Overcast and rain and gloom: Will it ever end?

Expatriates living in San Miguel de Allende are a tender lot. We're sunshine babies. When the climate gets too tough for us, there's only one rational thing to do.

We head for the beach.

Paul (El Guapo) invited me to accompany him for a few days at a friend's beach house near Manzanillo. Ah, a few days of lying on the beach, swimming in warm waters, reading a good novel: just what I needed to beat the rainy day blues.

Of course, I never do any of that stuff. Promise of idyllic days under swaying palms isn't enough to get me to make the trip. But Paul told me that nearby we could visit the Salt Museum of Cuyutlán. No way I could refuse that.

That Paul. He really knows how to hook me.

We set out to find the place. In the car I told Paul I had forgotten to bring my laptop with downloaded directions for getting there. Paul said, "Don't worry about it. I know right where it is."

I know better than to accept such assurances, but I didn't want to drive back to the house. So I yielded to sloth over sensibility and placed my trust in Paul's legendary navigation skills.

Soon we were driving south, following the eastern shore of the Cuyutlán Lagoon, a shallow salt lake many miles in length.

A tiny settlement of shacks roofed with palm thatch caught my eye. I yelled "Paul!" (Paul was driving. Note to self: avoid riding with drivers who exhibit signs of advanced ADD.) "Paul! Stop! Right here!"

Paul rolled his eyes as he does when I use my imperious tone, and pulled to the side of the road.

We had stumbled across a salt-works. A gang of men have removed a black plastic tarp from a large heap of sea salt. They are shoveling it into the lower end of a motor-driven screw, filling large bags from the stream of now clump-free salt issuing from the upper end.

Backbreaking work, this. The temperature is around 100º and the humidity is near 100%. Small but tough men haul filled bags away, to be sealed closed and loaded onto a truck headed for Aguascalientes, whose epicurean residents provide demand for hand-harvested sea salt. This is the world-famous Sal Coronita (Coronet brand salt).

Salt is produced from the brackish waters of Cuyutlán Lagoon in crude evaporation pans, using methods virtually unchanged since the Sixteenth Century, when it was used in the refining of silver ore. The colonial owners of salt works made great fortunes rivaling those of the silver magnates, since they did not have to share a portion of their output with the Spanish Crown.

At the end of the dry season, all that remains in the evaporation pans is crystalline salt. Then rains come, refilling the pans. Salt crystals rise to the surface. Men use boards affixed to poles (more recently, they use plastic brushes) to scrape up the floating salt that they then carry over to large, tarpaulin-covered piles to await shipment.

For their hard labor, the salineros (salt workers) earn $1,000 pesos ($100 U. S.) per week, a good wage in these parts.

Some of the salineros live in the nearby pueblo of San Buenaventura with their wives and children, traveling to the salt works by bus, pickup truck, or by riding their bicycles along the shoulderless highway.

Some live part-time in tumble-down dormitories, sleeping in hammocks, cooking their meals over open fires.

The image below depicts in toto the sanitary facilities for some twenty men. No door, no roof.

A glimpse through the window of a dormitory room reveals laundry hanging to dry. No matter how humble their lodgings, people in this country are fastidious about personal cleanliness.

Roadside stand operators sell small bags of hand-harvested sea salt—here Sal Espuma de Mar; a name that might be translated "Spindrift Salt." Twenty-five pesos for a one-kilogram a bag.

It's good stuff. I sprinkled some of the coarse salt on my lunch today.

I went to the effort to photograph the small bags, but I didn't think to buy any until I got back to the beach house. Looks like Paul isn't the only one around here whose wits are not always with him.

Oh—and the Salt Museum? We never did find it.

Everyone knows better than to accept the stereotype of Mexico as cactusy desert--even if a nopal figures prominently on the flag. Even so, the profusion of wildflowers surprises me every year as the end of rainy season approaches.

Clouds darken our skies this morning. Fog curls around the Parroquoia. Expatriates complain. They say we might as well be living in England. Or the Pacific Northwest.

This season has been particularly wet. But look at what all that rain has done for us.

I've said it before. Scenes like this could be right out of Arizona Highways magazine. Except the photography would be better.

Blooms like this demand walking in the campo, camera in hand.

Flowers line pathways in El Charco del Ingenio as if they had been planted by an English cottage gardener. But Nature does the gardening here.

Wildflowers often appear small and insignificant. Not here, where they grow in great swathes.

Scores of varieties find niches. In last year's post on this subject, I identified some. But this year we have too many flowers, too little time. If you really want to know what these are, you can take the link above to find a great reference that will probably identify every flower presented here.

What variety! Sometimes, the eye is drawn to sweeping fields of blossoms; other times, to a few mixed blooms that form pleasing juxtapositions of colors.

Cultivars lack the charm of natural flowers, in my opinion. Tiny blossoms (and some not so tiny) exhibit a delicacy absent in the showy offerings of breeders.

I'm always on the lookout for new types. Perhaps a reader can identify this unusual bloom, found in waste land at the edge of town.

Sunflowers are the stars of the countryside. Sometimes they cover solid acres.

For my money, though, nothing beats a field of mirasols (cosmos). I don't know if they always grew here naturally or if they escaped from cultivation. But they are very much part of the Mexican landscape today.

A couple of years ago, I posted a picture of a big black cow chewing her cud in a field of mirasols. Last year, my model was Rosita, my Boston Terrier. This year I placed Paul (El Guapo) in a field, but I carefully controlled the depth of field so readers wouldn't have to endure the full impact of the contrast between the delicacy of the pink petals and... well... Paul.

A crowd had gathered behind the statue of Bishop Quiroga in the Plaza Grande of Pátzcuaro. From there, music of an enthusiastic, if poorly-tuned ensemble enlivened a gray day. The tunes were accompanied by an infernal clacking.

I hurried over. By the time I got there, the show was over. I had (almost) gotten to witness the dance of the Veijecitos (little old men), a centuries-old tradition. Wearing colorful costumes, hats festooned with ribbons, ancient men dance on a sounding board, their wooden sandals and canes banging out rhythms and pretty much drowning out the musicians.

I caught this man's final flourish just as the performance ended, appreciative tourists applauding.

Ta-DAA!

The dancers patiently posed for turisty photo ops, leaning on their canes, their masks frozen in toothless smiles.

Glancing to my right, I saw a few performers taking a break. Why, they weren't old men at all! I felt a little cheated as I watched teenagers in veijecito garb tossing a frisbee. Later I learned younger people had always been dancers: it's too strenuous for genuine elders.

A young woman selling balloons was unimpressed with the goings-on. She clearly had seen it all hundreds of times. What delighted the visitors went right on by her, as she dreamed on about tonight's date. Or whatever.

The whole affair impressed me as somewhat Disneyesque. Whatever the original dance once might have been was today transformed into tourist attraction.

I was killing time, waiting for Clint to do some business. The Veijecitos provided an hour's welcome diversion.

From the online brochure of the Centro Cultural de Lenguas in Morelia: "Capula is a mestizo community [near] Morelia [that] preserves strong Purépecha traditions such as the production of clay objects."

Prominent among those clay objects are Catrinas, those grinning high-society ladies that have become symbolic of Mexican people's engagement with death and the dead. Capula potters advertise their Catrinas by painting images of her on old buildings and empty telephone wire spools. You see them along the Quiroga-Morelia highway running through the center of town.

La Catrina is a satyrical creation of José Guadalupe Posada, arguably the world's first political cartoonist. His dancing skeletons have provided the inspiration for millions of folk art objects. I believe he was more influential in early 20th-Century Mexican iconography than luminaries such as Diego Rivera.

We stopped in Capula to visit artists Alvaro and Miguel de la Cruz. Their studio is in the building on the right-hand side of this rutted dirt road.

I'm impressed that such exquisite art can be produced in these humble pueblos.

The de la Cruzes sell their work in Patzcuaro galleries, keeping only a sampling in their studio. Here, two Catrinas (with überstylish hats) are joined by other figures, some yet to be painted.

I love their bony décolletage.

The senior de la Cruz, Alvaro, is taciturn, focused entirely on his work. His workbench consists of a glued-up slab of indestructible mesquite supported by loose stacks of tabicón (cinder blocks). Unmortared brickwork flooring rests on raw dirt.

Eight unfired Catrinas await heads and hats. Alvaro forms some by hand, cutting details with small knives and wire loops. He makes others in clay molds that he fashioned himself.

A homemade kiln hardens clay objects. The access port is closed by stacking firebrick in the opening. Mesquite finds yet another use in this studio, as hot-burning fuel.

The son, Miguel, created this boating couple: dowdy señora seated passively on the transom, mustachioed pescador, rakish in his blue sash, bringing the catch to market.

Miguel's trademark, and his gift, is miniaturization. Each of these fish was individually formed, fired, painted and fired again. None is more than a half inch long.

More of Miguel's miniatures, this time clay flowers, adorn ceramic skulls. These pieces are only a few inches high.

Miguel has a remarkable talent. Alvaro, like all fathers of teenagers, hopes his son will settle down and dedicate himself to his craft. Maybe he will, maybe not. These days Miguel usually starts a piece and lets it sit for months before finishing it. He's brilliant and creative but not yet perseverant.

The artists, father and son, are not getting rich. The prognosis isn't good either. Again, from the Centro Cultural de Lenguas brochure: "Morelia’s urban growth has prevented the artisans from getting the raw material from free sources, and obviously, this has also affected product sales. Intermediaries represent another problem. Migration to the U.S. offers young people a better opportunity, but family relationships, the community concept and the preservation of traditions are affected."

A way of life is threatened. Artisanship in Mexico is declining. Time for me to get out there and see it while it's still there. And to support it through direct buying from artisans, in the hopes of staving off the inevitable.

You are looking at the premises of Santa Fe Saddlers S.A. de C.V. in Guadalajara. That door next to the row of windows is the visitors' entrance. Actually, it's the only entrance.

No sign identifies this business. You just have to know it's here.

The three-phase transformer and circuit breakers lend a gritty look. A huge fan serves as air conditioning. The façade doesn't look particularly inviting.

Nor does the lobby—industrial chic: fiberboard receptionist's desk bearing an old-fashioned monitor, cpu on the floor. Looks like my office. Except for the crucifix next to the fire extinguisher. Fire extinguisher!

A window behind her desk admits a glimpse of Javier Delgadillo Alvarado, Gerente (manager).

I'm tagging along with Clint, who is contracting with Sr. Delgadillo for the manufacture of leather bands used on western hats. Clint seems to have an unending list of items for trade. I'm guessing he struck up a conversation with a supplier of western gear on his last trip to Texas and found a niche he could fill: high-quality handmade leather hatbands at low prices. These would be a new line for him—he's always experimenting. But he has an uncanny knack for knowing what will sell.

In the conference room, Sr. Delgadillo has a wide variety of hatbands to show Clint. They interest me for about fourteen seconds. Then I sneak off into the back to check out the factory.

Now this is more like it. I hate conference rooms. I spent 35 years in them watching harried managers blowing out their antiperspirants and dampening the armpits of their white shirts. We used to call the phenomenon "pitting out."

But factories! I have been fascinated by them ever since my seventh-grade science teacher, Miss McManus, took me to a copper smelter.

Santa Fe Saddlers has a great factory. Unadorned concrete floors beneath, chain-hung fluorescent lighting fixtures above, grimy machines in between. My kind of place.

I immediately see that Sr. Delgadillo is one of a new breed of Mexican manufacturers. Floors are painted with yellow and black striping to warn away passers-by from work areas so hands won't get stabbed with sharp tools or sleeves caught in spinning pulleys. And wonder of wonders, another fire extinguisher hangs on the wall to the right. I checked the gauge: the charge is full and the date is current. These are the first overt signs of industrial safety I've seen in Mexico.

A worker punches holes, another sprays dye on leather bracelets under a vent hood.

Ascending a perforated steel catwalk, I line up a shot of people assembling leather wastebaskets. My presence provokes laughter. "What's that crazy gringo doing, taking our picture?"

The panels of these leather wastebaskets and laundry hampers are being sewn together with thongs—part of a large order for a new hotel in Cabo San Lucas. Sr. Delgadillo says this order is unusual because almost 100% of his output gets exported to the United States.

Shelves hold remaindered material...

... hanks of horsehair...

... and scraps.

The latter will be ground up to make "corkboard."

Negotiations successfully completed, Sr. Delgadillo offers Clint a gift of a beautiful handmade belt.

If you call, the receptionist answers the phone in polished syllables: "Buenos Dias, Santa Fe Saddlers." One imagines her sitting at a granite desk in a glass and steel high rise.

Reality is this scene of the executive suite. Sr. Delgadillo runs his empire from a small table flanked by a rolling cart bearing a printer and a fax machine.

Santa Fe Saddlers is an honest business run by a no-nonsense guy. He doesn't worry about images. There's no talk of branding. Sr. Delgadillo probably doesn't use "leverage" and "dialog" as verbs. He doesn't have an MBA.

What he does—he makes artisanal leather items. He hires craftsmen, types his own correspondence, and fixes broken punch presses. If you are a potential customer, he'll drive over to your hotel and pick you up. Personally.

He's also the complaint department. You got a problem with your briefcase? Talk to Mr. Delgadillo. He'll come to the phone if you ask for him. If something is wrong, he'll make it right.

It's a business model increasingly scarce north of the border.

Tonalá, that great center of artisanship! Clint and I visited Tonalá to call on potter Salvador Vásquez (see previous post) and to buy some hand-blown bullseye glass—that oldest type of windowpane. I had hoped to photograph the glass blowers in action, but they had gone home for the day. Clint's transaction consisted primarily of delays: Issuing facturas (official receipts for income tax purposes) and counting change can take ever so long. I became bored and walked out of the glass factory, wandering down the street, coming across this...

... some of the most garish furniture I have ever seen. I was so shocked that I walked past it twice before I thought to photograph it—to share with all of you. You're welcome.

I couldn't imagine anyone putting stuff like this in an actual home. It looked uncomfortable, impractical, and exquisitely ugly.

Here, an orange vinyl end table flanks a red divan shaped like a pair of female lips. Lips!

When I got home, I looked these photos over, wondering how it is I can't comprehend tastes so different from my own. Suddenly an image flashed into my mind—of an ultramodern, hip apartment full of playful furniture and art: Spirals painted on the walls, 3" shag carpets, ameba-shaped glass coffee tables. I could see how this stuff might work.

I'm a Brooks Brothers kind of guy. Living in Mexico has been widening my range of tastes.

Once I called on Yahoo, Inc. during its early days. In the lobby they had placed yellow and violet upholstered wing chairs built so large that sitting in them made one fell like a five-year old. Playful. Perhaps I could accept this vinyl furniture as playful.

Yeah. I can see that.

I peered inside the furniture store. The first thing I saw was a painting of mama and baby giraffes.

An original painting rendered with a certain skill and little substance, I couldn't wrap my mind around what kind of decor it might enhance. A Motel 6 lobby, maybe.

The proprietor came running over, telling me to stop photographing his furniture.

"Why not?"

"Because you'll steal my designs."

With effort, I am able to comprehend—somewhat dimly, perhaps—the esthetics of the vinyl furniture. A big step for me. Tastes that aren't congruent with mine should be valid; a tough concept for an engineer who thinks in terms of right and wrong. The giraffes, though—not them, not ever.

Mexico throws challenges at me. Today I'm in my late sixties, and I feel like I'm just now getting a glimpse of life's real lessons—like the spirituality of vinyl.

Fomento Cultural Banamex is a nonprofit organization devoted to preserving and promoting Mexico's cultural heritage. It has played a part in the preservation and renovation of important historical buildings in, among other places, San Miguel de Allende.

The foundation has published a number of elgant coffee-table books all of which are worth reading and if you can afford them, owning. Perhaps the best known of the Banamex books is Great Masters of Mexican Folk Art. Sadly, it is out of print, but you can find copies on the used book market. Be prepared to spend something north of $200 for a volume in good condition. If you're interested in collecting Mexican folk art, you'll gladly pony up the money: It's the bible. You can't manage without it.

The very best artists and artisans are profiled in this book. Hundreds of exquisite photographs give an idea of their work. Perhaps those honored here don't quite rise to the level of those individuals honored as Japanese Living Treasures. Perhaps they do. These people are most accomplished and talented, and there are none better in Mexico. And most of them are still alive and working.

We who live here are privileged in that we can meet these masters simply by finding out where they live and work, and going there. On last week's trip, I met Salvador Vásquez Carmona, a potter living in the Guadalajara suburb of Tonalá. Here is the portrait photograph of Sr. Vásquez in the Banamex book, taken ten years ago when he was about 60.

And here he is today in his studio alongside Clint (who cannot abide being in the vicinity of an active camera without posing).

Sr. Vásquez is holding a blue pottery dog covered with smiling new moons. Clint is negotiating purchase of the piece. Prices of this work are surprisingly low. An object like this one, made by a Japanese master, would sell for 100 times as much.

Below are some pieces representative of Sr. Vásquez' work. Today's collection seems to feature cats, a favorite motif.

Sr. Vásquez' son Salvador Jr. shares his father's love of the art. Here he is removing pieces from a mesquite-fired kiln.

Looking into the interior of the kiln, we see two recently-fired pieces along with a thick layer of broken pottery, placed there to raise the level of finished work to within easy reach. That Sr. Vásquez achieves such fine results with equipment so crude seems astonishing.

Northern California potters I have known use thermostat-controlled gas-fired kilns capable of maintaining reducing atmospheres or other special conditions. They have motor-driven potting wheels. They buy clay and glazes from specialized suppliers. Sr. Vásquez digs up his own clay out of a riverbank, and makes his own paints from natural vegetable and mineral sources. He grabs a glob of clay, mashes it until it's the right shape, fires it, paints it and fires it again. Potting wheels are for wusses.

I don't think you can call the paints Sr. Vásquez uses glazes. Pieces acquire a matte finish after the second firing, as illustrated by this vase.

To achieve a shiny surface, he burnishes each piece with a chunk of iron pyrite, as he is demonstrating below. He's embedded the fool's gold crystal in a piece of clay to form a handle for his tool.

The result is a muted shine, less glassy than that produced by glazes.

The plate above depicts La Llorona (the crying woman), a mythical figure who searches the world for her lost sons, making spooky crying sounds all the while. It's a scary tale told to children to make them behave. Or to provide a ghost story thrill.

In the studio, mussy tables and shelves hold work in various stages of completion. A group of unpainted vases are carelessly piled up against a finished urn worth thousands of dollars. The artist doesn't care. If it breaks, he'll just make another.

Sr. Vásquez insisted I come into his house to see his "diplomas." He has lots of them. He is known globally, and has pieces in museums and important private collections.

Unaccountably, he manages to show great pride in his accomplishments, and simultaneously, the deep humility of a man whose life is his art. His home is modest: he's uninterested in the material things his notoriety could buy him. His house is open to any visitor who wants to drop by to see great art in the making, or to simply sit in conversation with an interesting old man.

Mercado de Abastos is one of the large covered buildings crowded with small shopkeepers in Guadalajara, a smaller cousin of the Mercado Libertad. I love these places—bustling, chaotic, friendly and often exotic. I'm here with Clint and our hostess Moni for breakfast.

You can't order a grand slam breakfast in a place like this. Or yogurt and fruit. People here work too hard to survive on such light fare. They know that breakfast should consist of meat and something made out of cornmeal. Anything less is simply inadequate.

The reason for my visit is to try a dish that is new to me: enfrijoladas. My order starts out with slices of ropy-looking beef. The meat is broiled over a charcoal fire until nicely browned and infused with a wonderful smoky flavor.

The cook chops and rolls the meat into a large, freshly-made corn tortilla. You can see the uncooked beef stacked in front of her chopping block.

The rolled tortilla is bathed (bañado as Mexicans say) in a sauce made of beans. Sounds unexciting, doesn't it. That's what I thought before I tucked in.

Usually when I wrinkle my nose at some Mexican dish, I turn out to be wrong. Enfrijoladas turned out to be one of the tastiest meals I have eaten. Better yet, they'll last you until dinnertime. This is substantial food.

Regulars at this stand who have tired of grilled beef enfrijoladas can opt for other fillings; say, beef tongue or tripe.

I'll stick with the grilled beef, thank you.

Food concessions in mercados consist mostly of kitchens with narrow counters and stools jammed next to each other. They're not the French Laundry by any means, but in my opinion, they're much more fun, and cost approximately 97% less than exclusive Napa Valley restaurants.

Photo: CLint Hough

Mercado food used to frighten me. But I've never had any trouble with it. I've contracted food poisoning and other ailments any number of times in classier, sit-down restaurants in San Miguel de Allende, but never at one of these lunch counters.

Tlaquepaque was once a small town situated southwest of Guadalajara. Today it has been absorbed into the larger city's sprawl, just as Santa Monica has been engulfed ameba-like into Los Angeles. It's a favorite destination of Credit Card Bearing Gringas bent on buying folk art and antiques. It is also of interest to my friend Clint, who scours Tlaquepaque's galleries and workshops for stuff to export to the USA. I accompanied Clint on one of his trips there.

Our headquarters was the Hotel Casa Campos, a small, warm, and friendly hotel owned by Monica Kabande, seen here walking past the hotel restaurant with Clint. Moni served as our friend and guide during our visit.

A courtyard inside the hotel serves as habitat for a dozen marmosets; perfectly tame creatures, delightful to watch as they scamper on the philodendrons. They like it when you feed them marshmallows.

The hotel is set in a quiet part of town. On a nearby street you'll find a tile replica of Diego Rivera's mural A Dream of a Sunday Afternoon in Alameda Park.

Parking is permitted in front of the tile mural, and a tree has been planted there as well. Apparently the directors of civic art and of streets and sidewalks don't speak to each other.

A kiosk on Tlaquepaque's plaza advertises Systema Apartado. In response to my question, I was told the term refers to a lay-away plan. You put a little money down for something you want to buy, and make additional payments from time to time. When the shopkeeper has collected the full price from you, he gives you the merchandise. Seems cumbersome to me: I doubt anything in the kiosk—cheap sunglasses, pink plastic purses—is priced at more than US $10.

Sitting on benches, we ate lomo and salchichon tostadas from a cart on the plaza. Across from us, a little girl in an avocado dress enjoyed her ice cream. The plaza is a relaxed and safe place.

Tlaquepaque is a quiet sanctuary amid the bustle of Guadalajara. Hotel Casa Campos is the perfect retreat after a day of art and antique shopping.

The large and energetic Kabande family and their friends welcome travelers enthusiastically. Stay here, and you immediately have a circle of good friends. Reasonably priced, with comfortable common rooms and an excellent breakfast of yogurt, fruit, fresh-squeezed orange juice and coffee included, Hotel Casa Campos has become my favorite Guadalajara-area hotel, in my favorite part of town.

Note to beleaguered San MIguel residents: Fireworks are rarely set off in Tlaquepaque.

For my money, Zihuatanejo is much more fun to visit than Ixtapa, the neighboring resort city to the north.

One of the early developments of Fonatur (the Federal Bureau for Tourist Development), high-rise Ixtapa was the second choice of the government for a west coast resort. (Fonatur is the outfit that gave us Cancun.) Originally they chose Zihuatanejo for development, but the townspeople rejected the idea, preserving it for their own enjoyment, and for ours.

Zihuatanejo remains a fishing village, at least in part, although a fair number of small-scale hotel operators have joined the fishermen.

Captain Max owns the Cobra, a boat outfitted for charter fishing. His work is easier and more lucrative than that of ordinary fishermen: no fishing in the dark, no hauling in heavy nets.

He will throw this inedible needlefish back into the ocean, hoping next time to hook a dorado.

Divers pursue spiny lobsters, a method that seems risky. But lobster brings high prices—US $10 per pound on the beach.

A rusty air compressor mounted in the middle of La Perla Negra supplies air to a diver. Exhaust from the small motor gets sucked into the compressor intake if the wind is right.

The day's catch is sold on the beach in the center of town. Local residents come early to buy today's dinner; everything is sold by 8 or 9 AM.

On offer is whatever was caught early this morning. The fish are not the carefully graded and displayed product I remember from the Sonoma Market in California. But they are much, much fresher, and they don't cost anywhere near $20 a pound.

Nobody's getting rich fishing, but this man is able to afford an early morning cigar as he waits for buyers.

The way you buy your fish, you walk along until you find one you like. Then you pick it up and haggle with the fisherman. Don't expect him to gut it or fillet it for you. He will weigh it if you insist, but most people don't bother.

Huachinango in his right hand, pesos in his left, this man is ready to deal.

No power, no refrigeration. Block ice keeps fish fresh for a few hours before it is cooked and eaten.

Selling fish is hungry work, and in Mexico, where people might be hungry, there's always someone to fill the need.

Maybe you were expecting a plastic bag to take your purchase home. Maybe someone around here has one. Probably not. It's easier just to grab your black tuna by the tail and walk away.

This customer in his Tommy Jeans tee shirt and Crocks presages Zihuatanejo's future. As the developed world crowds in, land prices rise. As in so many Mexican coastal villages, fishermen will be unable to afford to live here on what they can make. The fleet will disappear, to be replaced by jet skis and parasails.

No point in bemoaning progress. As the Mexicans say, it is what it is. Get out there and enjoy it while you can.

Paul (El Guapo) Latoures and I were driving on the periférico when we spotted this humongous truck parked in front of a repair shop.

He said, "That would make a great picture."

I tried to blow him off: "Yeah, yeah. Lets go get some coffee."

Paul launched into his usual interminable lecture about how the best pictures were the ones he didn't take. With a sigh, I pulled over to inspect this monster.

The battered truck crouched ominously. Like something out of Mad Max, it had seen many highway battles. Paul pointed out the Grim Reaper decal obscuring the windshield.

Believe me, you see this in your rear view mirror, you'll get out of the way.

It was parked in front of a vulcanizadora for tire repairs. If anything, the tire place looked more marginal than the truck.

An apparent believer in minimizing start-up costs, the proprietor had pressed a claw foot bathtub into service for locating punctures.

The truck had major tire issues. Several had chunks missing from treads. Others were virtually bald. The trucker had managed to squeeze every last kilometer out of the life of these tires.

Photo: Paul Latoures

A bottle jack supporting an axle of the fully loaded truck leaned precariously. I doubt there's a hydraulic rack capable of lifting this vehicle anywhere in San Miguel. Why buy a pricey machine when a $50 hand tool and a block of wood will do the same job?

I wondered if the truck could fall off the tiny jack. Well of course it could. But resourceful mechanics would see such a happenstance as a minor setback at worst.

A closer look at the truck revealed other signs of heavy use and repairs. The frame supporting the box had been welded where it had cracked. The box itself was supported on new-looking pine blocks—surely a stopgap repair.

The battery hold-down was long gone, replaced by a knotted rope.

The box was deteriorating. Paul, amused, points out broken slats. The load doesn't look any too stable either.

This truck would not be permitted to operate north of the border. I doubt it could even be restored to operational standards. But such matters are not taken so seriously here. I often find myself following vehicles like this as they labor up some grade, ghastly clouds of black smoke issuing from their stacks.

But today, vehicle safety standards are becoming part of drivers' lives. After losing a couple of rigs descending the long grade on the Carretera a Querétaro, a truck inspection checkpoint was established at the top. That this beast would be allowed through is dubious.

But I have to say I like this truck. It has the quality of a much-used and worn hand tool. You don't throw stuff out here. Not if there's any way of fixing it. I bet the owner figures there's lots more life left in this baby.

Meet Henry Harper Lockwood, here shown ten days old. Henry is my first (and probably only) grandson.

Henry Harper is the offspring of my daughter, Samantha, and her husband Kip, whose wedding I posted about 21 months ago. He looks placid in this photo, but I just know he's gonna be trouble. On account of I know my daughter. I'm still recovering from the trauma of raising her.

I flew to Santa Barbara to meet Henry. I have to say that like all sub-two-week-olds, he doesn't do much. Eats, poops, sleeps. That's about it. But his family has instantly fallen in love with him.

He produces a wide range of facial expressions, most of which don't appear to be connected to any form of cognition.

But it won't be long before he connects his brain to his face, and the resulting flood of communication is gonna sink his parents.

I accompanied Henry on one of his first outings. Here, his big sister (Kip's daughter, Cassie) propels him down an oceanside path.

In America, we appear to be undergoing another baby boom. Cassie has to yield to an oncoming phalanx of four young mothers piloting their offspring in identical double-wide strollers. Baby-walking congestion.

Henry will probably grow up to be a surfer dude; a fate impossible to avoid when you grow up in Santa Barbara. Those are wetsuits hung out to dry on the side of the white Explorer. Henry doesn't know about wetsuits yet, but when he does, watch out.

He'll be riding his bike down to the beach when his mother isn't looking. Checking the wave action. Buying tins of Sex Wax.

Here he is in his baby cassette, catching some rays, developing his toe tanning skills. A true native Californian.

Grandpa is delighted to meet Henry, but I'm not sure the feeling is mutual. Yet.

But I have lots of spoiling to do. He'll be plenty glad to see me in a couple of years. Bet on it, Sam.

Grandkids are wonderful. As a friend of mine once said, "You can love 'em and give 'em back."

Our marvelous botanical gardens, El Charco del Ingenio, about which I have posted in the past, contains a silted-up reservoir that provides habitat for wildlife. Some time ago, artificial islands were built up out of the water to provide safe places for nesting birds.

A couple of months ago I found that the lake bed was dry, and that substantial mounds were being built on the margins of the original islands. The old reservoir had been drained for maintenance.

That this kind of work is being done is unsurprising: the preserve is managed sensitively and imaginatively. Every year, El Charco becomes richer, an relic of the original environment before population growth pressured wildlife and native plant populations.

What is unusual, though, is the scale of the work. Recently, I've noticed more and more heavy machinery being used on construction and road building projects in our part of Mexico. Here in the El Charco lakebed, I was surprised to find some heavy equipment doing the work, instead of the usual gang of shovel-wielding laborers.

The big Komatsu shovel looks almost new. Somehow, funding for El Charco must be sufficient to enable rental of gear like this; a miracle in itself.

A bulldozer shapes the margins of one of the islands, spewing clouds of black smoke as it scrapes the earth.

In other circumstances, such pollution would horrify me. But population density in our part of Mexico is low, and few smokestack industries feed components of smog into the air. At least locally, the atmosphere seems to be able to absorb what we humans put into it.

Someone will probably point out that the carbon footprint of these machines is huge, and of course she would be right. It's hard to know which might be better for the planet: huge diesel engines or gangs of manual laborers.

I'm ashamed to admit that I have a childhood affection for big machines belching black smoke. When I was ten, my father would take me on the steam train to New York City. We'd cross the Hudson River on a coal-burning ferryboat, past huge brick smokestacks throwing dark clouds into the sky. I understand the horrific impact that kind of industry had on us all. But my old-fashioned engineer's heart unaccountably still loves the look and smell of black smoke, the signature of what we thought of as progress at the middle of the last century.

In the case of El Charco, an investment of a couple hundred pounds of carbon results in a sanctuary for native wildlife of the Bahio. How can we tell if the environmental cost is balanced by the benefit? We're driving the egrets out of the city center (post). If we want to avoid their disappearance altogether, shouldn't we provide some sort of home for them?

From my home on the cliff above San Miguel de Allende I overlook Barrio Valle de Maiz (Corn Valley), a neighborhood that makes up for its modest infrastructure with vibrant and enthusiastic inhabitants. There's always a block party here, and residents make sure that everyone else in town knows about it.

At fiesta time, streets are festooned with papeles picados (pierced paper banners). Traditionally, these are made by stacking hundreds of sheets of tissue paper and hammering chisels through the pile to make cutout patterns. Recently vinyl has replaced tissue paper and automatic presses have replaced chisels; another dubious leap into the First World. Vinyl banners last longer, but ultimately they break and become indestructible litter. Tissues conveniently melt away in the rain.

No other neighborhood achieves the ebullience of Valle de Maiz, neither in festive appearance nor in quantity and impact of fireworks. Street processions on the Salida de Querétaro snarl traffic for hours. Tempers flair. Cops stand around helplessly.

The people of Valle de Maiz don't care.

Thunderous explosions rattle my house and send Rosie (my Boston Terrier) scurrying into my bed. In between blasts, church bells clang frantically. Music—amplified as only Mexicans can amplify—knifes through my windows.

Of course, after you've lived here for awhile, you get used to noise. Or you leave Mexico. One or the other. 'Cause it ain't gonna get quiet here anytime soon.

A frustrated newcomer wrote a letter to our English-language newspaper, Atención, complaining about noise. A bad move—his concerns failed to reach sympathetic ears. Next issue, a tidal wave of responses accused him of being chauvinist and mean-spirited.

Nicer letters to the editor suggested he might be happier in Flint, MI. Nastier ones suggested maybe we'd be happier if he lived there.

—§—

Between fiestas, the decorations remain, but the neighborhood becomes placid. The day I walked through, camera in hand, the only noise came from a man hammering a chisel, the ubiquitous sound of all Mexican abañiles (construction workers) and do-it-yourself homeowners.

A five-gallon plastic bucket serves as a stepladder. We're in the country of make-do. Stuff designed for one use finds new life in another. Almost nothing gets thrown away.

For example, this Valle de Maiz entrepreneur rents used wood. That's right. The top line of his sign reads: "Wood for Rent."

Wood is scarce and expensive in Mexico. Posts and beams are used to support masonry during construction. Planks get used to make forms for concrete. Afterward, all that wood is recycled for use in another project. If you need more wood than you have on hand, you can rent some from this guy.

I don't think his is a booming business. His delivery truck has a couple of flat tires that look like they've been there for awhile. Should he get lucky and get an order, he'll probably pump them up. Otherwise he'll just leave them they way they are.

In this country, deferred maintenance is the watchword. You know when something needs attention when it breaks. Even then, you leave it broken until you really need it. Only then do you get out the duct tape, an old coat hanger, and a sawn-in-half plastic Coke bottle, and effect repairs.

Every barrio has its own church. The one in Valle de Maiz is named Santa Cruz Peregrina. It's architecturally uninteristing—looks more like a blockhouse than a church. One interesting detail—the entry is framed in old carved cantera that was recycled from another building.

Along one side of the church, two benches have been formed from a large tree trunk sawn in half lengthwise. Stubs of the branches form some of the legs, rocks were used for others.

Walk into any modest Mexican neighborhood, and you'll see this dichotomy: an economy of materials reused, recycled and adapted to various needs, and a profligacy of fiestas and celebrations. For my money, the residents of Valle de Maiz have got their priorities right.

Another priority is community pride. The residents of a good barrio pull together. They find their sense of identity with their neighbors. Some neighborhoods are more like tribes than neighbors.

A mural depicts Iglesia Santa Cruz Peregrina with a row of corn planted in front. There hasn't been a cornstalk grown in Valle de Maiz in years, but that's not important. The people here identify themselves as living in the valley that used to grow corn, and they have built an entire culture and community around that idea.

In a week or so I'll hear a banda blatting away. That'll be the citizens of Valle de Maiz letting us all know who they are, one more time. I've learned to sleep through it. I wish Rosie could.

Fifteen years ago there were no supermarkets in San Miguel de Allende. Now we have two: Soriana and Mega, signs that our city, and indeed much of Mexico, is moving into the First World. The other day I was shopping in Soriana, the more downscale of the two, when I encountered these:

They look like something out of The Little Shop of Horrors. The label on the box said "Rambutan" which I figured was a brand name. A one-kilo box was priced at $60 pesos—less than the price of peaches in Los Angeles—so I figured I'd splurge and buy some.

Once I got them home, it dawned on me I had no idea how to prepare them. (I often get myself into those kinds of fixes.) I decided to gain knowledge by dissecting one. I sliced one of the 1½" fruits in half with my french chef's knife.

Instant identification: these had to be big, hairy lychees. The translucent white, rubbery flesh and the big clingy pit were giveaways. And the fruit tasted the same. Well, once you know they're lychees, you know exactly what to do with them, so I won't repeat the tedious details here.

For the hell of it, I googled "rambutan" to learn about the grower. To my surprise, I learned that: 1) My fruits are not lychees, and 2) Rambutan actually is the proper name. In fact, the rambutan has its own website, well worth visiting if you're interested in exotic fruit.

I wasn't far off the mark, however, in identifying the fruit: "rambutan" means "hairy lychee" in the Malay language.

These fruits, along with lychees and carambolas (star fruits), are not expensive imports from Southeast Asia. Mexico is partly a tropical country: my rambutans were produced by a Mexican grower.

Rambutans appear in Soriana to appeal to Mexico's growing middle class. Such people have discretionary income and the curiosity to explore new culinary horizons. Less-developed parts of the country still see food in terms of one kilo of tortillas per person per day. But in the north, food means more than just nutrition. Distribution of wealth and income is still grossly uneven, but not so much as it was in the 20th Century. Many Mexicans now have money to spend, and malls are being built to accommodate them. The world's 12th-largest economy, for better or worse, is becoming more like the colossus north of the border.

Readers have asked a couple of questions in the comments to the previous post, Handicapped in Mexico. First: I believe the woman shown crawling in the market in Oaxaca suffers from birth defects. One arm is missing below the elbow, the other above. Her legs seem to end high on each thigh. She drags herself along with her arms, getting no help from what remains of her legs.

Second: Centro de Crecimiento was founded by Lucha Maxwell, a long-time resident of San Miguel who provided care for her handicapped husband until his death. She is a leading member of our community with a warm, unpretentious air about her. She's someone you really want to meet. And you can. One of the Crecimiento fundraisers is a tour of galleries, studios and historic sites called Saturday Adventurers. Take the tour and you'll find Lucha on the bus, bubbling over with enthusiasm and energy.

—§—

The other day Paul (El Guapo) Latoures and I were headed out the Dolores Highway to Parripollo, planning to pig out on barbecued chicken and cecina. Paul was grumbling as he often does about all the new housing developments on the outskirts of town, when we passed this place:

"Look," said Paul. "They're even building way out here. Who's gonna live in all these houses?"

Turns out this isn't a housing development; it's an industrial one. Light industry. Very light.

Most of the buildings on this estate consist of a warehouse, some offices, and some small factories owned and operated by Charles Hall. His business, called Exportadora Camino Norte, exports Mexican handcrafted items to retailers in the United States. In recent years, Charlie has begun manufacturing some of the goods he exports, to ensure consistent and reliable supply and quality. Part of his mission is to keep Mexican handcraft traditions alive by providing a place for people to learn and practice artisanship.

You can see some of the glassware and candles he produces in this view of his warehouse.

Charlie, shown here with his chocolate lab, has one other mission: To provide employment for handicapped persons. He is particularly qualified for this, because he himself is handicapped. He has worked in corporations that, while laudably hiring the handicapped, fail to get the most out of such people, shortchanging themselves while at the same time limiting career growth of employees with disabilities.

You can read much more about what Charlie is up to in his blog.

Here's a look at Charlie's operation. This view is from the grabado (glass-carving) factory, which now employs seven, four of whom are disabled. Here, Miguel looks on while Remedios and Magdalena learn the art, carving practice pieces of flat glass.

Soon they will be producing objects like this partially-completed drinking glass.

The newest of Charlie's operations is the candle factory. Previously he bought candles from an independent candle maker, but supply issues caused him to purchase the process and begin manufacturing them himself.

Although the candles appear to be hand dipped, they are actually made by repeatedly pouring molten wax over them. Above, Rosa dips wax form the galvanized tub and pours it over a candle, rotating the circular frame to bring new candles into position as needed. The tub sits on a gas heater which keeps the wax at about 100º C.

Below, Paula, Erika, and Elia apply brand labels to the candles.

The finished Santa Rosa candles are available at a number of U. S. and Mexican specialty stores.

Today Charlie worries about the state of the economy and the effect it might have on his business. But his is a well-run, successful enterprise of which an important ingredient is something few understand: Handicapped people represent an underused reservoir of people who are every bit as productive as anyone else. The secret is to allow them to work out how to get their jobs done in their own ways. They know best how to apply their individual faculties to any task.

Government agencies and NGOs provide aid to the handicapped. But they're not enough. It takes a visionary like Charlie to bring such people into the mainstream. His workers hold desireable jobs in a country where it's difficult for anyone to find work, much less someone with a disability.

He's not cutting his people any breaks. Exportadora Camino Norte is not a charity. Charlie just makes the effort to seek out such people and gives them the freedom to do their thing. They are expected to perform as well as anyone. They have to—if the business is going to succeed.

Up north we have wide sidewalks with curb cuts for wheelchairs. Many buildings have wheelchair ramps. Some crosswalk signals make chirping noises for the blind. The handicapped have special parking spaces.

We have a lot less of that in Mexico, especially in a colonial town like San Miguel de Allende, where streets were laid out in the 1600s without SUVs and wheelchairs in mind. (Our situation can hardly be called poor urban planning.)

Narrow sidewalks and steep hills characterize our city terrain. Steps may be wheelchair-unfriendly, but without them, the resulting steep, slick flagstones would greatly increase the already large number of injuries from falls, conceivably putting more people in wheelchairs.

Stopping in our narrow streets blocks traffic, so no estacionar (no parking) signs abound. If people actually obeyed them, commerce would grind to a halt. Instead, they park on sidewalks, leaving just enough room for passing cars, but making walkways impassible for pedestrians, handicapped or otherwise.

To prevent sidewalk parking, bollards have been placed at the edges of some walkways. While they clear the way for strolling tourists, they reduce the width of this particular sidewalk just enough that no wheelchair could navigate it.

Just ahead of the illegally parked Safari (note that his plates have been taken by the traficantes), the sidewalk has been narrowed, permitting parking without blocking traffic. So the bollards really haven't reduced the effective width of the sidewalk, anyway. No matter how passible the path looks, you can rest assured that some obstacle will appear a few meters farther on.

—§—

We have many handicapped people in Mexico. Some make their livings by begging.

This man is a fixture in San Miguel de Allende. He sits patiently in high-traffic spots or tap-tap-taps along as he moves from one place to another. He has the city layout memorized; the locations of potholes, open utility holes, and those quintessential Mexican sidewalk hazards, lengths of rebar sticking up like punji stakes.

Other beggars inhabit our streets. One plays guitar and harmonica. Both of his feet are bent inward at 90º angles—a condition that probably would have been corrected in a rich society. Another musician hobbles along on her crutches, one leg missing.

This woman plies her trade in an outdoor market near Oaxaca. Her legs end at mid-thigh and she's missing both hands. She crawls through the market to where she sells whatever that stuff is on her back. Waiting for customers, she sits with other women, talking and laughing: she has not let her disability destroy her spirit.

I imagine it would be against the law to crawl down a sidewalk in Indianapolis.

Julieta lacks the mental capacity to perform any but basic functions. She works as a sander in a workshop that makes mesquite furniture in Adjuntos del Rio.

No government program placed her in this job; her family did. But she is self-supporting.

—§—

In the last few years, handicapped parking places have become more common. Some spaces are reserved for pregnant women. (Are they handicapped?)

The sign with a wheelchair signifies a parking space is exclusively for the handicapped and "persons of the third age." That would be me, among others, although I'm way too healthy to feel right about using these spaces.

Not these people, though. We're looking at nine handicapped parking spaces, eight of which are occupied by automobiles none of which bears any indication that it transports the handicapped. The man in the blue shirt has just parked his tan car, springing lightly out of the driver's seat and striding purposefully toward the store entrance. He appears to be neither handicapped, aged, nor pregnant.

The woman in the red dress doesn't appear to qualify either. From her slim form, I'd judge that if she's pregnant, she isn't very. She has just backed out of a handicapped spot and is briskly pulling away. She's clearly too busy to bother with parking another ten meters from the entrance. You can gauge her acceleration from the bow in her radio antenna. Believe me, she was cooking!

In the US, years of awareness-building, strict enforcement, and heavy fines pretty much have freed parking spaces for those who really need them. Here in Mexico, many unqualified people have no compunction about abusing them.

There's a couple of handicapped parking spots near the Jardín in the center of town, clearly marked with blue wheelchair signs. The section of Canal where they're located is constantly patrolled by a covey of traficantes. I rarely see cars with handicapped plates or stickers parked in either of them. They seem instead to be reserved for Cadillac Escalades and H2 Hummers. Such vehicles never receive citations: the local cops know better than to tag a narcotraficante.

Drug runners aside, Mexican people's awareness of the needs of the handicapped appear to be at the level of the US in the 1970s. Facilities for people with disabilities are expensive—the province of rich countries. As Mexico advances economically, we're seeing more wheelchair ramps, more, reserved parking, better funding for appropriate government agencies. Hopefully too, more people will support them.

In San Miguel we have NGOs that look after the disabled. One of the best is Centro de Crecimiento, which trains children with disabilities in skills that will allow them to support themselves and contribute to society. Their funding comes mostly from the norteamericano community. Check it out.