Eccentric Defined

The main church is Cuernavaca is ancient. I know that most churches in Mexico are. But this thing is o-l-d. Latched onto the side of it is an eccentric home once owned and lived in by an American -- Robert Brady.

An Iowan with a flair for art (though his own was less than stellar), Brady became an eccentric art collector while living in Cuernavaca. His house stands as he left it when he died, which is chockablock with more than 1,300 pieces of art, colonial furniture, and statuaries.

The house included originals the likes of Frida Kahlo, Rufino Tamayo or Miguel Covarrubias. In spite of the myriad art pieces, I think it was tastefully done. The piece that struck me most, though, was this:

It is an old Maori canoe bailer. Fancy! Makes our 5-gallon white plastic buckets for bailing rafts appear boring and cheap.

The Bad News Is: I'm a Grandmother

Diane and I were sitting in the downtown square in Cuernavaca. Like in most, if not all, places in Mexico, the downtown square is the place to hang out. Mexican families are social animals, preferring to hang out in the Zocalo to being home and isolated. Even on weeknights the squares are vibrant, crowded and full of vendors.

While sitting there, a small child, probably 5 years old, approached me. She was selling small beaded bracelets. Ever the salesperson, she walked up to me with gusto. When asked what I wanted to buy, I told her nothing, but thanked her kindly. She refused to go. C'mon, she was telling me, look at the bracelets. I told her they were pretty. But again, no thanks. She persisted. She took a couple of the bracelets and laid them across my leg. Look, she said. Wouldn't I buy one? Again -- no, but thanks. She then tried to put one on my wrist. It didn't fit. At that point, I must have aged significantly.

She really tried to sell them hard. Then she said it: C'mon. I should buy some for my grandchildren, she said.

Diane choked on her corn. The two true grandmothers sharing the bench with us stifled their laughter. The small child persisted, not once thinking about her statements.

In a matter of minutes I aged 20 years and miraculously become not only a mother, but a grandmother. This kind of childbirth is painful -- phsyically. I've yet to figure out what it's done to my ego.

BTW, Cuernavaca bills itself as the "City of Eternal Spring." But damn it if it wasn't hotter than your Mom while we were there!

I Am Not Dead. Mostly

OK, OK. I see your e-mails and your comments about the lack of posting. Internet is spotty in Mexico, and time is precious.

Mostly, though, I'm sicker than a dog (or insert your favorite metaphor here). When I can sit upright again, go for more than a few minutes without a drop-to-my-knees coughing fit, and do not ruin my keyboard with post-nasal drip, I will have more -- much more -- to write. More and really good posts are imminent. I promise.

Meseta Purepecha

The day after the spectacular incident on the cattle guard, Francisco decided our mountain ride was going to be too much. Good thing. Once I saw some of the cobbled streets in tiny towns that we would have ridden through, I figured the cleats on my bike shoes would have been ground flat. Steep streets! I thought my driveway at home was bad.

Instead of riding, we hopped in the car and used Francisco as our tour guide. Being a local, he knows about the hidden places and artistic gems that aren’t overt. Essentially we did a circle around the Meseta Purepecha. Purepecha’s are indigenous people here in Mexico. Most don’t speak Spanish; rather, they speak Tarasco. Their homes are tiny shanty towns surrounded by jewels of colonial architecture.

On our quick mid-day tour, we wended our way through the forested mountains and valleys. Few of the roads we drove on even existed before three or four years ago. The towns of Ocumicho, Cocucho and Patamban were geographically inaccessible. The landscape harbored indigenous people years before the Spaniards arrived in the 16th Century. The Purepechas relied on – then and now—natural resources and lumbering for their survival. As rural and removed from industrial development as they are, though, the have always practiced lumbering in a way that doesn’t impair the ecological balance. Makes you wonder about the usefulness of the U.S. Forest Service. The Purepecha don’t rely on inches-thick government reports that mandate the how’s, why’s and when’s of cutting timber in order to preserve the land and economy.

When we rolled into Cocucho, we had to pull off the side of the road to allow a goat drive to proceed. I stepped out of the car to take a photograph of the drive. In front of the goats were a few kids around 10 years old. One was on a bicycle. I snapped the photo and he instantly became angry. His gestures, tone of voice and facial expression was full of disgust and anger. I don’t know what he said to me, because he wasn’t speaking Spanish. But the glare and apparent resentment hit me hard. Curiously, the older residents didn’t mind being photographed – if you kindly asked first – but the children were annoyed and uncooperative. Fair enough. Let the outside world come into your rural existence probably feels voyeuristic and exploitative.

Interim Update

Yes, yes, I know. The posts are coming slowly. I'm trying to find time and an internet connection in various places to hunker down and write.

On to Lake Patzcuaro and Morelia, where I'll spend three days and hopefully find time to write and seek an internet connection.

Until then...

Enjoy some photos of Ajijic and Guadalajara.

More-a Zamora

Zamora is world-famous for strawberries. And for good reason. They are sweet, fresh, tart and perfectly delicious. Avocados are coming into season. I can pick up 4 for 10 pesos (roughly 10 cents) in the market. Combine the aguacates and fresas with balsamic vinegar (if I can find it), along with fresh lettuce, and I am often perfectly content. Add to this the fact that mangoes are now in season – and very cheap – and life on the dole seems pretty damn good.

Zamora is a small city of about 200,000. Word is that there is a lot of drug money here. It may well be. Sometimes you see dirty kids selling whatever they found in their houses that morning. Moments later you see a teen-age boy bouncing around town in his white Hummer 2 with a carload of teens dressed in school uniforms. It’s hard to tell where money comes from in this small city. It’s typical Mexico – everyone is a business owner.

One of Zamora’s attractions is the Catedral Inconclusa. Translated: unfinished cathedral. I thought the Mormons took forever to build their temple in Salt Lake City. But they’ve got nothing on the Zamorans. They’ve been building the cathedral since the 1700s. Of course, there was a period of 50 years or so where construction stopped. But hey, what’s 50 years in a centuries-long process? Much of the exterior is complete. It’s the top of the church that’s incomplete. Apparently, the church was roofless for decades. Today you can see the bell intended for the belfry parked in front of the church, as well as the skeleton of two steeples still waiting to be perched atop the ornate building. The interior is complete, excepting an organ. The vitrales (stained-glass windows) are breathtaking. It’s an impressive cathedral, for sure.

The Good News Is: I'm Not a Cow

Before I even got to Mexico, word was out that a cyclist from Colorado was visiting Zamora. I was surprised to learn that Zamora is a big cycling community -- for those who are serious. People here road ride or mountain bike. So I immediately worked something out to ride with my local guide (and school jefe) -- Francisco.

I was a bit hesitant to ride with Francisco (it's not riding season in Colorado, so I wasn't in riding shape) and he was nervous to ride with me (simply because I'm from Durango). We worked out our nerves and made a plan. I told him I preferred road riding, especially once I saw the soil in Michoacan. Sheesh, he might as well asked me to ride a heavy mountain bike down the sandy beach of San Diego. And thought would have promptly worn me out within a mile. The loamy soil here is good for strawberries; it's not so good for cranking your butt up a mountain on knobby tires.

Since this is Mexico, I didn't expect to be riding the best bike in town. I thought I'd have something equivalent to my bike at home. For better or for worse, I was wrong. When Franscisco opened his door, there sat a shiny and beautiful bike that was twice as nice as my own. I salivated and couldn't believe I was in a poor country riding something nicer.

Francisco and I headed out for what he said would be about an hour ride -- and in preparation for Wednesday morning's 55-mile ride up a mountain. Unfortunately, the Mexicans ride during siesta, which for me means just past high noon. I am not accustomed to this heat. It's not humid, but there's something about the Mexican sun that beats me down.

Long story short(er): We started our ride at the hottest time of the day. And we ended up riding for 2 1/2 hours, rolling along the backroads of Zamora. The asphalt and cement nearly sucked me up. But the views were magnificent. We got up high enough on a benched road to see a panoramic view of the strawberry fields. The smell was nearly the only thing that kept me upright on the bike.
We rolled into one very small town that was so poor that I think it defines "abject poverty." In all seriousness, I do believe the bike I was riding is worth more than what a person living there makes in his or her lifetime. It was jarring. I felt greedy. I felt ugly. Perspective.

On our way into this small town, we climbed a rather steep but short hill. I was in my lowest gear and saw a cattle guard at the top of the hill. Already overheated and ready to wretch, I thought the best decision was to stop at the guard and walk the bike across, lest I not have the necessary speed to ride across it straight and keep from taco-ing the beautiful black steed.

So I did.

Or didn't. Depending on how you look at it.

With shaky legs and poor judgement, I made it 3/4 of the way across the guard and then tripped. My leg twisted and jutted into the abyss below the slats. My elbow broke my fall, with the bike flipping in the air and landing on top of me.

And there I laid, bike on top of me and my leg stuck between the slats of a cattle guard. Then the horror set in. One of the brake hoods on the bike was twisted entirely inside. A big scuff marked the top tube of the bike. And the seat had its own style of road rash.

Never mind my snagged shorts, bleeding elbow with gravel embedded in it, and the indention in my stomach from the handlebars. I was horrified to see the bike. It wasn't mine, and I didn't have room in my suitcase to be buying and taking back to the US a new bike (well, not really, but...).

I survived riding among Mexican drivers, but a cattle guard got me in the end. It was a long, very hot ride in the middle of the afternoon -- something I'd never do at home. Dehydrated and getting chills, my patience thin and the fun dwindling quickly, I wasn't much of a trooper in the end. So I hope that the driver of the minivan who pulled in front of me (literally inches) forgives me for not acting like a lady and using the gestures and adjectives fit only for a sailor.

I am not posting pictures here of the war wounds. Suffice it to say that the gravel is now all picked out of my arm and elbow, but is healing quite well with multiple doses of calendula cream. And the massive, ugly bruise on my panzita (well, there's nothing really "-ita" about my "panza" these days) hurts like hell. Memories of Mexico.

Michoacan, Mexico

Mexico's state of Michoacan deserves to be boastful. Though brown and dry this time of year, its surrounding mountains are as foreboding as the San Juans. Zamora, where I arrived Sunday night, is a small city of about 200,000. Zamora is known (to a relatively small number of people) for its strawberries (fresa) and chongos (a sweet milky dessert).

Nestled at the base of nearly denuded mountains, it's typical Mexico -- without the tourists. You see very few (and I mean very) non-Mexicans here. Zamora isn't a place where the majority of people would know about or set out to tour. So in that way, it provides a great Mexican experience. Don't judge the local residents by their driving. Though they are aggressive and perilous drivers, they are friendly and hospitable.

Most noticeable about Zamora is the integration between the classes of people. Actually, much of Mexico is the same way. In the US, the poor are often segregated from the wealthy, here everyone lives among the varying classes. A ramshackle house with the proverbial rooster on top and a rusty but necessary bicycle leaning outside the door abutts a well-kept brick home decorated with ornate iron gates and modern windows, with Volvos and Hummers parked in front.

Perhaps the best thing about this place: great food for cheap. We just got back from dinner, which we had at a "restaurant" (one table in the street in front of the people's home), where I ate two tacos, one enchilada and one sope. The price? A mere 90 cents. And it was one of the best meals I've had since arriving here. Viva Mexico!

Tlaquepaque, Jalisco, Mexico

Sunday, April 2, 2006

Just a quick 15-minute bus ride out of Guadalajara is Tlaquepaque. It's a smaller town adjacent to the big city, even though its population grew out of peoples' desire to escape the congestion and busy pace of Guadalajara. Most built their summer or weekend getaway homes in Tlaquepaque. Hmm... sounds a lot like home.

But over the years the town has naturally become an extension of Guadalajara. Its appeal for most today is the art. Avenida Independencia is the main drag, where many of the older homes are now the sites of shops with a variety of arts and crafts. Many shops sell arts and other items from other Mexican towns, like Taxco, Oaxaca, Nayarit and Guanajuato. I might add that a corner store had some of the best shit-kickers I have ever seen -- true "kill-ants-in-the-corner" style of cowboy boots.

While it's great to have a one-stop shopping place for exceptional and authentic wares, I'd rather go to the places themselves. And I'd rather be in a place with far fewer tourists and, well, Americans. (Requisite tongue-in-cheek disclaimer for the lone Republican visitor to the site: No offense inteded. I do not hate America... etc., etc.)

The Arrival and a Good Sense of Humor

Before I even legally arrived in Guadalajara on Saturday, April 1, I encounted my first ugly American.

The line for getting through customs at the Guadalajara Airport was long and slow-moving. Three flights arrived at once and only two people were on duty to check passports. An older American gentleman in front of me in the line was apoplectic. Some 30 minutes into our wait, he announced loudly that he figured out why the line was so long and that the airport had only two people working. It was, he said, a game of tit for tat. "The Mexicans are getting us back," he proclaimed.

Had he not been dead-serious, I may have chatted with him about the obvious differences between the way things work in other countries. But I knew it would have been a frustrating conversation at best. So I laughed softly each time he yelled: "This is tit for tat."

Once through the line, I grabbed my baggage and headed to the infamous buzzer -- essentially, for those who haven't had the pleasure -- the same as random security screening in the US. You press the button on a contraption very much like a traffic signal. Green means go; red means stop and let us search your luggage.

Yes, I got red. Which wouldn't be so bad if it weren't true that the last two times I have traveled in the US (within the last two months, I add), I got the dreaded mark for being specially screened by the TSA. So when it happened in Mexico -- after feeling I had already acquired enough good screening karma -- I did the only thing you can do when traveling in Mexico:

Have a sense of humor.