Small Business Signs
Here we have a happy auto body man painting a Volkswagen beetle—that once-ubiquitous Mexican car. This sign gains gravitas from the Bauhaus display font. But I dunno. The sideways baseball hat, the stylish oversize overalls, the wildly flailing spray gun pointed at the windshield—all muddies the message. I'm not convinced this place is gonna give me that shiny new car I'm hoping for.
Raf on the other hand, has an ernest, nerdy look. You just know that this guy really understands alternators, even dreams about them. You're in good hands with Rafles.
The sign below clearly was lettered either by the proprietor or his 12-year-old daughter. He's a shoe repairman. We SSL (Spanish as a Second Language) people may have some difficulty interpreting his sign. Is on a Spanish word? What does reparaci mean?
Ran out of room on the first line. Had to break the word. Syllabification? What's that?
The sign reminds me of the old cartoon...
I notice that beauty salons often incorporate unflattering images of clients.
I'm certain that Abril's clients don't want to look like the woman in her sign.
And what is this unisex deal?
I understand that cosmetologists like the idea of doubling their potential market. Up north, men have patronized beauty salons for years, although I have always felt uncomfortable in them. But it's hard to imagine some macho caballero strutting into one of these places.
Laura's Beauty Salon offers "modern cuts," one of which the female figure presumably is modeling. Her hair has been formed into a handle, sort of like a coffee mug, I guess to provide the boyfriend with a convenient grip.
This electrical supply place has a mascot made out of... electricity. He looks a little devilish; appropriate for a country where electric company customers often install diablitos on their power meters. (Diablitos are tiny magnets that slow the meter down, so consumption readings will be lower.)
The mascot probably was inspired by the American character, Reddy Kilowatt. Reddy has a more wholesome appearance, don't you think? Doesn't have such a sinister edge.
I'm accustomed to professionals of the healing arts presenting themselves in a conservative, sober way. Not so, Dr. Verduzco.
He entices clients with a "happy tooth" figure, seated on a comfy chair, faced with a tool no more intimidating than a dental mirror. "Sure. Come on in! It won't hurt." Reminds me of the old "Painless Dentist" advertisements.
Finally we come to a sign promoting one of those split personality businesses you find all over Mexico.
Is it a hotel? Is it a car wash? How are the sheets washed? How are the cars dried? How do people come up with concepts like this?
Once, a clerk in a small store handed me a package of aspirins that he had pulled off the shelf from between some cans of motor oil and a pile of industrial-grade brassieres. I was bemused until I realized that I can effectively do the same thing at any Wal-Mart.
Jean and I quit touring the United States and sold our motorhome when we discovered that any one place looked pretty much like the next. The franchising of America has brought us the dull predictability of an Arby's at every offramp. The way I see it, if you're gonna put a sign between me and the scenery, at least make it unique.
Remembering the Dead
Mexican people maintain a lingering connection with those who have gone on before. We certainly see this when the whole country comes to a halt during Day of the Dead (a legal holiday) while families decorate graves and build altars. But acts of remembrance are not confined to just this one day.
I've walked by this nicho on Piedras Chinas many times without seeing it.
But the other day, it jumped out at me. Someone had decorated it. A burning candle had been set out on a purple tissue, tissue the color of mourning.
Liborso Garcia was only 57 years old when he died. I imagine his passing was a blow to his family, he being in the prime of life and probably essential to the well-being of his family. They built this niche for him
I think about my parents every day. I like how the Garcias think about theirs.
Intellectual Property Rights
Here we see an American icon incorporated into the brand identity of a convenience store franchise.
I haven't heard that the Road Runner has entered the public domain. And I can't imagine Warner Brothers licensing him at a price this chain could afford.
(At the risk of condescending to expatriate readers, I'll point out that the name of the store is pronounced "beep beep.")
—§—
In Capitola on Monterey Bay in California, a funky vegetarian restaurant operated for some years under the name, McDharma's. Once alerted, McDonalds Corporation's lawyers crushed McDharma's with lawsuits. McDharma's lost and changed their name. I can see McDonalds' CEO wiping the nervous sweat off his brow: "Boy, we sure dodged a bullet with that McDharma's thing."
I bet he doesn't know about the latest threat to the McDonalds hegemony:
Yes, it's McNopal's, right down to the golden arches. (If any McDonalds executives are reading this, I want a finder's fee after you collect.)
Actually, I think McNopal's is less of a threat than McDharma's was. There's something fundamentally wrong with McNopal's concept. I just can't get hooked on the idea of a grilled cactus pad on a bun. McDonalds Corporation probably can let this one slide, if you ask me.
I'm thinking that if you see a lot of copyright violations, you may be in a country where maintaining your human rights is a little sketchy. I mean, if multinational corporations find the local justice system inadequate for protecting their intellectual property, what do you think your chances are?
Bip Bip.
Happy Pigs
Images like this really reach their target market.
The one below targets Mexicans, apparently successfully, because you see pigs in pots everywhere. I found this one in the Yucatán.
Frankly, it doesn't do anything for me. Yes, this image succeeds in coveying the message, "Carnitas sold here." But it doesn't stimulate my appetite, at least not directly.
It's almost as if the cartoon is a familiar joke: a smiling pig enjoying the pot. With dainty eyelashes, waving "hello." The Mexican equivalent of "Eat at Joe's and Get Gas."
(Guy could use a copywriter. "Quality and Price." Not a lot of zip there.)
Anthropomorphic food isn't just a Mexican thing. The French, when they're not eating cheese, have a thing for happy pork. And check out this image from an American chain of barbecue joints.
The pig in the pot theme crops up here in San Miguel, too.
This sign is on the door of a van. Valentín Alazañez may not even have a storefront. Here he's advertising home delivery. Same old pig in a pot, although this one doesn't look quite as happy about it.
To further whet your appetite, he offers chicharrones—crispy fried pig skin—what used to be marketed in the states as "pork rinds." (As if skinning a pig was like peeling an orange.) They're more than just a snack here. Street vendors sell single-serving plastic bags of them with sliced onions and peppers and spicy tomato sauce dumped on top. Chicharrones are also used in soups and stews.
His other featured item, cuero fresco, is another matter. Cuero fresco is fresh pork skin. You buy it if you want to make your own chicharrones. What's the advantage? Well, my friend Patty says fresh skin comes with fat attached, so you get lard as well as chicharrones. Great, if you're looking for lard.
Over in Delores Hidalgo is my favorite carnitas joint—Vicente.
At least his sign doesn't illustrate pigs being boiled alive. These fellas are singing to the accompaniment of a muchacho playing his guitar. Vicente trades on a little gratuitous patriotism, what with the red, white and green serapes and sombrero. His ad is no more appetite-inducing than the others, but at least it doesn't push raw pig skin.
The singers' expressions almost look angry, leaving me with an uneasy feeling. That is, until the smell of carnitas hits me. The savory odor of well-done pork and fresh corn tortillas is Vicente's best advertisement.
El Macho Revisited
I must point out that Elguapo is one of my best friends.
I supported my argument with the assertion that bullfighters, as professional athletes, would naturally be risk-averse, to ensure continuity of income and career longevity.
Maybe I need to re-think this.
Hermilo Tovar
The image above is a rare one. Usually several cars in various stages of disassembly are parked in front, blocking the view. To the left of the gate stands a brick-red engine hoist, so you know this guy does more than tune engines. Hanging on the wall behind and to the right of the engine hoist is a white robot made of, among other things, a crankshaft and a couple of shock absorbers. A gray robot with yellow shock absorber legs stands in front of the white one.
A close look at the gate shows that much of the decoration consists of spark plugs welded together and painted white. Hermilo has spelled out his name using them, and in the image above, the arched sign over the gate spelling mecanico is also made of spark plugs.
How many other auto parts are identifiable? I see valves, connecting rods, timing chains, valve springs, universal joint crosses, assorted gears, bearings, bushings and clutch plates. Perhaps you can identify others.
This guy rebuilds engines and transmissions—serious mechanical work. Many mechanics up north never see some of these parts in day-to-day work. They buy engines and transmissions that have been rebuilt in specialized factories and simply swap out the entire unit. Not so at Taller Tovar. Got a rod knock? Hermilo will get right down into the guts of your engine and replace the rod bearing, and the connecting rod and crankshaft if need be. And while he's at it, he'll swap out your rings and ream your ridges. Makes you feel kind of good, doesn't it? Almost no U. S. mechanic will do that today, although many of us did when we were teenagers, mostly for the fun of it.
He's an artist, too. He creates a garden wall using old car junk.
To the right of the gate, the word mecanico is again spelled out, this time with shock absorbers. The numerals of his address (19a) are formed of spark plugs, below which hangs another white robot.
Auto shops usually look hard, greasy and... well... mechanical. Hermilo softens his place up with some plants. A cactus grows out of a terra-cotta pot, another out of a planter made from a couple of old tires. A group of leafy plans grows in those universal Mexican containers—cut-off plastic soft drink bottles.
Looks like sometimes, business is a little slow at Hermilo Tovar's place. He found a lot of free time to spruce his taller up. What he achieved is a darn sight more interesting than some Shell station ¿No?
Two Women of a Certain Age
The gringa pictured on the right apparently doesn't have to work anymore. Her untroubled face framed by her smart hat and designer sunglasses tells us as much. Nor is she a slave to fashion; with maturity such things pale in importance. The baggy pants, the tacky Nike swoosh sweatshirt coupled with the nice leather bag and the rock on her left ring finger say, "I don't have to impress anyone anymore."
Naturally things are different for the Mexicana. Her apron tells us she still works, either as a housekeeper or a cook for someone like our gringa, or as a homemaker for her own gamily. No retirement for her. No IRA, no social security, no pension. Her rebozo appears to me to be more stylish than the Norteamericano's hat, but then, I am a fashion cretin.
I'm struck by how their characters show in their faces.
The Norteamericana seems cultured, elegant, aristocratic. Her feature look soft, a little tentative—until you notice her iron grip on the strap of her bag. Don't doubt it for a moment; she can take care of herself.
The Mexicana's face tells the story of the troubles she's seen. Her life has not been easy, but she's handled whatever came her way. She's strong, capable, determined.
Two grandmothers, two different lives, two iron constitutions. It's a sure bet they've never spoken to one another. Too bad. They probably could find a lot in common.
Dried Flower Vendors
They appear to create most of their wares right where they sell them, under the portico on the west side of the Jardín. Their enterprise lends a pleasant air to the scene.
Some years ago, the woman pictured below was among their number.
I haven't seen her in recent months. I miss her placid, dignified face, and the comfortable constancy of her presence on the plaza.
Flaming Toilets
As it happens, the problem, now that it has materialized, isn't electric shock. It's flames. Apparently a manufacturing defect caused a few to catch fire, forcing the manufacturer to recall 180,000 of them. The company spokeswoman's remarks are rich: "The fire would have been just under your buttocks."
What has happened, as I pointed out in my previous post, is that a simple device has become overcomplicated.
God only knows what's in one of these things. The controls alone require some sort of manual to decipher. Let's see. Stop. I got that one. Whatever it's doing, some time or another, you're gonna want it to stop. Water pressure: that could get interesting. Warm seat, deoderizer: we can figure those out.
But what does "standby" mean? Causes one to ponder, doesn't it?
The pink button apparently is used when ladies wish to elevate themselves on a gentle cloud of mist. The blue button is, of course, only for use by males who are members of the Omega Gamma fraternity.
Toilets have come a long way since the 16th century.
Or have they? No moving parts, no clogging, no overflow, no replacing flapper valves, no fires, no shocks, no warning labels: just a few minutes of solitude and relief. Maybe we need to re-think all this.
The Dye Works
Ambitious young people know they have to learn two things: English and computers. Then they can move to Querétaro or Léon and get a job in a manufacturing company where they have a chance of working up the ladder. It's tough on people whose culture values close-knit families. Among my English students, many had never traveled as far as Mexico City, less than four hours away. Mexicans want to stay near their parents, their siblings. They don't like to move away.
San Miguel used to have a carpet factory, but it became uncompetitive in the latter half of the 20th century. The old buildings now house a bunch of expensive art galleries and antique dealers—very chi-chi. A local girl can get a job there waiting on customers for, oh say, $3,000 pesos a month—if she speaks English and maybe knows a little something about selling art.
So what's left? Well, we have a small glass factory. My friend Paul Latoures is building a toy factory, but it's not up and running yet. Then, we have the dye works.
This is indeed a small manufactory. The building, the size of a large house, contains dye vats somewhere deep inside, out of view of passers-by. Thick yarns, once they're colored, are hung over parapets and the tinaco to dry in the sun.
The yarns are then woven into area rugs on these looms.
A truly 19th-century facility. All the machinery is hand-made out of wood. Note the wooden pawl-and-gear. Two-by-fours laid on the floor serve as treadles. I kind of like it.
I had to sneak in to take this photo. The owners are publicity-shy because they dump used dye solution into a creek which runs into the Presa Allende, our large agricultural reservoir. Pressure is building for them to knock it off. In response, they are circling their wagons.
The creek also receives effluent from the slaughterhouse. Consequently the waters, before they leave town under the bridge on the periferico, are incredibly nasty. But city officials say the slaughterhouse pollution problem will be solved by moving the facility to another location. (Sounds to me like we're exporting our problem to someone else.) When that happy day comes, the dye works will stand out as the major single pollution source in town (setting aside sewage from private homes) and they will surely have to move or shut down.
I don't think many tears will be shed. They don't provide many jobs anyway. But I'll miss those old looms, and the colored yarns draped on the building.
Retiring in Mexico on a Budget
Other small communities offer rock-bottom living costs. My friend Lupe Cano built a retirement house in his home town of Capilla de Milpillas, about an hour from Guadalajara. He and his wife, Berta, treated Jean and me to dinner at a local restaurant: tacos, pozole, flautas, beans and rice with four huge cokes in returnable glass bottles. The check for the table: $6.
The Cano family sits for a formal portrait.
His elegant four-bedroom 2,400 square foot home cost about $25,000 U. S., land and construction. Note the roll-up doors on the corner—just in case Berta decides to generate a little cash with a tiendita (little store).
Lupe's house in Capilla de Milpillas.
In those days, I needed suspenders to hold up my jeans.
Most Norteamericano retirees would not feel at home in Capilla de Milpillas. Few if any gringos live there, so fluency in Spanish and love of real Mexican culture unrelieved by cappuccino and hamburger joints would be essential. Too bad, 'cause you can't beat the cost of living there.
That's why so many expatriate Americans relocate to San Miguel. Here you get the same year round gentle climate, the challenge of living in another culture and learning another language, but you get to do it with thousands of people just like yourselves.
Some people snippily refer to San Miguel as "Mexico Lite." Well, OK. I admit it's nice to have neighbors who speak my native language. But I bet that here, it's just as hard to deal with Telmex or CFE (the power company) as it is in Gomez Palacio.
Moreover, San Miguel is a beautiful city, with preserved colonial architecture and a vibrant art community. Its popularity has driven up prices, so it's not the low-cost-of-living haven it once was. Many who come here would want one of the more centrally-located homes. These cost maybe $300,000 and up, up, up.
But all is not lost. This home, which belongs to my friend Pete, cost considerably less.
Milagro, the wonder dog, deters riffraff entering the premises.
Pete's two-bedroom, two-bath home is located in a subdivision called La Luciernega, about two miles from the city center. This development of all-new homes is completely sold out; the majority of owners are people form Mexico City and other conurbations looking for vacation homes, although some are being held unoccupied for investment.
Pete demonstrates his kitchen skills with a bottle of Be-Lite.
Pete says a neighbor bought a home here not long ago for $75,000, so current values have not yet reached six figures. Tough to find a home anywhere for so little money, much less one that is within walking distance of the new Gigante supermarket, the MM Multiplex, Office Max and McDonalds; a home that's a $2 taxi or a 40¢ bus ride from the Jardín.
Milagro, taking a break from guard duty in Pete's garden. Silly dog.
Owning his house free and clear, Pete's living expenses could be amply covered by Social Security retirement benefits, with money left over for exploring Mexico.
So despite rising prices, it still can be done—retiring in San Miguel on Social Security. And what's amazing is that it can be done in a place that is repeatedly ranked among the top ten retirement cities in North America, by magazines like Forbes. Beats the hell out of a double-wide in Altus, Arkansas or a third-floor walk-up in Hackensack, NJ.
El Macho
I've never seen it.
I saw more fights growing up in Boonton, NJ than in Mexico. I heard domineering, sexist remarks from my SIlicon Valley colleagues that I doubt any self-respecting Mexican would make.
I think the notion of the macho Mexican comes from travelers' cursory first impressions, based on observations of a sort of cultural playacting. The romantic image of the bullfighter laughing in the face of death is one.
Bullfighters don't want to get hurt. Like professional wrestlers, they know how to create the appearance of danger and injury, but they're not about to jeopardize their careers through disability if they can help it.
A bullfighter puts his masculinity on the line.
Mexican men are courtly and polite, generous and romantic. They comport themselves with transparent pride. They are shown respect by their women. But they do not necessarily wear the pants in the family.
Young couples who can't afford their own homes (and there are many such) often live with the wife's mother. Young husbands wind up being answerable to their mothers- and fathers-in-law. I know guys in this situation: there's nothing macho about them. Some of them actually whine. Girly men.
The women I saw in the villages of the Yucatan, Campeche, the Huasteca, submitted to no one. Many were heads of their households, the family decision-makers, ellas que cortan el bacalao (she who cuts the cod).
There's a childlike pretense about the swagger of Mexican men—of those who try to look macho, anyway.
Struttin' for the ladies.
They don't quite seem to bring it off.
At first glance, you see a lot of hyper-masculinity. Men appear to be fully in charge. But it's all just bad acting, wishful thinking, a fantasy.
Attack of the Pod People
We were fortunate in that the buyer of our ranch in Glen Ellen, California, made a good offer on our furniture, so all we moved to Mexico was our books, art, and clothes. But this also meant that we were now owners of a house without a stick of furniture in it.
I wanted to put something of mine in the house to establish some sort of presence, but furniture is not my department. Luckily, the Candelaria Plant Sale was in session, just around the corner in Parqué Juaréz. I decided to buy a plant for our new home.
While wandering among the plant vendors, I fell into the clutches of an evil cactus dealer. He sized me up, computed the probable maximum amount of money in my wallet, and showed me a large pachypodium intended to suck all of that money up.
I was doomed. Here was a specimen plant worthy of my new home. I had to have it, cost be damned. Transaction quickly completed, the cactus man sent three burly men to carry the plant to my house and buck it up the stairs to my patio.
Here, Rose evaluates my newly-arrived pachypodium.
Pachypodiums (pachypodia?) are so named because they have thick stems. Pachy=thick (as in the latin for elephant: pachyderm=thick skin), and podium=foot. Thick foot. They are native to Madagascar. You can buy one this size for somewhere north of $1,000 in Austin. Mine cost a fraction of that, although it was still a lot for a plant. But then, it came with a couple of opportunistic barrel cacti growing in the same pot. What a deal, no?
Mine is a white-flowered Pachypodium lamerii. Here it is, transplanted into a nice pot and blooming for the first time.
The frowsy clump of leaves reminds me of Sideshow Bob, the Simpsons character. It's the reason I bought it.
Over the next couple of years, the plant grew angular branches, losing its cute mop-top look.
Maybe I fed it too much, or overwatered it. Most likely though, the arms are just part of its habit.
On a trip to San Francisco, I visited the recently restored Conservatory of Flowers in Golden Gate Park. I was extremely gratified to see that my specimen was bigger, bushier and had more flowers than theirs.
This year, something ominous has happened.
My pachypodium is producing pods. Look like something out of a horror movie. It's reproducing. What is going to emerge?
This is when the theremin music swells, and the doughty bespectacled scientist, preparing to eradicate the alien menace, says, "There are evil things in the dark places of this world—things better left undisturbed."
The Paleta Man
The robust form, the broad, noble brow, and majestic looks...
Walter Scott, The Talisman
—§—
Every child in San Miguel knows this man.
He sells paletas—popsicles.
I don't know about you, but at first glance, his mobile establishment doesn't look too promising. The exterior of his icebox looks pretty grimy. It's cracking and chipping, little crevices for harboring germs. The Bacardi box isn't helping his chldren's-treat-vendor image. What's the water jug for?
And that nose wheel! A restauranteur that doesn't maintain his facilities, what does that say about the quality of his offerings?
But we have learned that in Mexico, things are not always what they seem. After all, we're not looking at some cookie-cutter franchise outlet operated by a bored teenager. Here we have a business owner who directly serves his customers. His personal reputation is at stake. Besides, as we know, many Mexican vehicle owners seem to hold appearances as unimportant, putting money only into essentials. In this case, essentials would be paletas.
Paletas are to American popsicles as Chuck Berry is to Pat Boone. Paletas contain no preservatives, no artificial colors nor flavorings like their northern cousins. This man's paletas are not even mass-produced. His family takes ripe fruit, whirls it in a blender with a little water, adds some sugar and freezes the resulting liquid in rectangular pallets with a single stick thrust into the middle of each. Usually, chopped fruit is added to the mix at the last minute, so you get tasty little chunks as you eat your treat.
The flavors are great, too, and way more varied than the supermarket selection: lime, cantaloupe, strawberry, papaya, watermelon, pineapple, and coconut. Milk-based paletas include piña colada, pecan and guava. If you've tried all these and your are looking for something really different, try arroz, frozen from a sweetened liquid made with cooked rice to which are added cinnamon and raisins. Avoiding sugar? There's pepino con chile: cucumber with lime juice and chile powder. It's extraordinarily refreshing and thirst-quenching.
The photograph above was taken some time ago. The paleta man has since cleaned and repainted his icebox and replaced the front wheel. His enterprise looks much more inviting now. He's been selling cold treats for decades and must therefore depend on repeat business, so I'm certain that his wares are wholesome. So certain in fact that I occasionally treat myself to one.
The Gordo Lady
Sometime after midmorning, a woman arrives and starts a charcoal fire in the brazier. When the pan is hot, she cooks gordos and sells them to passers-by.
Gordos are sort of thick tortillas with a savory filling inside She pats balls of masa (cornmeal dough) into disks, places some carnitas or other filling on one of them, puts another disk on top and smooshes the whole thing together. Then she fries it in oil.
They're really yummy. They're great for when you want a snack. They're bad for when you're trying to preserve your waistline.
A Quiet Easter Sunday
I was apprehensive about Easter Sunday. Would even more people crowd into town? Would there be even more partying? More noise?
Sister Suzie, Jean and I ventured out Sunday afternoon, looking for a restaurant that tourists wouldn't know about. We walked down to the corner of Terreplen and Jesús, where a window with a figure of Christ, a year-round fixture in our neighborhood, had been dressed up for the holiday.
He managed to look both serene and festive at the same time, with purple and white decorations and surrounded by Easter lilies.
Over on Reloj, one of the Judas figures awaited his fate.
You can see a pinwheel that circles his waist. This guy is going to spin! Inside his body, exploding firecrackers will blow him to bits.
When we crossed the Jardín, I wondered where everybody was. I expected huge crowds, but the scene looked like any other Sunday. People sat on benches, passing the time.
Behind this group, you can see a band in the gazebo...
... the San Rafael Music Band. Listen to their sound:
They have a quasi-german oompah sound, overlain with a latin beat. Two clarinets harmonize in thirds, joined eventually by brass, the tuning slides of which remain undiscovered by the musicians. This gives their performance a sort of sour, atonal quality. Don't get me wrong. I love this sound.
No mobs, no processions, no hordes of photographers. Just a warm afternoon in the park, everyone out relaxing, having a good time.
Some people lined up for a treat from the horse-drawn ice cream wagon.
Inside the gates of the Parroquoia, a ladies' auxiliary was selling gordos.
Half the people sitting on benches were eating something.
Toy vendors tempted the children; dried flower sellers angled for adults.
Street musicians looked for a gig, but the tourists were mostly gone. No takers.
The few tourists remaining, those who didn't have to make the long trek back to Mexico City by nightfall, did what tourists always do: Take pictures.
It was a good afternoon to get a shoe shine.
This customer's yellow and purple boots didn't seem to be a challenge for the shoeshine man.
It was a blessedly quiet day, a respite from the intensity of Semana Santa.
I think people were glad just to slow down, hang out in the park, relax in the warm weather. Like the Chivas fan in her red-and-white striped shirt, sitting in the shade, content to watch everyone else taking it easy too.
Pardon Me Boy...
In my admittedly limited experience, I've only heard Norteamericano visitors and newbies call out "¡Señor!" I've never heard anyone say "¡Mesero!" (Waiter!) My friend Paul Latoures, looming menacingly, growls, "¡Oy Joven!" A trembling waiter scuttles over to our table, tugging his forelock. I badly want to emulate Paul. But I don't want to come off as an arrogant American.
(Not that Paul is one, mind you.)
As I thought about political correctness, I remembered the old song, "Chattanooga Choo-Choo". I'd always visualized a nice couple on the platform, she with a veil and he in a fedora, asking a tow-headed ten-year-old, "Pardon me boy..." Now it dawns on me that Mack Gordon and Harry Warren were probably imagining an elderly negro porter, not a youth. That kind of talk was acceptable for the times. Many people probably didn't even see it as disrespectful.
Today of course, virtually no American would refer to a black person of any age as "boy". It's demeaning, insulting.
Expressions that would seem rude or insensitive in the USA aren't taken that way in Mexico. It's common to nickname someone Gordo (Fatty) or Calvo (Baldy). In fact, a mesero, keeping track of separate checks at our table, wrote at the top of mine, "Calvo". Humph. That's no way to earn a good tip, Joven.
I've inured myself to the use of Joven. The other day, Jean and I were lunching with two other couples. I signaled for the waiter. ¡Joven! Someone commented on my increasingly free use of the term, triggering a discussion along the lines of this post, about political correctness, about the "Chattanooga Choo-Choo".
At that point, my friend Will, in a fine tenor, burst into:
Perdoneme joven,
¿Está el tren de la Chihuahua?
Good Friday in Atotonilco
[WARNING: Some images show torture and injuries.]
The crowd gathered around Pilate's court. Little children almost vibrated with anticipation and excitement.
Pontius Pilate and a Pharisee met on a high platform before the multitudes to conduct the trial.
He and the Pharisee wore clunky hands-free microphones so that the crowd could follow what they were saying.
Jesus, convicted and tied to a post, was scourged by Roman soldiers.
At this point, I realized I was watching something remarkable. These soldiers were not pretending to beat Christ; they were delivering a real beating.
As the scourging began, scores of terrified children began to wail. This somewhat older girl reacts to the cruelty.
A roman soldier taunts Jesus. He roars to the crowd, "Aquí está su rey. ¡Jajajajaja!" (Here is your king. Hahahahaha!)
He really liked saying that line. He must have repeated it forty times.
Scourging over, crown of thorns placed on Jesus' head (real thorns) Barabbas is presented to the crowd. Who to spare? Barabbas or Jesus? The citizens of Jerusalem decide.
Barabbas celebrates his freedom: "¡Libertad, libertad!"
The Roman soldier to Barabbas' left is winding up to deliver a blow with his lash.
How could such sweet little girls have condemned a man to torture and death?
A soldier reads Jesus' sentence to the crowd.
The crowd prepares to accompany Christ down the Vía Dolorosa. Custodians wearing their own crowns of thorns clear the way.
Hanging from this custodian's belt is a rope scourge. Many people carried whips like his, as it is a custom in Atotonilco to mortify the flesh. They are readily available in roadside booths. You can get yours in designer colors: day-glo purple with glitter. I kid you not.
He is also carrying a baggie of water, as were all the other custodians. ¿Porque? Two possibilities: for rehydration during their long trek, or, to keep flies away. You figure it out.
Jesus drags the heavy cross down the Vía Dolorosa, from time to time receiving lashes from the soldiers.
Not visible in the photo, Jesus' lips are caked with dried saliva. This man is truly suffering.
You can see welts on the back of one of the condemned thieves accompanying Christ to Golgotha.
He, too, is suffering real pain. A man playing a soldier holds a lime to the thief's mouth to help cut his thirst. He couldn't offer him a drink; it would break the verisimilitude.
Suzie and I sped up, leaving the procession behind. We were thirsty and hungry. My energy was gone. My arms ached from holding the heavy Nikon and its long lens over my head. On our way, we came upon Judas, waiting for the crowd to arrive before hanging himself. Apparently the people of Atotonilco follow the account in Matthew, not the version in Acts where he died after falling.
Here, Judas is enjoying a cigarette and a joke with his buddies before the action starts.
At the left of the photo stands a man with a roll of toilet paper hanging from his belt. Now there's a custodian who understands all of the crowd's needs.
People wait at Golgotha. The procession will reach them in an hour or so. I wish we could have stayed for the climax.
Ever practical as Mexicans can be, refreshment vendors surrounded the crucifixion site.
A cup of pineapple and watermelon chunks, sprinkled with lime and chile, really hits the spot when you're attending a crucifixion. I imagine it was much the same in biblical times.
A toddler tries to make sense of it all.
I would not choose to subject my babies to portrayals of cruelty, much less actual inflicting of pain. But I grew up in a different culture, and it's not my place to judge this one. To wonder at it maybe, but not to judge.
Prendimiento de Nuestro Señor
The procession started as people left La Iglesia de San Rafael after attending services. Four burly men carried a statue of Jesus. Not visible in the image is the rope that binds his hands, the end of which is held, I think, by the Roman soldier. The choir in cassocks and cottas sang hymns as they marched.
Gone was the celebratory spirit of Viernes de Dolores. I saw no smiles on the faces of the participants.
Costuming was elaborate. Considerable effort and expense had gone into preparing for this event.
As the Roman soldier marched toward me, I found myself faced with a dilemma. I wanted photographs. The participants wanted a reenactment of a hallowed moment. My flash might intrude.
I was positioned at the edge of a crowd (many of whom were taking pictures as well) such that I was crowding the soldier's path. He came on toward me, apparently intending to brush me aside if I didn't move. If my hands had been folded in prayer, he might have moved around me. But with a camera in front of my face, I clearly wasn't a part of the memorial, and he rightly treated me as such.
I backed out of his way and snapped the photo.
Pharisees followed, looking grim. In case you couldn't identify them as such, one wore a Star of David on his breast. Did this symbol exist in biblical times?
The figure of Judas was arresting. He jangled his bag with thirty pieces of silver. He carried a lamp that was not lit. My sister Suzie says that it symbolizes that he has lost the light of the spirit. To me, his expression looked agonized. The man played his difficult role beautifully.
Photos don't begin to capture the sad flavor of this event. This short clip may convey a sense of the dirge-like quality of the procession.
The choir's sad refrain, the sonorous playing of the brass, underscored the solemnity of the moment. This little girl's face echos the feeling perfectly.
Even we photographers and bloggers, scrambling for positions, were moved.
Birds—1, Homeowner—0
He's got chicken wire covering the bars. He's got broken glass imbedded in the ledge.
And—remember how I've been telling you about all the uses Mexicans find for plastic soft drink bottles? Well, here's one hanging from a string over the window ledge. It blows back and forth in the wind, presumably discouraging birds from making homes there.
No, birds are really not welcome here.
Somebody ought to tell it to that pigeon.
A Juddering Heap
This car looks like a disaster. It was delivering vegetables to the San Juan de Dios Mercado. It's a commercial vehicle, a business asset.
Chunks are missing. Body rot has advanced to where the integrity of the chassis is seriously weakened—it looks like it's about to break in two.
It's really, really ugly.
That's a stick holding up the trunk lid. That's a home-made hasp welded to the lid, to which a chain, hanging from a welded-on box member, is attached to secure the (no doubt) valuable freight carried inside. There appears to be no actual lenses in the left tail light assembly.
Against all odds, the interior is even worse.
No door panels, no horn button, NO DASHBOARD. Hence, no speedometer, no gages, no headlight switch. I think the driver twists some of those loose wires together when he wants lights. Or maybe when he just wants to start it.
There are a couple of small speakers perched where the speedometer used to be. Gotta have tunes, man. And a good gear shift knob.
It's a running wreck. Probably unreliable as hell. Or is it?
Look at the quality of that tire! Best-looking thing on the whole car. There's probably good money in everything that's really needed to make that car work right. Work right when there's daylight and it's not raining, that is.
I feel good about this vehicle. It reminds me of cars I owned as a teenager that I kept running with chewing gum and spit. It has been run for so long and so far that its per-mile ecological footprint is negligible.
Jean and I drive a 2002 Ford Explorer. I feel prodigally wasteful when I fire it up. Somebody sideswiped it and sheared off the side view mirror. We replaced it. $300. The heap of rust we've been discussing hasn't had side view mirrors for years. Replacing them would be a needless expenditure. All you have to do is slow down and look over your shoulder. There's a lesson in there somewhere.
Our Explorer has been scraped on all four sides, now. Someone sprayed gold graffiti on it. Someone else stole the radio antenna. Cobblestones and potholes have loosened up a lot of stuff: it rattles and squeaks. But none of the stuff that's wrong with the Explorer actually needs fixing. Better to save the money for really good tires.
Colorful Mexico
You can see why so many people do pieces on Mexican color. The images are arresting. They call to photographers the way crack cocaine calls to junkies. I shoot a couple of scenes, and before I realize I'm hooked, I have hundreds of them. Like these first two images captured in Jalpan.
So sooner or later, I knew I'd have to do a post on color. But by the time I succumbed to the urge, it was too late. Too many images; too little time.
I think that we Norteamericanos are a little afraid of color. Earth tones, pastels, muted tones go on our buildings.
In Mexico, exuberance is the watchword. The owner of this building in Xilitla woke up one morning and said, "I see green."
Why not? The saying here is "It's only paint."
Xilitla is not a particularly attractive town. Most of its buildings are drab. But a few brave souls want to make statements, and they do.
Tequisquapan and the towns stretching eastward into the Querétaro Semi-Desert favor an orange and yellow theme, especially on public buildings.
Use of a common color scheme provides a soothing sense of unity, compared with the chaos on the other side of the Sierra Gorda.
In Aquismón, contrast is the watchword.
Even so, a kind of unity exists here, owing to the common roof line in this block. The drugstore below coordinated with the shoe store next door: colors that are as different as possible, but lines carried from building to building.
Campeche bucks the trend toward strong colors, requiring pastels on buildings in the centro histórico.
Photo credit: Jean Wood
But it's still every man for himself when it comes to which pastel to use. Somehow, it all seems harmonious, though.
San Miguel regulates color choices in its centro histórico too. The rule here is earth tones: browns, terra cottas, mustards. The house below has complied, although they've taken some liberties with their door.
These colors define San Miguel and meet approval by visitors. The architectural board insists the city center look authentically colonial. The only problem with their interpretation is that in colonial times, the city was white.
Outside the colonial portion of the city, the gloves come off.
You can paint in whatever way you're inspired.
That's any way you're inspired.
Nearby Delores Hidalgo allows any colors you want, Red is nice.
Photo credit: Paul Latoures
Unlike suburbia, there's color everywhere you look in Mexico.
It's a country where hot pink is a neutral.
Customer Consciousness
Means "little worm." Intriguing, no?" I wonder what they sell?
The place isn't open, so we can't look. Let's read the small signs taped to the door.
The left one says, "Please check your purchases. No refunds or exchanges."
Humph. I thought an important rule of merchandising was to invite your customers into your store. I'm not sure I'd ever want to go into Gusanito considering they hit me with the legal notices before I even know what they're selling.
We'll check the right one: "If you need something from the store, please ring next door." Gee. It seems to me, you gotta want what they sell really badly to shop there.
The Gringos Are Coming
Police Cadets Graduating
The graduating cadets are destined to become members of our Preventative Police. You can tell who the Preventative Police are because they're the ones with the guns. The other group present was the traficantes—traffic cops. Their holsters contain screwdrivers—for removing license plates from illegally parked cars.
Festivities got off to the usual slow start, everyone waiting—and waiting—for the brass to show up. This traficante, long experienced in delays of this kind, used the downtime to attend to a couple of personal hygiene issues.
OK. I know that's a cheap shot. But look, in these days of cellphone cameras, everyone is doing it, and besides, our traficante is much more circumspect than this Russian cop:
Oh, Jeez, Boris. Get your hand out of there! (Let this be a lesson to you: Be careful who you shake hands with.)
The graduating cadets, less inured to delays, found other ways to amuse themselves.
Bored myself, I asked these young officers to smile. In response, Cadet Deciderio made faces. The cop on the left lost it just after I snapped the photo.
Finally the Mayor arrived and ceremonies got underway. We were all looking forward to a timely finish when one of the Mayor's constituents insinuated herself into the picture with some complaints.
The cameraman and a bystander are cracking up. The guy on the right is taking notes: "Yes, Ma'am. Of course, Ma'am. No, we won't forget, Ma'am."
You can tell she's not buying it. The mayor might run for the Senate in another couple of years. He's gonna have to work hard for her vote. My advice to him: It wouldn't hurt to lose the cigarette-hiding-behind-the-back trick. It sure isn't fooling her.
After the abuela let the Mayor go, everybody lined up to get this thing over with. The high and mighty in the Police department came to attention, more or less.
The Generalissimo there on the left is the Chief of Police. He is so exalted he doesn't even need to shine his shoes. The officer with the radical cuffs is Director of the Police Academy. He looks like a can-do guy to me. Confidence-inspiring.
The cadets wiped the silly expressions off their faces, formed up and came to attention as well.
A few new Robocops, resplendent in body armor, proudly bearing their white "training" batons, with their pink plastic "training" pistols properly holstered, joined the ranks.
I'm guessing we're deploying them in case things get out of hand at San Miguel's running of the bulls this year. Let's see, 50,000 drunk teenagers, a handful of Robocops. I think I'd call in sick that day.
The cadets were becoming restive, standing at attention, so the Academy Director made them run around the block.
This new generation of police takes itself seriously.
Officer Tovar, in her "one-size fits-most" hat.
As the Mayor pointed out in his address to those assembled, our cops by and large are free of corruption. Times have changed. Today we have a professional police department bent on serving the public; not a band of government-sanctioned extortionists.
The cadets exude determination to be good cops. They haven't become disillusioned and I hope they don't.
Everytime I become jaded about our police, I run across a picture of some Eastern European cop, and I'm reminded to be grateful for the ones we have.
—§—
The city seems to have good funding this year. Nor did the outgoing administration steal everything that wasn't nailed down, so there was money for all kinds of police goodies. We got some new pickup trucks, a couple of new motorcycles and a couple of new patrol cars.
"Hand up... to request your right of way." I think this is intended to assist pedestrians, who presently are treated as fare game (Oops. That's fair game) by many drivers. Could this be a little police humor?
We got lots of new walkie-talkies, without which no traficante can properly function.
We got spiffy new bicycles, important in our congested streets.
But do you think they'd let those enthusiastic young officers ride them away? Nooo. They might scratch them or something. Better to load them up in one of the new pickups and take them back to HQ. With an officer in the bed to keep them from rattling around. Safety first.
Traficantes can be serious, too. More women are joining the police, and their presence seems to temper all of the officers. I'm finding both men and women to be more competent and helpful, and I read that experience shows they are pretty much immune to the lure of corruption, and serve as examples to the men.
Finally the celebration was over. Time to go back to work.
OK. Refreshments first. Then back to work.
Cola
The hacker's choice. "All the sugar and twice the caffeine." A minor brand, but a memorable one.
Jolt Cola doesn't appear to have much of a presence in Mexico. Too bad for Wet Planet Beverages, the parent company, because Mexico is a great cola market. In fact, it's tied for #1 in the world with the U. S. for per-capita consumption.
Of course, Coca-Cola is the biggie. Vicente Fox ran Coca-Cola Mexico before being elected the first non-PRI President of the country. But as in the U. S., small brands compete here too.
The U. S. has Jolt Cola; Mexico has Goat Cola.
Chiva means goat. The choice of name will leave you scratching your head unless you follow Mexican soccer. Chivas are the professional team of the City of Guadalajara and current national champions. They are the most popular team in Mexico with a huge following. The co-branding is ferocious: cola is one of a large number of products leveraging the team's popularity.
For example, there's water:
If that's too tame, there's tequila:
That covers the drinks. There's much, much more. You got your toothbrushes, deodorant, dog collars, rice, watches, chewing gum, and diapers. It goes on and on. You could stock your entire house with Chivas stuff. And I'm sure there's fans who do.
I tried the Chivas Cola. It tasted like—Jolt.