moment the young boy thrilled to have his brother back, thought that his punishment for his grades may have been a good thing.

I found myself sitting with the son of the boy who was told he could not go on that amazing vacation.  He lost his grandparents in one of the most famous disasters in history, and now he is sitting here joking about the roses he grows in his garden and how they were grown especially for his best buddy whose birthday we are all celebrating.  The flowers are beautiful and he has a great smile.  The zest for life and adventure obviously runs in his family.  I notice his wife looks nothing like a Mexican.  As the group of revelers sings Happy Birthday to the birthday boy, she asks if he would also like to hear it sung in her native tongue.  Everyone said yes, so she sings it in Norwegian, and does a silly dance to go along with it as well.  I thought she looked different.  Later, after eating apple strudel, I would hear the tale of how as a young man himself, he made an epic journey across the Atlantic to fetch his future wife.  He had no money, so he found away to sail across the Atlantic on a small boat as a hired hand with an American couple who were “purists”.  They did not believe in electricity, compasses and other assorted things that can make travelling a bit easier and safer.  That is a whole other tale…and a big one at that.

His sister sat to his right.  I thought they were getting along rather fabulously, but had no idea they were related.  She has made her living as a set designer in Hollywood and wherever duty calls.  She is not one short for gossip on your favorite Hollywood actor and all that goes on behind the scenes in the world of celebrities.  Who cares about that gossip though, celebrities are a bore.  I enjoyed her tale of the donkeys better.

Michelob were shooting a commercial for their Michelob Dry beer in Espiritu Santo, Mexico.  Teresa took the job and ventured ahead to go and find some donkeys for use in the commercial.  Espiritu Santo is an island off Baja.  It is an environmentally protected sanctuary and in truth, there is not too much there…that includes donkeys.  Teresa had to go to mainland Mexico to villages on the coast to source donkeys.  According to her it was not that easy to find donkeys that suited the requirements.  She went form village to village until she found a farmer who swore that his donkeys were the ones she wanted; his were destined to be stars.  She needed donkeys that could swim.  “Do these donkeys swim?” she asked the old farmer.  He nodded vigorously and almost scoffed at Teresa for asking such a silly question. “Pues si!” he said immediately.  Shouldn’t any donkey that lives on the coast be able to swim?  She asked him again if he was sure his donkeys could swim and he adamantly stood his ground.  She was convinced.  She now had los burros!

She told the director she had los burros and they were ready to go.  The director asks the important question, ‘Can they swim?” and she reassured him they could.  She looks at us as if to make a point clear, “Have you ever tried to get a donkey on a boat?”  It is not as easy as one would think.  Donkeys are stubborn, and when they see that they are going to have to go sea bound, they are ardent in keeping their land legs.  They had to put the donkeys on a boat and sail to the island where they were filming.  “Have you ever seen a donkey on a boat…especially as it is being tossed on the waves?”  Not many of us have.  She sways back and forth and rolls her eyes.  The director obviously knew that this was going to not be easy.  He was planning ahead.

As they neared the island, Teresa was told that they could not get the boat all the way to shore, so they would have to jump out and swim in.  ‘You told me the donkeys could swim, right?” the director asked for reassurance.  Teresa furrows her brow, nods her head and raises her hand acting as if the director was being a nuisance.  She admits that she was nervous, but the old man told her the donkeys would be fine.  She knew it would not be so easy.  She said she was glad to get off the boat though, because the poor donkeys looked miserable and terrified from being out on the water.  The producer sent the camera crew ahead and had someone filming as the started to leave the boat.  He was floating in the water with his underwater camera, ready to film the donkeys exit.  Teresa got the donkeys to the end of the boat and managed to finally get one to jump.

There was a huge splash as the donkey went overboard.  The director was standing by to witness the event.  They were horrified.  The donkey didn’t even try to swim.  He just sank.  Teresa panicked.  “There is a cameraman underwater, he can help” the director said.  Teresa jumped in to assist with the donkey.  She laughs as she tells of the sinking donkey.  “He was like a stone.  He just sank.  He went straight to the bottom.  I was horrified.  I was going to drown this farmer’s donkeys.  He told me they could swim!”

The donkey overboard sank like a stone.  She could see the fear in the donkey’s eyes as it went further under the waves.  In the fleeting seconds that passed, she had no idea how she would get him back to the surface.  As she neared the donkey she could not believe what was happening.  The panicked donkey had eyes the size of platters, and his ears were pointed straight back behind his head.  As he felt his hoofs touch the bottom of the sea, he started walking.  She wanted to laugh, but that is not a smart thing to do when you are underwater trying to rescue a drowning donkey.  The cameraman got the whole thing on film.  A few others had dove in and helped get the stubborn donkey to the surface, as he would surely drown if he were to walk himself to shore.  Once the soaked donkey was safely to shore, they immediately decided that it was better to send a small dingy over to get the rest of the donkeys.  It gets worse trying to convince an already panicked donkey who just watched his friend nearly drown to leave the boat and get into a smaller, more wobbly one.  True to her creed, Teresa made it happen.  She promised the director he would have the donkeys he needed to make the commercial a success.

With all the burros safe on land, Teresa acted as mother, and kept a watchful eye on los burros as she went about helping with make up, lighting and whatever else needed a hand.  One of the jobs was to go around and pick up all the donkey poop.  As an eco-sanctuary, trash and donkey poop are not allowed.  In fact, there can be no signs of human presence or strange animals that are not indigenous to the island left behind.  She said the filming went well and they got it all in the can.  The director was happy.  He got the shots he wanted and felt he would be able to convey old Mexico to the folks back at home so much so that they would reach for a cold Michelob Dry to help quench their imagined Mexican adventures.

“How did you get the donkeys back after the shoot?” someone asks amid the laughter.  Teresa raises her hand, then her forefinger, “Cranes!”  Everyone laughs even harder as the trick is exposed.  She looks wide –eyed at everyone at the table and asks, “Have you ever tried to get a donkey that almost drowned back on to the boat from where it fell off of?”  Cue the even louder laughter.  She laughs too as she says that now that the filming was done and it was time to go home, she had to miraculously manage to hire some cranes to come and lift the donkeys back onto their boat.

We were expecting birthday fun but had no idea we would get these treats.

Watch the finished Michelob commercial here (drowning scenes not included).

Lessons learned in the parking lot.

We met in the parking lot.  Tonya was inside getting some groceries and he walked up to the car.  Lucca is in the front.  He approaches the passenger side carefully, points to Lucca and says, “Is he…” and then moves his hands to imitate a dog running, “…is he a greyhound?” 

‘No, he’s a whippet. Those are the greyhounds” I say pointing into the back seat.

He has two silver teeth.  He smiles a lot and keeps wiping the car with his rag.  He has a nametag hanging form his neck, in a clear plastic cover.  He’s making small talk, passing time and hoping to make some money.  “I have a pit bull.  He had six puppies” I smile and tell him that is a lot.  “Yes, I have the man, and my wife has the lady.  They make the six puppies.”  He tells me about his dogs while petting Lucca.

“I lived in Houston for 14 years” he tells me in his heavy accent.  “Really?” I smile, “That is my home”.  For whatever reason, this is what breaks the ice.  This is our bonding moment.  He smiles and shows his silver capped teeth, reaches in the window and we shake hands.  “I was there for fourteen years.  I work construction, I do plumbing.  I got busted by immigration that is why I am back here now”  he keeps telling me how he is looking for work and that he is a good plumber, “I can do anything.  I will do it good.  If you need to change your toilet, I can do it.  I will fix your sink, whatever you need.  I am a good plumber”.  To appease him I tell him I will call him if I need him or know of anything.  I grab a piece of paper and a pen, “Here, put your number here so I can call you”.  He grabs the paper and pen and stalls for a moment.  He scribbles his number down and hands me back the paper.  I look it over, but there is no name. “Hey-what is your name?”  “Rodrigo” he says, and he flashes his name badge to prove it, ‘Rodrigo Hernandez”

He leans against the car and we start talking about Houston.  He lived way out at Gessner and 290.  I told him where I lived and he shook his head, “Yes, by Bellaire?”  Not quite, “Oh, by Chinatown?”  I laugh and tell him he’s getting closer, “In between Bellaire and Chinatown” I say.  He smiles back and nods and continues on.  He says he’s been around and knows a lot of people in the States.  He’s been in Houston, Orlando, Chicago…I ask if he stayed in Pilsen (a heavily populated Hispanic neighborhood in Chicago).  He shakes his head and says, “No-it’s in Illinois…you know, and Michigan” Ok, I get it and I won’t correct him.

“I am back here because of immigration, they catch me”, he smiles, ‘Three times they catch me” and he shakes his head.  I raise my eyebrows.  ‘One more time and they tell me I am going to federal prison”. 

“No, you don’t want to go to federal prison” I reply.  He agrees, shaking his head and repeating, ‘No.  I do not want to go to federal prison”

I am curious, so I ask him about his travails back and forth over the border and around the States.  He is obviously happy to fill me in.  Like most Mexicans and those form Central and South America, he is trying to care for his family.  He does what he can to make money, even if he is away form his family.  “My wife, she has twins” he says looking at me.  He repeats himself, and he motions with his hands like there are two compartments, “Twins.  She has one boy, and she has one girl. Two babies”   I congratulate him on the news and he smiles, agreeing that it is a good thing.  ‘How old are your babies?”  I ask.  “Seven months, premature.  My wife had the babies in Leon, and now they are at home.  We have to watch over them, that is why I am trying to get more work”.  He tells me he has been here for a handful of months.  I tell him I have been in Mexico for three years.  He tells me that is good.   I tell him I had been in Mexico City for over two years, and only here a short while. He smiles and nods, “Yes, it is beautiful country here” as he points to the parking lot.  He motions all around and says, ‘Here is much peaceful and nice, easy going.  Mexico City is too many people, too many things.  Here is good for you”.  I appreciate his reassurance…and hope he is correct in his prophesy.  He walks around the car and wipes the window, and the mirrors.  He comes to my side and leans against the car next to me.  He tells me how he likes Houston.  “There is lots of people in Houston.  They have lots of food.  There is lots of clothes.  They have everything.  I like it! I like Houston, whatever you need you can have”.  I smile, and I understand what he is saying, especially coming from.  Mind you, in the super mega grocery store parking lot we are in, it is vast in size but slim in choices.  You get two brands of beans, and only styles.  Whole or refried…and that takes up half an aisle!

“You know Galveston?”   He asks as he leans toward me.  I tell him I do.  “I was there when the hurricane came.  I was in jail there…”  I notice what appears to be a snag in his story, so I ask, ‘If you lived in Houston, why were you in jail in Galveston?  What did you do?”  He stops and looks at me for a moment.  “It was county jail” he says.  OK, but I tell him Galveston is a different county. “Oh, yes. The county Harris.  That is Houston”, he smiles and continues, “The jails were all full, so they send me to Galveston.  I was there during the hurricane.  It was bad.  The lights went out, there was no electricity. There was water everywhere, no food, it was bad” he asks if I was there for the last hurricane; yes, I was.

He walks away to try and hustle a quick peso, helping guide someone with a load of groceries to back out.  As soon as he finishes he is back talking to me.  Each time he wanders off and returns he switches sides of the car…to keep things lively I suppose. Now he is back to the passenger side.  As he talks, he reaches in and pets Lucca, and wipes and re-wipes the top of the door and all he can within reach.

“So what happens when you get busted by immigration?” I ask bluntly.  It seems straight forward.  Firstly, they hold you and question you. “They asked me where I was from, I said ‘here’” he smiles.  It is obvious with his dark skin, silver teeth and heavy accent, he is not from Texas.  “I told them I was born here, in Texas” and he says they pry him to be specific.  He told them McAllen.  He says that they took his papers, ran him through the system and came back and said, ‘No. You are not from McAllen, you are from Mexico.  You are going back”.  He shook his head.  He laughs and admits that he was caught out.  I tell him it was smart to say you were born in McAllen, but they still busted him.  They take all the illegal’s and bus them to Laredo.  “They pull up and make us get off the bus.  OK, go, get off” he says.  He tells of how they have to get processed out and then make the walk across the bridge to Mexico.  “There, there is someone waiting.  They ask where you are from and try to rearrange a way back home.  Maybe they give you a little money, something to eat and a ride back to your town”

“Is this your town?” I ask. “No, I am from Comonfort”.  Rodrigo came here for work.  He says the town close to him, Celaya, is too hard.  Not enough work, low wages and too much theft. “You go to the store and come out and your car and dogs will be gone” he reassures me.  He makes a grand swipe with his hand to drive home the point.  “I hear it is rough there too.  A few weeks ago they shot a man on the sidewalk, the cartels” I say.  He shakes his head, “Yes, it is very dangerous.  They are everywhere…but here is good.  I like it here.  There are many nice people and I have spoken with many Americans about different things, I like it” he reminds me again that he can do almost any thing concerning plumbing, and asks to keep him in mind. 

“I have a few weeks that I need to go back to America” he says as he looks across the parking lot.  I remind him that there is a lot on the line.  He replies back, “I know.  If I get caught this time, I go to the federal prison. I have to go though, I will try”.

“Isn’t it dangerous?  How will you do it?”  He steps back a bit and straightens up, “Of course it is dangerous.  The frontier (border) is very hard and dangerous. Many bad things happen there.  I will take the free train; do you know the free train?”  I am amused at the thought of this ‘free’ train.  I have a vague idea of what he is talking about, and ask if I am correct in my guess. He says yes, “that is the one”.  This is the train that is notorious that people from all over South America and Mexico hop off of here to get some food or try and find work on their way to the States and sometimes as they are fleeing the states.  The area where the train passes through town is notorious for crime and dodgy characters. “Are you ever afraid of hopping on the train, not knowing who is already on there or what they may do?” “Yes” he shoots straight back, “It is scary.  I hop onto the big empty cars and hope there are others like me.  Sometimes there are bad people there who rob you and try to hurt you.”  He straightens his arm out, towards the sky, “This train, it goes straight to Monterrey, Laredo, into Houston and keeps going.  It is easy to get to the States.”  He pauses for a minute, and then continues with fears of the dreaded Cartel. “I hope I do not meet the Zetas.  They make you pay them before you can get to the coyotes, then you have to pay the coyotes.  It is very expensive.  They are very bad people, The Zetas.” He shakes his head, as if he is remembering certain instances.  He looks up suddenly and says, ‘You know, they are even worse on the people from South America.  They make them pay even more, twice as much to The Zetas, then the coyotes charge even more. I think it is $7,000 to get in to the states” he pauses to do the math, as quoting the ratio of pesos to dollars gets confusing.  Sometimes, he says, even after they do get into the States then they have to pay again to be let free or to get the information of where to go or who to meet to find a home and work.

“I worry this time.  I do not want the Zetas to get me.  They take you and call your family and ask for maybe…$500.  That is a lot of money to many people.  They don’t care.  They don’t get the money; they never let you go home.  They kill you even if they do get the money.  I don’t know” he thinks for a brief moment, ‘I don’t want that.  I don’t want to get took by the Zetas and for them to call my family.  I end up in a ditch or a river.  It’s very bad…they are dangerous people”  

He asks if I am waiting for someone, and then ask if it is possible that I can spare him some change, he would appreciate it.  I tell him when the money and groceries come out, I will give him something.  “You are from Houston.  Did you know black people there?” he asks.  Yes, I did.  He shakes his head, “I lived in apartments and they were full of the black people.  They robbed me many times and put a gun on me.   I don’t like them.  I went to Stop and Go on my bicycle…” he makes a moving motion with his hands, like he is sweeping, “I go in for one minute, and they take my bike.  It is gone.  Some of them try to fight me when I ask for my bike. I can’t believe it, one minute and my bike is gone…at the Stop and Go!”

Tonya comes out as he is telling me about his bike.  She gets in and is complaining of being stuck in a long line.  It has taken quite a lengthy bit of time for simply tomatoes, an onion and some peppers.  “Hey, can you give me some change?” I ask her.  She turns to me and says she has none, no extra money.  As she is saying this she proves her point by opening her wallet and turning it upside down.  Rodrigo sees her do so, and steps slightly back from the car.  I look to him; he smiles and puts his rag on his shoulder.  He raises his hand and quietly says, ‘That’s OK…maybe next time”.  I look at him and nod my head; I tell him I will get him next time.  We smile at one another and he waves as I pull away.

New Year's Eve: The Tale of 'Socks' Suzuki

The New Year had started with the same routine as the previous year that had ended.  A half cup of coffee to start with, a sliced bagel (sliced unevenly) that sat lopsided in the toaster and opening the lid of the computer.   It is OK though, it suits the grey skies outside.

There was no evidence of crowds this morning.  The streets were quiet and the park almost empty except for a few joggers doing their laps.  I smiled to myself admiring their dedication…setting a stellar example to those who make New Year’s resolutions.  Rather than make myself great promises and boast to loved ones all the great feats to be achieved this year, I plan on just enjoying the day for what it is and hopefully catching up on a few things I would like to and perhaps file through some vinyl and play some records.  Actually, that would be a great resolution for this year, take time to play more records and listen to music.

This whole New Year’s celebrating has never been a big deal for me.  The thing I was looking most forward to was a nice dinner with some newfound ‘friends’ and then watching the fireworks from the roof.  We even bought a few bottles of wine to be paired up nicely with the steaks we were to have.  Yes, the thought of grilled steak and nice wine was in fact more thrilling to me than the city full of revelers all around me.  I was also curious as to how the chimichurri sauce would be, since the cook had just bragged about how she made a truly excellent concoction.

As one would imagine, a call came late afternoon.  Dinner has been called off because the cook isn’t feeling well.  We are invited to still go over and have a drink with them though.  As Tonya relays the news I roll my eyes, “Yes, I would love to go have drinks with someone coming down with the flu so we all get a great gift to start the new year with”.  More importantly, I pose the question; what will we do now for dinner?  A quick discussion is had and the quickest, easiest solution is agreed upon.  Gone is the idea steak and wine scenario, in is the chicken tacos solution.  Not too thrilling, hamburgers would have been more ‘fun’, but it will do. 

We carry on with our afternoon in spite of our dinner plans being cancelled, doing a bit of this and that and watching clouds roll in.  For some reason, it is all adding up to simply snuff out any fun or enthusiasm any of us may have had.  On top of the mounting discouragements, I lament the fact that that I gave up going to the last bullfight of the year too. For what?

As 7pm nears, we are all cleaned up, donning sweaters and ready to go have a few drinks at our friend’s house.  As we drive over to our destination, Tonya asks what we will do for an escape plan.  I tell her there is no need for an escape plan, we’ll just tell him like it is, ‘We’re hungry, we’re going home and eating our chicken tacos, putting our PJs on and watching this French film, watch the fireworks form the roof and go to bed.”

Tonya is the first out of the car and she reaches up and rings the doorbell.  We stand quietly surveying the neighborhood and making a few faces at one another.  We hear footsteps approaching and the strange yapping of their minute little Chihuahua.  The door opens and our guest welcomes us in. “Oh my.  You look dreadful. Are you depressed?” he asks.  I tell him I am fine.  “Why are you wearing that sweater, its makes you look so serious?”   He greets each of us, I shake his hand and he ushers us through to their patio.  A nice fire is going.  Music is floating by thanks to his clunky old laptop in the study.  He is playing is 1920s playlist again.

“Sit. Please.  What would you like to drink?”  I point to the bottle of tequila we just put on his table. He looks and asks, “Well, what is that?” I tell him it is tequila and he then asks me if I didn’t like the tequila he has.  I don’t. It is that dreadful El Jimador stuff, rotgut.  I must apologize, we have no extra glasses. We don’t have any of those special little glasses you use for drinking tequila…what are they called, yes, shot glasses.  You know, we only have two spoons as well.  One big one and one teeny tiny one that you use for teas or coffees.”  Richard is starting to peer into cabinets and is opening and closing doors trying to find some extra glasses, “Please, go and sit”.  We all grab a chair and sit.  It is nice to be out by the fire.

Richard reappears giggling in his half snorting, half sneering manner.  He has three different glasses, one of which is actually a very small shot glass.  He is laughing as he sets them down.  He makes a sweeping gesture with his hand and stands by his chair as if he is about to make a grand proclamation, “I went to dinner the other night and had the most fabulous wine.  I asked what it was and sent my wife out to buy a case of it immediately.  After purchasing it and opening a bottle, I decided that it actually may be too sweet.  It is this Italian stuff, some Lambrusco…do you know it?” he asks the table.  Before anyone can actually say anything he is pulling out his chair and he plops down and continues with his monologue, “I don’t know.  I suppose it is fine if you are sitting outside in a nice breeze and are drinking this nice light wine, perhaps out in the countryside or something”.  This is not out of the ordinary, this is simply Richard.  He interrupts at will, does these semi-monologues and no matter where you are or what you are doing he will eventually turn his venom on Americans and anything of Latin origin.  He is English. He is very dramatic and brash, and yes, sometimes quite entertaining.

After only a few sips of his lovely Lambrusco, he stops and opts for a juice version of Sangria, thinking it is really the real thing.  Pleasantries are exchanged and everyone comments on how nice it is to be sitting with friends in front of the fire out on the patio. 

Richard seems a bit down, and he is.  He says he has been having a rough week…a rough couple of weeks as a matter of fact.  He is curious about some sea side spots on the Mexican coast.  He keeps asking questions about certain spots and asking if they have been Americanized.  He tells a brief tale of how the last time he was spontaneous in Mexico he ended up doing a 4 hour road trip, which he is quick to point out his Mexican friend told him it was only 15 minutes up the road.  After a completely boring journey they arrive to concrete blocks on the beach.  After all the talk he was let down to see this supposed get away on the coast had been “Americanized” and they had built boxy concrete buildings all along the beach. 

Richard holds his cigarette a funny way when he smokes; I suppose many would say he looks like a fairy.  He puts on a little clear filter on each of his cigarettes too.  Many times he gets carried away and the ash envelops almost the whole cigarette before he taps it into an ashtray.  He is holding his hand up, quite fey, with his cig between his fingers, his legs crossed and he begins to spill his woes involving his brother.  He asks for opinions, and opinions are given.  He complains that he has not one single reliable friend in his life.  Basically, everything is an overblown drama with Richard.  This topic, as is a typical troublesome family issue, involves money.  He mentions a Russian friend of his who he says used to be quite close, “We had so many fantastic adventures together.  We never had an argument, never a single one…until I lent him, let me correct myself, until I gave him a considerable sum of money.  Not only did I lose my money”, he says counting on his fingers, “but I also lost my friendship”, then holds up a second finger.  He takes a drag on his cigarette and gets off on the tangent involving his Russian friend.  It is not in vain though, as the story soon spins wildly into unbelievable territory.  He is in full story telling mode as he starts with this tale involving himself and his Russian buddy.

The Russian had come across some sort of ‘business opportunity’ in Albania.  The two flew down to check it out but were kept at bay until they ponied up the full amount for an ‘initial investment’.  Richard adds, “It all smelled horribly wrong.  I knew something was amiss when they said we had to put all the money in before we even had all the details”.  He leans forward, ashes and continues on.  Peering over his glasses he says, “I was right.  It was a complete mess.  As soon as they had the money they would have nothing to do with us.  Here we are in Albania and these heavies are making it quite clear that we are not welcome at all.  I immediately called my Japanese gangster friend, Suzuki”.  Richard says Suzuki culled together a few other thugs and flew straight away to Albania.  They found the guy they were after.  They went to his place and shook him down, literally.  Suzuki and his Japanese roughs held the guy out of his 8 story window until he decided to pay back the money he had just scammed form Richard and the Russian.  “We got back 80% of our investment.  On the spot!  It was in his safe.  That is quite good I think” Richard says while throwing his boisterous laugh out at the table.  He stops the laughing to take a deep drag off his cigarette and continues in a solemn mode, “They dropped him anyway you know.  I was horrified and asked Suzuki why he dropped him out his window even after he paid. ‘He was a real bastard’ he said, I didn’t question him any further.  He obviously had his reasons and I didn’t want to know anymore”

Everyone is facing Richard as he is telling his tale.  The fire is putting a nice glow around the patio and the sound and smell of the burning wood is quite relaxing.  “You know, when Suzuki got his start, when he was much younger, they called him Socks Suzuki.”  Richard talks about Socks as if he was a real, no nonsense bad-ass that no one should ever cross.  I am not sure how far up on his gangster lore he is, but he swears that it is this one Japanese gangster who really put the idea of hanging people out of windows in the books.  He said that when he would encounter people who did not want to co-operate, he found that hanging them out of the windows usually got the result he was after. It worked on 80% of those he was out to shake down. ‘The real tough bastards didn’t fall for it” Richard says as he arches his eyebrows, getting deeper into the tale.  “Suzuki said that he would hang people out and the hardened bastards would still hold out.  One day, he decided to take off one unfortunate guy’s shoes and retry his original tactic.  It worked in a flash.  Apparently even the hardest bastards think twice when they are hanging out a window upside down with no shoes on…” his hardy laugh is rising in volume, “I suppose that the fear is just too great when someone is holding you only by your socks.  It must feel like they will slip right off!”  He throws himself back into his chair to enjoy his own story and laugh at full volume.  He glances frantically to everyone at the table to see if they are enjoying the story as much as he is.  We are.  It is smiles all around.  Richard rocks back and forth like a spastic kid as he laughs it out.

“You like that one?” he says as he is leaning forward and tapping his cigarette. “I do” I say without a second’s delay.  Being with Richard means being prepared to switch drastically from one topic to another, then back again, then sideways into something else.  Now he is talking about books.  “Americans don’t read do they?” he asks, but he doesn’t expect an answer, he gets on with it and answers the ways he wants it done, “Of course not.  They watch movies don’t they?   I dare not ask Americans if they have read this book or that because it is always the same reply, ‘No, but I saw the movie’. Dreadful.” He turns to me and says, “You are from the South, you should read the book ‘Stars and Bars’.  You would love it!”  Now Richard jumps back to scouting the Mexican coastline for a getaway.

We are not having dinner here now, though as he is on a roll, he insists we stay and eat anyway.  We tell him that after he cancelled, we bought chicken and were going to have tacos now. “How pathetic!  Eating tacos on New Years Eve.  What, and spending the night in watching a boooorrring French film as well?”  He shakes his head and taps his cigarette. “We have to eat you know, why don’t you stay and join us.  We will grill some nice steaks, it will be more fun than those wretched chicken tacos.”  I know it would be.  However, we keep our game face on and insist that we get back so that we can have some dinner too. “I am horrible at starting fires.  Can you start a fire for me before you leave?” he asks as he looks at each of us.  We all know how this will play out.  We all say that we are horrible at starting fires, and stand up to leave.

We all wish one another a happy new year and wish Richard’s wife to get feeling better.  He walks us to the door and as we are leaving he insist we call one another tomorrow and do something so we don’t have to be bored all day.  We say we will and get in the car and leave.

Later, back at home, as we are preparing our chicken tacos the phone rings.  I can hear Richards’s husky voice from where I am at in the kitchen.  Turns out that since we left he will not grill after all.  Maybe he is truly bad at grilling.  He is asking Tonya to recommend a good pizza place.  I laugh when Tonya asks the name of the one that serves as our go-to.  We are not alone having a rather drab New Years Eve dinner it seems.

That Guy.

My tendency to look at others and size them up according to the simplest things is something I need to work on.  As much as we should  not pre-judge, we all do it anyway. If someone has on the wrong shoes, the wrong haircut, a stain on their shirt or whatever it may be – they are immediately categorized and filed into whatever compartment our little minds choose.  Such was my assumption with that guy.

I had no idea who this guy was, only I had seen him around town and something about him seemed odd.  The way he walked and his footwear was what first got my attention.  This guy is a gringo.  He walks very stout, with his chest puffed out and arms swaying sluggishly at his side.  That alone is no crime, but no one can take a bad-ass seriously when gazing at his feet you see he is wearing cheap flip flops.  Who wears flip-flops on a daily basis on rough streets like these?  Perhaps he takes the ‘easy livin’ creed a bit too serious.

Recognizing that walk, and the stiff puffy posture, I had been able to start spotting this guy all around town.  Once on my radar, I began to notice the rest of his attire.  Camouflage knee length shorts.  This is another faux-pas here.  We are not hiding in a jungle, and to the best of my knowledge there is no urban warfare going on.  Anyway, those shorts are null and void when paired with flip-flops.  No one is ready for full on ass kicking wearing flip-flops and knee length shorts.  Wait-there is more, the Rambo style headband he always has on too.  To me, he gives us gringos a bad name.  He looks like he’s lost and somewhat of a clown.  Mind you, I have not even gotten to the big, biker sized sideburns he sports…

I see him in the ice cream shop, outside on the street talking to girls, walking ever so proudly through the main square.  That guy is everywhere!

It was only by chance that I actually found out about that guy while sitting at our neighbor’s house.  Her daughter was spilling the beans on a resident New York hipster who was thrilled to be at a naked acid party when she referenced this weird guy who hits on every girl he sees.  More to the point, she had just been hanging out with this weird guy a few nights before and after he was striking out with every single girl that crossed his path, he turned and hit on her.  She asked why he would do such a thing, and he simply replied that it was a game of odds.  If he asks 100 girls, at least one will say yes.  Our neighbor’s daughter said she told him that even though this is Mexico, asking a total stranger on the street for a date can only get you a firm “No” and cement your reputation as a freak.  I was quite happy with this, because I knew nothing about that guy except my perception already sensed he was a bit wobbly.  Of course, he could be getting constantly turned down by his daily uniform, knee length camouflage shorts, headband and flip-flops are not typically things that get women hot.

After the mother and daughter discuss the antics from a few nights earlier, the mom starts to tell how she met the strange fella.  They were in the bank, waiting for hours (as you do in Mexico) and thus struck up a conversation.  It turns out that though that guy is a bit weird, he is a real sweetie according to the mom…and the dad, as a matter of fact.  He actually has carried groceries for the mom, replaced the dad’s beer after he helped himself to a little too many of the brand new case that was just purchased.  He is also somewhat of a gentleman, walking home the daughter and others when a woman should not be alone.  It appears he has some admirable traits.  The mom gives us the brief lowdown on the guy I have been seeing around town.

Turns out he is an Iraq war veteran.  According to the story he told the mother, he did his turn of duty, saw some things he wasn’t supposed to see and went through some traumatic situations (no doubt about that).  He is on meds, but the daughter says that he confessed he doesn’t want to take them, and frequently skips his dosage.  The guy showed up in Mexico via bus.  He had his duffle bag and flip-flops, and why he chose here, only he knows.

Leaving the States he took the bus over the border and in to Guadalajara.  The bus ride allowed some of the passengers to size him up.  After the long and grueling bus ride, he was totally unaware of the snare laid waiting for him when the bus stopped.  Getting off the bus and passing through a few customs agents, he was accosted by two guards with baseball bats.  It was not a pretty sight.  They beat him up real good, and only the nearby crowd stifled the beating.  The two assailants fled and left him bleeding and beaten on the bus station floor.  The cops came and as he got himself together, he was determined to press charges on the two assailants; after all, there was a crowd of people who witnessed the beating and he was sure justice would be served.

The cops took him to the station and began the lengthy chore of Mexican paperwork.  (Mind you, this is Mexico so filing a report is probably a waste of time because the cops won’t do anything anyway).  There was a mole in the midst, because as the guy is filing his complaint and charges, the father of one of the assailants shows up with cash in hand.  He tries to buy the guy off and get him to drop the charges.  According to the tale as it was told to me, the guy was confused as to why this was happening in a police station.  He insisted on the charges staying in place and wanted the assailants arrested.  He denied the money from the father and sent him on his way.  He was battered and tired, and this process was taking way too long.  Finally, after all was said and done, the police returned that guy back to the scene of the crime, the bus station.

Imagine it; you ride on the bus for countless hours to s strange land and first thing that happens when you get off is you get beat to a pulp by two guys with baseball bats.  Bloody, bruised and sore, you then have to go to the police station and try to communicate with the police what just happened…and also have a stranger come in and try to bribe you to drop charges.  There is no doubt this poor guy had been through the ringer and was dead tired.  The robbers took his bags and rifled through his wallet, so he was left with nothing but a beaten body.  Returning back to the bus station, he had no idea what to do next.  Exhausted, he sat quietly and drifted off to sleep.   He was unaware and had no idea of the time frame, but while he had dosed off asleep, two men came in to the bus station and searched for him.  When they found their mark, they began taking photos of him.  Obviously, these guys were not doing this for curiosity, but these images would quickly be dispersed to some rough characters that would see to it that this lowly gringo who insisted on pressing charges would be done away with.  As the two men finished their photos and left, a thoughtful and concerned passenger in waiting nudged the stranger and told him to wake.  They relayed the instance of what just happened and told him to leave immediately, or else.  Obviously, the beaten foreigner knew what would happen if he stayed any longer.  With no bags or anymore belongings, he grabs the first bus out of there.  Guess where he lands?

Like I said, any guy who walks around in camouflage shorts and flip flops and matching headband must have a few screws loose.  After the story was told to me about this guy, I soon understood why, and yes, my heart felt for the guy.  What does one do after fighting crazed Arabs in the dusty Middle East and then coming here and as soon as your feet touch the ground you get a thorough ass kicking by two crazed Mexicans with baseball bats?  Anyone would suffer from a few screws getting knocked loose after that. 

So here he is, trying to start a new.  I now know a bit more about that guy, and have a bit of reverence for him.  Who knows, maybe he is just a loose canon who deserved getting the living daylights beat out of him-maybe not, who knows?  I can at least understand some of his kooky behavior a bit better, even though I question a bad case of shell shock being the cause of asking out every single girl you see in hopes that a single one says yes.

In his defense, how many young guys today will carry a stranger’s groceries for them?  Better yet, how many punks these days know that when walking with a woman, you take the outside of the sidewalk?  Not many.  Perhaps that guy isn’t such a bad apple after all.  I know that I will end up talking to him sooner than later, and then I will know if my pre-judged opinion was right, or if I totally missed the mark.

The Professionals

I am constantly in awe of how this once great civilization has decayed into perfectionists in half-assedness.  Truly amazing.

In recent weeks, Winston has been having problems with his heart again.  It is not good news and the end result is inevitable.  I try to enjoy our time together every day that we are both still here.  I love him immensely, what more can I say.  I want him to be as healthy as possible, and if his health is failing, I want him to be as comfortable as possible.

We visited a vet who had come highly recommended.  She seemed nice enough, and very accommodating.  Standing in her office as she viewed Winston’s x-rays, I was a bit confused when she said she would send Winston’s tests to the heart specialist…in Argentina.  “In Argentina?” I asked, yes, in Argentina.  With this type of system, I knew immediately I would never get a quick answer regarding Winston.  I went with it though, and trusted those with degrees in medicine.

The following night, Winston appeared to be getting worse, and he lay on the couch with a heartbeat as fast as the bullet train and breathing to match.  We called the doctor to ask her what may be happening.  She simply replied that she still had not heard back from Argentina, and perhaps Winston was having a reaction to the new medicine.  I did not need my dog dying on the couch in front of me because a guy in Argentina had not replied to a woman in small town Mexico.  Luckily, Tonya had the idea to call his doctor in Mexico City and ask him what we should do.  Thankfully, he took time out to talk her through what we should do.  Another day passed and still no word from our new vet or the guy in Argentina.  Finally, the phone rings and the vet calls to tell us she heard back, and would send us the results.  Tonya told her what had happened and how since she could not answer us, we went to a doctor who could.  With no malicious intent, this simple seeking of help caused a riff with our new vet, and it appears to have been short lived.

We went back to the public to ask who we should use as a vet.  We get another tip, and follow it up.  This guy seems really nice, and tells us of a heart specialist who visits another nearby town once a week.  The neighboring town is much closer than Mexico City, so we decide to follow the lead.  Tonya calls the specialist and he takes his time to discuss Winston’s situation.  He sets aside time to see him on his next visit.

On the given day, we drive to the neighboring town and meet the specialist.  He seems very nice and professional.  He is standing at an examining table with the resident vet.  They ask questions, look at Winston and ask for any previous results, which I hand over on a USB stick.  They both move to a computer and view the results, talking back and forth with their opinions and observations.

The specialist comes to us as tells us he will do an ultrasound to view Winston’s heart.  As he talks over the current situation, he asks about the doctor we had previously seen.  When we tell him of the situation, he says he knows of the doctor in Argentina, and he is a God-like figure to those in the same field here in Mexico.  Had we only known we were dealing with such a figure…

The specialist pulls out a manual and asks how much Winston weighs.  Tonya and I look at one another and shrug our shoulders.  I tell the doctor I think he weighs 13 something kilos, “Does that sound right?” I ask.  He says he sounds about right.  He insists on knowing the exact weight, because the diagnosis and medication and following procedures would need to be exact-and it is all based on weight.  He asks the other vet to weigh Winston, and he disappears downstairs.  He comes back a few minutes later with an old bathroom scale.  He sets it down next to me and proceeds to stand on it.  He says his weight to all of us standing there, and then reaffirms his findings to say that the scale is accurate.  He motions for Winston.  I pick Winston up from the table, and begin to try and put him on the slightly rusty bathroom scale.  The vet motions not to try.  He touches my arm and pulls me toward the scale.  The specialist speaks up, “You get on the scale, not Winston”

I hand Winston to Tonya and look at the scale.  It is not zeroed out.  If all of this is to be exact, why am I getting on a scale that is not correctly set?  I stand on the scale and the vet looks at the weight.  He says it aloud to the specialist.  He then tells Tonya to hand Winston to me.  I am now standing on the scale with Winston in my arms.  Unbelievably, this is how they get to an exact weight in order to make life saving decisions in situations like this.  The vet tells the specialist the difference in weight.  I was right!  It was right at 13 kilos!

The specialist then asks for Winston to be hoisted back up on the table and that he will now do the ultrasound.  He tells the other vet to shave off some of Winston’s hair.  The vet opens a drawer and pulls out a pair of electric shears, like a dad about to give his son a homemade haircut.  He plugs it in, taps them on the counter and turns it on.  He touches it to his palm to make sure the blades are working.  Knowing that everything is functioning, he asks where he should trim.  The specialist tells him and he leans over Winston and starts the trimming.  Every so often Winston flinches, but the vet keeps at it.  It is not until after the ultrasound I see a whole series of gashes and cuts along Winston’s side.  The shears work, but are incredibly dull…or the vet is ham fisted with electric trimmers.

The specialist now says he is ready for Winston.  He says something to the vet, and as soon as he puts the shears away, he pulls out a large bag of dog food and plops it on the examining table.  He grabs a dirty pink towel and lays it out nicely over the large bag of dog food.  “Winston will love this, he is going to be so comfortable…like at a spa” the specialist says as he drives his fist into the bag to shape the bag for his purpose.  He looks up at me and with both hands pats the newly formed bag of dog food draped in the pink towel, “OK, let’s go!”

It takes a while to do the ultrasound, first Winston on one side, then the other.  When he finishes, he raises his hands and says, “OK, we are finished now”.  The other vet turns the lights on and the specialist is digging in his bag. “I am going to burn these images to a disc now”, he says and pulls out a blue CD writer, with scotch tape all over the top.  As the disc is whirring away on the table, he explains what he has seen and what to do next.  “Now, we will take x-rays of Winston”.  I dread this almost as much as Winston.  He hates getting put on his side under the strange machine with men in lead jackets holding him down.  It is like ‘Marathon Man’ all over again.  When the vet and his assistant have prepped the room, he comes out and asks for Winston.  I take Winston and lead him into the room, feeling like a guilty parent of selling out my kid to some heinous event.  The vet takes Winston in and we continue talking with the specialist.

The specialist informs us that we are doing all that we can given the situation, but thinks Winston needs a different diagnosis.  “It is not really anything too different, but just for technical reasons we should change it” he reaffirms.    Winston comes walking out and all seems OK.  Seeing Winston, the specialist realizes that now all the necessary steps are completed.  He sits and discusses the possibility of some new medication and asks some more questions about Winston’s recent behavior.  The vet pokes his head around the corner and gives the specialist a sign that the x-rays are ready for viewing.  Tonya and I sit on a small dirty couch, and watch them view the newly shot images.  They are not touching them, and they are holding them on the corners with a pair of tongs.  One of x-rays slips out of the tongs and onto the floor.  Obviously, they are not dry enough.  They look around for somewhere to hang the x-ray to dry a bit more.  They come back to the examining table and look around the room.  The vet sees something.  He walks to the corner of the room.  He takes the x-ray and attaches it to a fan which has been hung upside down from the ceiling, in the corner.  Ingenious.

I can’t believe it.  These are the professionals.  I feel like I am in good hands.

Blood in the Sand (pt.2)

After a few minutes another cheer goes up.  It is the main man, Pablo.  He is out and making rounds on his horse.  He makes the horse trot sideways as he rounds the ring and waves at the crowd.  The people love him.  The old lady in front of me has her camera out and his snapping a load of pictures.  After he does the rounds and a few tricks, he goes to the opposite side of the ring and sits, poised attentively staring at the entrance from where the bull will come charging.  The crowd cheers and another bull is in the ring.  Like the previous, he makes his rounds, charging various toreros.  As he rounds my way, he charges a few of the fighters behind the wall.  He stops and stares the fighters down.  He lowers his head and starts ramming the wall.  The crowd goes nuts.  Perhaps its revenge, it is payback time for what those lousy fighters had just done.

Trapped

Pablo in action

It is interesting to watch this fighter on horseback; after all, he is the world’s best Rejoneador.  He does almost all of the fight himself, from the lance, to the banderillas, to the final stab; all done from atop of his horse.  He’s suave. The horse is trained to perfection. Often times throughout the fight Pablo rides with no hands, steering the horse with his legs or by yelling commands.  It is something to see, and whenever he has a chance Pablo likes to show off, and do some stunts purely for the ‘wow’ factor.  Pablo charges the bull and the bull charges back.  They go at each other head on and at the last moment the horse is pulled aside and the brush past one another.  The crowd loves this   and Pablo raises his hand to massive cheers.  It’s not always fun and games, as sometimes the bull forces Pablo to make a quick decision, causing his horse to jump and gallop sideways and after breaking away from the confrontation, run to the opposite side of the ring.  This gives both the fighter and bull a chance to rethink the situation.  Pablo and the bull charge one another a bit before one of his assistant hand him a long lance.  He raises it overhead to massive cheering, like some great warrior.  He parades the horse around the ring, waiting for the right moment.  The bull is watching intently as he circles.  Almost in unison, they both go full speed at one another and Pablo raises the long spear above as he rushes toward the bull, as he thrusts it down you can hear the sound of steel into meat.  The crowd cheers.  His lance has a white banner at the tip, and he trails it along so the bull chases it.  He is using this instead of a cape. The dance between man, horse and bull goes round and round and Pablo does all he can to tire the bull. The bull makes his move and sends Pablo and his horse leaping sideways again.  His hat flies off and the crowd screams with delight.  Pablo leans out almost perfectly vertical and pats the bull on his head, a gentle but obvious taunt. His brazen stunt ignites the crowd. Everyone is in a rabid chatter about what they have just witnessed.  Now I understand the fascination of watching a very intense and intimate fight.  Both Pablo and the bull are adrenalized, and it is time for one them to spill his life out onto the dirt for all to see.  Pablo takes his turns with his banderillas and then the final plunge.  He wins, the bull falls and the crowd is ecstatic.

The first fight was traumatic.  Pablo’s was real showmanship and some genuinely tense moments.  He definitely raised everyone’s spirits and the energy level.  It will be hard to top a guy on a gallant horse.  The clean-up crew is in the ring hauling out the dead bull, spreading out the dirt and then the sign guy shows up. I am scanning the floor wildly because my camera just broke. I forget about the fights for a moment and get absorbed in finding the part that has fallen off my camera.  How can this happen?  It's a Nikon!  He holds his sign up so the crowd can see what’s next. He disappears below me and a few seconds later the cheers ignite again as a new bull is running rampant in the ring.

Almost immediately the bull’s horns grab one of the torero’s capes and he leaps over the wall.  The bull drags the cape into the center of the ring and repeated shoves his horns into the cape and into the dirt. ‘Toro, Toro, Toro” the crowd is chanting.  Some are already on their feet!  For the third fight things are already off to a wild start.  The bull charges each fighter, sending them up and over the wall followed by huge cheers from the crowd.  This particular bull does the one thing that sends everyone over the edge. With all the toreros hiding behind the wall and a lone cape in the ring, the bull sets his sights and starts kicking up dust with his hoofs.  It’s like all the stories you’ve heard. It is thrilling to see this.  At least for this very moment, the bull is in full control and no one is willing to tempt him.  The crowd keeps chanting ‘Toro, Toro” and applause breaks out around the whole ring.  When the matador finally makes his way into the center of the ring, both the bull and the audience are keenly focused on any movement across the sand.

 

This matador is on his feet, no horse to gallop away on.  This is the type of matador you want to see, a true professional.  Though not as graceful as the ronjeador, he still commands the utmost respect.  The interplay between he and the bull is obviously more intimate and truly at ground level.  There are some hair raising moments as he is charged and has to dodge the horns, swirling his cape and becoming engulfed in a cloud of dust.  Things move slightly off center to the left of the ring.  Man and bull are now truly face to face.  The two are trying one another’s skill and patience.  As they are swirling in their dueling dance, each close call and scrape gets a loud “Ole!”  They come one after another, in a constant scream form the crowd.  It’s hard to tell who is getting the cheers, the matador or the bull.  Both are doing their best and both are splendid.  The bull trips up and his front legs give.  He falls to his knees.  The matador walks away and gives the bull time to regain his footing.  Staring at one another, the matador closes in and slowly goes to one knee.  They are both panting and looking one another in the eye.  The matador stands and turns his back and walks away.  Everyone goes to their feet and cheers.  When he regains his strength, the bull charges across the ring at the matador and everyone cheers again.

Taking aim for the last stab...

...the final blow and the bull falls

The 'finisher'

I am struck at the dazzling array of color and blood. It is thrilling when the bulls stand majestically and catch their breath; the glistening crimson flow across their muscles, topped with the brightly colored banderillas is quite a sight.  In those intimate moments when the bull and fighter are side by side, and brush by one another, the fighters’ bright capes take on a totally different look when they are flowing through the air now streaked with blood.  It is magnificence with a cost.

This matador did a good job and the crowd is letting him know by the loudness of their cheers. It’s non-stop.  He is worn and sweaty, and walks a victory round around the ring with a few of his toreros.  Someone throws a hat into the ring and the matador halts his step and catches it. They audience goes wild and he rears back, takes aim and sends the hat flying back into the stands.  As he rounds the arena, people are throwing souvenirs, hats, scarves and anything they can get their hands on into the ring.  He stops, waves and throws them back to make them even more frantic.

The matador with an audience member's hat.

I turn back to check on Tonya.  She is distraught and has not been able to cast her gaze into the ring.  She has been trying to sneak peaks through the screen on my camera.  I ask if she is OK, and she says that she is not doing well, but she is sticking it out.  I turn to the annoying boyfriend and look at his girlfriend, “How are you?  You OK?”  She shakes her sweaty head and gives two thumbs up.  I look back to Tonya and pat her on her back.

“Oooh, he’s a big one” I hear a voice say followed by a cheer.  ‘Buena Suerta’ is 490 kilos and is charging into the ring with wild abandon.  He chases all of the toreros out and he too, locks in on a few and starts banging the wall they are hiding behind.  He backs off, and then darts across to try jabbing some other fighters.  This bull is big and mean and not putting up with anyone’s nonsense.  You can sense it from the way he moves and his stature that he is a real badass.  Every torero that tries to make his way into the ring is immediately sent running back.  The crowd loves it but the fighters don’t.  No one can get near him.  The bull is holding his ground without any problems.  Tension is high.  No one can really get close enough to do anything, so they call out the Picador.  The crowd moans its disapproval that man and bull have yet to face off.  The picador comes out with his spear raised.  Not only does the crowd disapprove, but the bull does too.  As the picador is taking aim the bull charges, the picador misses and the bull hits the horse broadside.  The picador is thrown off the horse and all the women gasp.  The crowd screams with fear.  All of the toreros have been kept at bay and no one can get to help the downed picador.  The bull chases him off, then locks in on the horse that is wallowing in the dirt, trying to get back on its feet.  The bull charges full on and starts goring the horse.  It is relentless and jabs and jabs and jabs.  It retreats then head down and in for another stab.  The horse is kicking wildly but the bull has found its weak spot, beneath its padded protection.  All of the toreros have jumped into the ring and are trying frantically to get the bull’s attention.  He doesn’t stop, he keeps stabbing.  The sand is getting muddied with blood from the horse.  Women are screaming and the crowd is on its feet.  A torero grabs the bull’s tail and tries to pull him, but to no avail.  The bull turns and chases him, and back into the horse.  “It’s horrible!  This is horrible!” the women are screaming in front of me. “Get him off! Help the horse!  Get the horse!” people are screaming.  “Help him!”

The picador gets charged...

He is knocked off the and bull goes for the horse

The bull is goring the horse repeatedly. Note torero pulling his tail

...still attacking the horse

The picador remounts his wounded horse.

With all of the fighters in the ring, the bull is finally distracted form the horse.  There is no movement from the horse and many of the women are screaming. Everyone imagines that it is too late and the horse is dead.  Several men jump the wall and get into the ring to help the horse.  There is chaos all around and everyone is stunned from what they’ve just witnessed “This is not normal, this never happens” someone says.  “This is crazy” I hear the annoying boyfriend say out loud.  The crowd starts a different kind of sound as the picador appears.  He comes over the wall and all I hear is “Noooooo!”  I don’t understand what is going on, I can’t see what is happening.  I look to the bull and the fighters, but nothing.  It is a total stand-off.  I look back to the horse and they have gotten the horse to stand, the picador approaches his horse and the crowd gets louder and more defiant, “NOOOOOOO!”  The picador mounts his horse and raises his spear.  The woman in front of mean screams, “Oh my God!  The poor horse is bleeding to death; his legs are covered in blood!  Don’t do it!”  The picador is determined to take revenge on the bull.  His horse is unsteady.  Beneath its armor you can see blood running down its hind legs.  There is blood all in the sand where it was laying getting the bull’s horns repeated stab into its underbelly and hind quarters.  The horse cannot walk a straight line and is stumbling.  ‘He’s going to die!  He’s going to die!  The horse is dying!” someone is screaming.  The crowd is completely confused and is screaming at the picador “Booooo!”  The picador is visibly shaken and upset, and leads his weakened horse out of the ring.  It is too much for some.  Several people are so upset they are leaving.  The woman in front of me is pushing her friend away who is trying to calm her down, “I’m leaving.  I cannot stand this. Its horrible!” she is yelling at her friend almost in tears.  There is disruption all through the crowd and I have lost focus of what is going on in the ring.  People are stepping over people to leave.  I feel a tap on my shoulder and Tonya looks sick.  She is shaking her head and saying out loud “I’m leaving-I can’t see this” I tell her to wait a moment and gather my cameras.  The annoying boyfriend grabs my arm, “She is not doing well. You going to go with her?”  I shake my head to affirm his guess.  The woman in front of me grabs me and asks, “Is she OK?  This is horrible, just horrible.  Its not supposed to be like this, two horses in one night” I lean over and tell her we are going.  As I step down from the seats there are many more that have been shaken by the scene and are leaving or at least turning their backs and trying to get away from the chaos.

Leaving the ring, a view behind the scenes

We walk down the ramp the way we came in and there is a lot of commotion outside.  We walk passed the loading gates and there are the big horses that drag the bulls out.  There is blood everywhere and a guy is trying to hose it all down.  There is something going on further ahead of the horses but I can’t see what it is, but it has people hurrying about behind the scenes.  Tonya won’t stop; she’s several steps ahead of me shaking her head. I am limping, almost hopping to catch up with her.  She cannot get out of the area fast enough.  When I get by her side she looks at me with glassy eyes and fear, shaking her head “I shouldn’t have gone…” she said, “I shouldn’t have gone”

Me?  I still can’t make up my mind.  Death is not a fun thing to watch.