Hot Nights

It’s that time of year again.  In the summer, you expect it to be hot, but at night time, I can’t stand it.  I could never live in the tropics, and could care less about any vacation to anywhere hot and muggy…especially at night.

Last year at this time, Tonya just scoffed at my pleas to get a fan.  I think she was just trying to ‘get her Mexican on’, and act like she could roll with anything thrown her way.  Most homes here have no air conditioning or heating…which is fine for most of the year.  However, for a few months, you definitely need something to push the air around and cool you down.  Thankfully though, Tonya finally broke down and happily agreed that especially at night, a fan would be a great idea.

When the sun drops, it does cool down a bit, but not enough.  In our attempts to stay cool and comfortable I try and assist the cooling process in any way possible.  The first thing I do when the sun has disappeared behind the mountains is to open the windows.  Last year there was debate over the need for a fan.  This year the debate is to whether or not to open the windows.  Tonya does not want bugs to fly in.  I do not want to sweat and be restless.  I often debate this point with Tonya, and tell her to not leave the lights on near the windows.  As soon as I leave the room, she closes the windows.  It usually takes me a while and then it dawns on me that everything is still and warm.  “Did you close the windows?” is the standard question I pose. Her standard response is “I don’t want bugs to fly in”

This has brought another odd characteristic of Mexico to my attention.  Not only do the homes not have heating and cooling, they also do not believe in screens here. Why is that?  How can a country not understand the value of screens?  Thankfully there are no mosquitoes here in Mexico City, but there are plenty of moths, June bugs and other assorted flying insects that love to come crash your party on any given night.  This time of the year means I have to try to relax while trying to constantly battle Tonya to keep the windows open and air circulating while hoping we don’t get to many bugs joining us for our nightly film viewing.

Bedtime is the real challenge.  I don’t even know why during summer one should even bother making the bed.  The first thing that happens when you crawl in is the covers and sheets get thrown off immediately.  My neurosis gets the best of me though, because I think there is something odd about sleeping on a mattress with no covers.  Because of this, I usually have a section of sheet on me somewhere, but not too much.

I think of my childhood and sleeping with my grandmother at her home in the country.  She had to have been a woman of great patience to deal with restless kids at night.  We would lie in her bed next to the window.  The window would be open and you could hear cars drive by at night on the gravel road.  You could hear crickets.  You could hear the still heat of a Texas night. “Just lie really still” she would say.  She would insist this was the best and quickest way to cool off and stay cool.  I think she also said this to make us be still so she could drift off to sleep.  Who wants to lie in bed with some twisting turning whining kid constantly rattling on about being hot?

Nothing has changed.  I am a grown man and every night of summer I get in to bed, I throw the covers off and make a comment about being hot. “This sucks” is a pretty common utterance from me, or a moan of disgust.  I usually stare up at the ceiling, looking at nothing.  I suppose it is just ritual.  I do though, think of what my grandmother told me as a kid, and I lay very, very still.  I lie there and the sound of the fan is my lullaby.  I am usually fine as long as nothing touches me.  I stick to ‘my’ side of the bed with a vengeance.  I am beginning to believe it is now custom molded to my nightly stiff pose to beat the heat.  When sleep comes, it is truly appreciated.  No one move, be perfectly still and I may get a half-decent night sleep and remain at least, tolerably cool.

If I am woken up at night, it is not usually because of the heat, but more likely due to the dogs.  Winston usually sleeps in the bed, but now it is even too hot for him.  He may jump up at some point during the night to get cozy, and then is usually upset because I kick him off because I can’t stand him sleeping against me.  Sometimes he gets too hot and jumps off on his own accord.  Sometimes it is the clattering sound of Sunny, having gotten stuck in or under the desk and is thrashing around trying to get loose (he is a wild sleeper).  However, it is usually the quieter things that are the worst; dog farts

You do not have to be scientist to understand the physics of how smells seem to hang for an eternity in warm air.  Factor in the aspect of a very big dog on both sides of the bed and it spells trouble.  Many a night I manage to finally drift off in a very fragile sleep, only to wake up gasping for breath from the slow creeping noxious gas rising from whichever dog is sleeping beside the bed. It is a strange phenomenon, but it does seem that dog farts linger a lot longer in the still warm air between the hours of 3 and 5 in the morning.  Worse still is the fact that once the dog is relaxed and letting loose, the constant stream of ‘gas’ can keep you up for quite a while.  Many mornings I wake with an overwhelming concern that I too, smell like the dog farts that were constantly bombarding me in the sticky night air. They may have no problem sleeping in warm summer nights, but I sure do.  I now have to be prepared at a split second’s notice to pull sheets up over my nose or bury my face between pillows to avoid the nocturnal stink bombs the dogs let so freely loose while sleeping.

They are in the clear every time.  Just like in a fire, you are constantly told to stay low to the ground…that is where the clear air is.  Heat rises, as do farts.  They lay blissfully unaware of the hell they are sending out and up over the bed.  The night is cool and relaxing for them, spreading out and rolling all over the cool floor.

In truth, they win every time.  What good does it do to cover your head with pillows or seek refuge beneath a hot comforter?  Even if I choose to do these things, it is only a brief  respite, as the heat always wins.  I am soon forced back out into the heavy night air to face the volley of  farts let loose by the sprawling dreaming dogs. 

I suppose there is a silver lining to these restless, warm nights.  Sometimes the dogs let a good one rip, and it wakes me from my fragile sleep.  I have gotten many a giggles from the late night surprises.  On occasion too, they do such a winner that it wakes Tonya, and the sweaty bed shakes with a hearty late-night laugh from the both of us.

The rainy season is only a few weeks away, and I cannot wait.

The Law (...sort of)

She wouldn’t even look you in the eye as she was tapping ash off her cigarette.  She was determined and defiant in her actions as she took this opportunity to accentuate her point, “Laws are laws” she said quite plainly.  The talk concerns laws and the state of things in Mexico.  More precisely, the reference is to a French delegate who was caught in the middle of a kidnapping and smuggling ring and locked away here in Mexico.  This particular woman was in charge of overlooking kidnapped people and even deciding when their fingers would be cut off.  The whole ordeal even got Sarkozy petitioning her release.  It is making for tense relations between France and Mexico.

“I could not agree more” I say wholeheartedly.  However, I look her in the eyes and add, “Can we keep the same stern view when we talk about illegal immigration and all the stuff going on between Mexico and the States?”  This serious question elicits her to roll her eyes and exhale smoke, “Oh come on.  Let’s not start that again, you know there is a lot of stuff involved.  In fact, a whole new bunch of things just came in to light in the press”  I am serious though, and ask again why we can’t tow the line so tough when it comes to Mexicans scurrying every which way over the border.  This statement also brings the wrath of my girlfriend.  I will now be double teamed immediately after our nice dinner.

I am constantly amazed at how the whole illegal situation is viewed here.  I recently read a four page spread in an English language newspaper (The News) concerning the huge influx of smugglers taking to boats to get their human cargo into America.  Four pages and only once was the term ‘illegal immigrant’ used.  The rest of the mentions were a cleaner and friendlier ‘immigrant’.  I kept asking the simple question, “If they are a legal ‘immigrant’, then why must they come charging in on speedboats under the cover of night and be dumped off several yards out at sea and told to swim…hurry!”  It doesn’t make sense to me.  I am still baffled at how every Mexican I have spoken to about how the average person here views this topic.

It is the United States fault.  This is the usual reply, usually followed by a quickly added, “It is the uneducated, poor Mexicans who only go to America anyway”.  Oddly enough, I somewhat agree…not on the intellectual aspect, but on the view that America does not truly do its part to stop them.  A friend just told me last week how Mexicans often say “F*cking gringos are racist!” then laughed and continued to say that in reality, they themselves will not tolerate any other Latin American personage but their own.  He laughed at the fact that the gringos can carry that weight, and that the race card is wrongly played.

One cannot address the ‘immigration’ issue without it being overshadowed by the bigger, pressing issue; Drugs.

Most of the polite yet somewhat serious conversations that I have partaken in regarding these topics usually occur at a table or a coffee table.  They are somewhat relaxed and never allowed to get too heated.  Likewise though, the outcome is always the same.  The drug problem in Mexico is because of the US.  The Mexicans and Europeans who have addressed this point usually start with this simple statement, “All the weapons the Cartel has comes from the US.”  In short, one can conclude that all the violence and bloodshed is solely due to the weapons that come down from America.

In turn, I address this point alone every single time, “Are you telling me that Mexico never owned a weapon until Vicente Fox came into power five or six years ago?”  This is ridiculous and they know it too.  They laugh it off and say “Of course not…but not the weapons the Cartels are using” is the usual reply, or one of a similar fashion.  I then have to ask some simple questions to whoever is engaging me on this topic.  I am only a gringo and therefore racist and obviously ignorant. “How did Mexico fight a revolution without loads of weapons?”  Every picture I see of Zapata and his Zapatistas, they are all wearing the famous crossed over the chest bullet belts and usually brandishing a rifle or at least two pistols.  This may seem a silly question, but I think it makes them think a minute.  Forget that.  Let’s talk of all the ever-present problems that are synonymous with Latin America and the ever revolving door of revolutions and overthrows constantly in effect.  After said government is overthrown, where do the weapons go?  I then ask a very simple question, one that every Mexican here can relate to; Colombia.  “After the whole Colombian Cartel was ‘dissolved’, did they ship all the weapons immediately out of the country?  Where did they go?  Obviously, none were brought into Mexico…right?”  I think these are some simple and honest questions that can help shine a light on one aspect of the problem here.  Yes, my opponents sit silent for a moment then resume their constant stage of denial.  It is still not possible for these weapons to actually have been accessible already or have been provided by any other country.  When asked what kind of countries usually support other Socialist countries they shrug and still say the same three letters “U.S.A.” 

“If people in the USA didn’t buy so many drugs, then we would not have this problem” is the obvious other retort used in their defense of Mexico’s innocence.  In turn, my first reply is something along these lines; “Ok.  It is common knowledge that the Mexican government has been in a constant state of flux since the revolution.  Almost 100 years and nothing has changed.  The same ruling government had been in power since shortly after the revolution, for over 80 years, up until Fox was elected, and currently Calderon”  Every single Mexican this has been asked to agrees in a split second.  When I ask if they think that for over 80 years the government working hand in hand with organized crime is far-fetched, they immediately dismiss it.  There is no way the people here or the government would have anything to do with the drug trade.  Yes, they all admit the government is corrupt.  Yes they openly admit the government and organized crime worked hand in hand, but they cannot draw the line to the current drug crisis. 

“People here don’t use drugs…at least not like they do in the States” is a common reply.  This may be true, but just less than a day ago we walked passed an old guy in the park, smoking a Cheech and Chong size doobie with no qualms whatsoever.  I suppose that the stories here of the rise in meth usage go unnoticed, and all the users of cocaine from the 80’s have vanished.  I also assume most Mexicans here are oblivious to the fabled grass grown in their own yard, ‘Acapulco Gold’.  I know that none want to acknowledge that over 70% of all Meth sold in the US is manufactured in Mexico.  I also know it is just too crazy and far fetched to think that with the overpowering size of the drug lords and their gangs here, no one decides to partake in a little bit of the goods at hand so readily available.

I like to play dumb and agree to all of this.  ‘Ignorance’ is the usual defense as to why any Mexican would get involved or do drugs of any sort.  Personally, I find it hard to believe that a bunch of stupid people have managed to get such a deep seeded trafficking network set up across the globe and managed to strike fear in the hearts of millions.  Most cases of smuggling involve a respectable amount of intelligence to be able to come up with the ingenious ways of concealing dope in cars and in boats…even submarines!  Nope, only stupid and unintelligent Mexicans get involved in drugs.

Acting the dumb gringo that I am, I throw my last card on the table.  I understand the concept of supply and demand.  I try not to address the economical aspect of expendable income for the average chump in the States compared to Mexico; because the idea of money to burn is foreign to most here, and therefore makes understanding the larger amount of drug usage possible impossible for them to comprehend.  This is strictly a gringo vs. Mexican problem.  I implore an obvious agreement of good versus bad, and that criminal behavior is bad in any sense.  I also get an agreement that drug usage is undesirable too.  Needless to say, we are in perfect compliance.  I reach up my sleeve, and fling my card on to the table for all to see; “So, which is better then, the addict or the people who smuggle and sell the dope to the other weak individuals?”  Before they can answer, I rephrase the question, “Are the users the problem, or the suppliers?  Is it better to buy drugs or to make money from drugs?”  They stare at me like I am crazy. “One guy loses his money while the other guy is making it…who is the better man?  Who is at fault?”  Of course I am way off track and I only make myself look more stupid by asking, “If we are the problem, why do you keep the supply flowing freely?”  They do not understand this point.  They do not understand that even though there is demand, it cannot continue if the supply is not there.  Yes, people here may traffic drugs, but not use them; that is uniquely an American problem.  The Cartel is bad, but it only exists because Americans wanna get high.  No one else in the world does drugs, and the concept of ceasing exploiting drugs would diminish the Cartels’ powers.  According to Mexican logic, the manufacturing of drugs and the smuggling of drugs is not near as bad as the usage of drugs.  This explains why no Mexicans are bad because they do not use drugs, only Americans do and they are bad.

No matter how deep or far the conversation goes; it always ends the same way.  People sitting at the table, some smoking, and shaking their heads side to side in disapproval. I can’t understand why it cannot be acknowledged that the Cartels are vital to the whole scenario and that the ‘pushers’ are the innocent ones.  They can’t understand why I do not agree that it is all down to the fact that people in America want to get high, and thus it is Mexico’s burden.

All I know is that in most cases the same rule always applies:  America = the problem.  God have mercy if you are white and American.

Saturday Night at Alphonso's (pt. 2)

There is plenty of fun to be had, but he went on at length about how central Tepoztlan is.  He told of how when boredom struck, he would go to Cuernavaca to see some friends and eat at “a pretty nice restaurant.  This place is semi-fun, but not really” he confides.  At other times he would drive to Mexico City, and also further out south into the mountains. “I love the quite life in the country, where you drive down the small roads and you have to stop because there are 30 cows in front of you” he laughs and makes like he his honking his horn. “I like it.  One time I was driving and had to stop because all of these cows were walking across the road.  I was in my Porsche.  I got tired of waiting and starting to honk the horn.  This one bull would not move.  I got angry and really started yelling at him.  He turned and smashed my car with his horns” he raises his eyebrows while nodding his head, “Perhaps it was because my car was red” and then he puts his hands up against his head and makes like he has horns.” When I got to where I was going, I got out to look at my car.  There were two holes in it where the bull hit my car” and laughs at the incident and shakes his head, ‘I swear to you. Two holes, one from each horn smashed into my car.  I could not believe it!” The longer the tales went on and the more Scotch he downed, his accent became heavier and words slurred.

 “What do you want?” he would ask. “Do you want to make money?  Open business?  You don’t make money in these places” he said sternly while shaking his head. “The rich people from Mexico City go straight from their door at home, straight to their door in these towns.  They do not go out.  You do not make money”  I did get an earful from Roberto regarding these two towns.  A few times he called Tonya over and would repeat himself, and repeat the same question again, “What do you want?  You want to make money?”

Berto wanted to smoke.  Tonya was flagging me to come stand with her by the window.  It was warm in this apartment.  It is on the eighth floor, and typical of Mexican homes, there is no A/C.  The coolest spot is in front of the window.  Both Berto and I get up and refill.  Me?  I get a glass of soda water and a small refill of tequila.  Berto fills up on Scotch and we both go to Tonya.  Berto is well sauced by now, and he reaches out for Tonya and gives her a big hug.  He kisses her and tells her how much he has missed her.  Alphonso and Mordo are part of the window gang too.  They all start reminiscing about something and Berto turns to me and apologizes, ‘I’m sorry, I am going to speak to her now in Spanish”  I acknowledge with a nod and tell him to speak his own language.  They all laugh and slap one another, smoke and drink.  I am enjoying the sight and the cool breeze coming in.  I hear a name ‘Jose-Luis’ and they all laugh and make ‘whooooo’ noises.  They are telling of their crazy disco days and how certain people liked their ‘snow’.  Mordo pipes in and says, “Whenever anyone started anything in the old days, it was Jose-Luis.  He was crazy.  He was always the guy to turn you on to whatever was new”, Alphonso stands beside him nodding.  He recalls his first trip to Europe, where Jose-Luis met him at the train station in Madrid with tickets to a concert that night and a huge block of hash. Alphonso says, “Here in Mexico you smoke grass, in Europe you smoke hash.  Neither of us knew how much to smoke.  I didn’t even know you were supposed to smoke it!” he admits. “Anyway, we smoked half of this huge block.  That was a mistake.  We were so out of it, we forgot where we were” and he laughs about the adventure, shaking his head in disbelief.  He holds his finger up and instructs, “You know, with hash you should only smoke about this much…but we did about this much” and points to half of his finger. “He is crazy” Alphonso says.

I have no idea who Jose-Luis is.  They sure do.  They continue to laugh about certain episodes and they are all red-faced from their laughing.  Berto leans to me and says, “You know, Jose-Luis was Tonya’s boyfriend…and he was very, very jealous.  He was trouble”  I have just learned something new.  Berto nudges me and switches to English.  He is recounting a party at which they were all at.  They all nodded in agreement to the particular incident. Berto looks at me and the n points out the window, “I could not believe it..” he says as he tells of this party.  For whatever reason, Jose-Luis was mad about something.  He excused himself and went outside to throw a fit.  “We were upstairs, looking at him from the window” Berto says.  “He was so mad; he walked over to my car.  I don’t think he realized it was mine.  He started kicking it, the side of the car.  He then kicked off the side mirrors.  He even jumped on the top and started screaming and jumping up and down.  We were shocked.  And then, when he finished jumping on the top of my car, and he had broken the mirrors, he then peed on it!” he looks at me at hits me in the arm.  “Can you believe it?  He makes pee pee on my car while I see him do it from above!  He is crazy!”  Alphonso and Mordo recall the incident with the same hilarity.  For some reason, Tonya is not laughing so much. Hmm, I wonder why.  Maybe she wasn’t present.

Alphonso quietly slips away and changes the music.  He has put on old disco tunes.  Supposedly, the Mexicans took the whole disco scene quite serious.  This gang in front of me was notorious about driving to Acapulco to a famed disco “the best in the country” and getting wrapped up in their synchronized disco moves.  As the disco pumps, they all set their glasses down and start doing their moves.  They smile, laugh and dance together.  A few random yells and whoops are heard.  Bodies move across the living room to display a hip swing or a thrust, and then back across the room to the other group of revelers in the kitchen.  Arms kept going up at their favorite points of the song.

The brief dance moment calls for a new round of smokes and refills.  As we are still standing at the window Berto looks at Tonya and me and confesses, “Hey.  I was in Houston a week or so ago”  We both ask why.  He asks Tonya if she remembers another mutual friend, Charlie.  She says, “Charlie…yeah, I remember Charlie.  Where is he now?”  Supposedly this Charlie is in Arizona, and has made a load in gold.  Charlie and Berto went to Houston to buy a generator for Berto’s place in the Yucatan.  It turns out that Berto wanted to come to the States to do the paperwork for the generator and see to it himself that it would be shipped ok into Mexico.  This meant that the pair had to go to Juarez.  Everyone knows that Juarez is not a place to be for any amount of time.  Strangely enough, Charlie didn’t seem too bothered by it but Berto did.  He says that Charlie acted like it was no big deal, and just another city.  They stayed in a good hotel and ate at a nice restaurant, but Berto was frightened to have to spend time in Juarez.  Charlie was driving a yellow Maserati.

“Who drives a yellow Maserati in Juarez?” Berto asks looking us all in the eyes. “Charlie is just driving around like he is in L.A. or something.  He has the windows down and smoking a cigar” he mimics Charlie and then starts shaking to show how he was feeling.  He sinks down as if he is actually trying to hide behind a car door, as he shakes his ashes fall to floor, “Charlie.  Roll the windows up man!”   He says Charlie just looks at him and laughs, “They have machine guns.  What good will rolling up your window do?  A rolled up window will not stop a machine gun” Charlie said laughing.  “He told me not to worry.  Narcos only kill Narcos.  They will not mess with Gringos.  If they get Gringos involved, it becomes too messy and complicated. Yes.  He tells me this while he drives around Juarez in his Maserati!”  He cannot believe how ridiculous the situation was, and neither could we.  Without a doubt, this got a good round of laughs from all of us in our group.

“Come on Tonya, do you remember this?” says Alphonso, as he grabs her and pulls her out to the middle of the floor to dance.  They smile and dance.  The drink and disco is definitely allowing Alphonso to ‘let his hair down’…not that he has enough to let down.  His ‘brighter’ side is definitely shining now the disco is on.  Tonya and Alphonso stand in his study and talk of the old dances and who was hot and who was not.  Alphonso’s mother is from New York City.  They have an apartment there, and he declares he is a city boy.  He recounts his time in New York during the late 70’s and early 80’s, going to some of the more famous disco havens.  Tonya keeps asking me if I know this song, or that one.  She is baffled that my disco knowledge is rather paltry.  “In 1978 I was listening to the Cars and you guys were listening to this.  That is where I missed out” I said.  Alphonso immediately chimes in, “I listened to The Cars too!  I like The Cars!”  Yes, I actually do remember hearing some Cars playing at some point tonight.  We move on to the kitchen to see what is up and get something to drink.  The kitchen people are well plastered by now.  The bags of chips emptied and so are a number of bottles.  For me, my tipple of choice has been soda water.  It is too warm for me to be boozing it up party style.  Juanita sees I am perplexed when I scour the counter and there is no more water. “What is wrong Tim?  What do you want?”  she asks.  She opens the fridge, claiming there is water in there.  “How about a cold beer?” she asks.  I oblige.

Alphonso reaches over me and grabs a handful of gourmet wine flavored chips, “I love these chips!” I agree.  They are quite yummy.

Party people are starting to leave.  It is almost 2, and those with families are making their way home.  I tell Tonya we should leave soon.  Alphonso has had enough of gay times, and puts on the Ramones.  As he tells people goodbye, he yells out to me, “I love this song!” and he is singing “The KKK Took My Baby Away”.  He saunters back to the kitchen, bobbing his head and eating more potato chips.  Berto has found me again in the kitchen. He is pretty far gone.  He starts in on me again, “Hey. What do you want?”  he laughs and then buddies up next to me.  He says he doesn’t want to tell me what to do; he is only trying to help. “You should try both of those places.  Rent a home there and see what you think.  It is like marrying a woman.  You have to date her first before you ask for marriage” he says laughing.  Someone calls him out on the marriage statement and he gets quiet.  Earlier in the night, before the wild stories, Roberto had told Tonya and me that he has a 9 month old daughter and he loves her madly.  He had quietly gotten married and had a kid.  Now, he breaks the news to those left at the party and they all cheer.  He grapples for his phone and pulls up some pictures of his wife and baby.  As the revelers look at his phone, he smiles and keeps saying, “Aren’t they beautiful.  I love my wife and I love my daughter”.  He is obviously touched by just the sight of them.

He had handed business cards to Tonya and me earlier too.  He has a hotel in the Yucatan.  He now insists that we come visit and see the place where he lives now.  He gives Tonya hugs and kisses and keeps saying how he missed her.  He looks at me and says how much he likes Tonya but reassures me that their 30 some odd year friendship has been only that, ‘friends’.  I smile.  “Tim.  You must come to my home.  This is the most beautiful beach in the world.  I promise you, when you see the water, you will pass out” and he makes like he is falling over.  He’s serious, and says that many tourists, especially Germans, when seeing the clarity of the water and the beach, they have fainted.  Tonya and the others confirm that this particular area is beautiful.  “You stay at my hotel, and I will not charge you.  I even lend you my jungle home…” he says. 

What started out as a rough night has actually panned out ok.  Standing in the shower facing the prospect of left-over meatballs I had no idea of the people I would meet and the stories I would hear.  It was worth it.  I did notice though, no one had touched the wine.  All the bottles of Scotch were emptied.  It was time to go.  It was now a little after 2:30 and Tonya asked Alphonso to call us a cab. We make a slow circle around the kitchen and say our farewells.  Alphonso says he will walk us out.  “You are going down with us?” I ask. “Oh no, I am only taking you to the door” he says.  I tell Alphonso another thanks for the evening.  It was fun.  He stands at the door and confesses, “Those that are still here…I am gonna have a hard time getting rid of.  It will probably go on all night”  I reply back, “I hope you have stuff for breakfast” to which Alphonso simply rolls his eyes and huffs.