Many of the streets are as yet unpaved, but Olimpo definitely is urban. Lots of raw brick exteriors, but a few nice buildings: a church, a couple of remodels. The dome belongs to CASA, an NGO working to reduce domestic violence.
The photo above was taken from the Fraccionmiento Los Mezquites. Turn around and walk a few steps, and this is what you see:
Farms in Berkeley? We got 'em right here in San Miguel. This one is surrounded by housing tracts.
It's a bucolic scene: a watermelon hanging from a vine, a dog lying by a dirt road, a cow chewing its cud. You won't see anything like this in Sunnyvale.
See how the low morning light shines through the cow's translucent ears. Let's see if we can get a close-up of that...
HOLY SHIT!
THAT's not a cow. LOOK at those HORNS!
It stands right up, alarmed, when I approach. On guard. Watching me suspiciously. Ready, if need be, for action.
I don't know how long or strong that rope is, and I'm not about to find out. I'm outta here RIGHT NOW!
[Got a nice shot of his ears, though.]
Over the years, I've bought countless numbers of these living Christmas decorations. They add spectacular color and a festive air wherever you see them.
Sometimes after New Year's Eve, I've tried to keep one or two alive for the next holiday season, but they always died. Maybe I gave them too much water. Or kept them too warm. Or too cold. Maybe they're just florists' plants propagated for brief display, unable to sustain longer lives.
Maybe they don't like living in gringo-land.
Poinsettias originated in Mexico, where they are called Flor de Nochebuena—the Christmas Eve flower. This time of year, you see them all over, wearing their winter colors.
No tender hothouse plants, these: they grow in the toughest of conditions, becoming as much as ten feet tall.
Finding the beauty of Mexico requires seeing past decay and litter. As I look toward this trashy yard, what catches my eye is not heaps of junk or carcasses of old cars, but brilliant layers of red, elegantly shimmering, somehow enhanced by the drab surroundings.
Our town has maybe a dozen soccer fields. None of them have any grass, but that doesn't discourage anyone. We have many youth teams, but unlike in the U. S., high school and college teams thrive here as well.
I saw this team forming up in Juarez Park the other day.
They are the Tecos, short for tecolotes which means "owls." Their name has been lifted directly from the professional soccer team associated with the Universidad Autónomo de Guadalajara, That's why it says "UAG" on the owl logos on their jerseys.
(Copyrights? We don' need no steenking copyrights.)
The professional team seems to be undistinguished. The UAG fight song suggests unrealized ambitions. Sounds funny to me. You can listen to it here.
The UAG team also has a website, but anyone who visits there is denied access. As Borat says, "Niiice.
But the kids don't care about any of that. They're at that wonderful, innocent age when all they want to do is play ball.
I think they're cute.
Large developments have sprung up at the periphery of the city; smaller ones are being built in more central areas where enough land can be found. The houses pictured above probably are priced in the neighborhood of $100,000 U. S.—ideal for an expatriate with modest resources or a Mexican middle manager.
But for the vast majority of Mexicans, these houses might as well be on the Moon. Never, in their lifetimes nor in their children's, will they accumulate enough to buy one.
Competition from the well-heeled makes things worse. My friend, Guadalupe Cano, built his four-bedroom house in the little pueblo of Capilla de Milpillas, near Guadalajara, for $25,000. He'd have to spend ten times that much to build it here. What Bill Clinton called "ordinary people" have been frozen out of the market.
What to do?
The government has thrown itself into the breach.
The Fondo Nacional de Apoyo Económico a la Vivenda (the Mexican penchant for unpronounceable acronyms renders this FONAEVI) provides a much-needed path to home ownership for the poor.
The name means something like the National Fund for Economic Support of Housing. The medallion reeks of typical governmental paternalism: tu casa, not the respectful su casa. And the inclusion of every Mexican politician's smarmy catchphrase: Contigo es posible—With you, it's possible.
Barf.
But the program is a good one. How it works is, you begin by depositing at least $50 pesos in a bank account. When interest and contributions amount to $12,000 pesos, you can purchase a government-built house for $120,000 with your savings, taking back a $108,000 low-cost mortgage.
That's an entire house for $11,000, in real money. Only $1,100 down. About the price of a beater car.
Here's what you get for your money:
OK. These are never gonna make the cover of Architectural Digest. But while they might not appeal to you and me, for many Mexican families, they are the impossible dream.
Look. They have water and electricity and sewers and four walls and a roof and a front door that can be locked. No phone or gas, but you add those later, when you can afford them.
Rosario, our cook, lives in a similarly subsidized house. Illiterate, a mother at 13 years old, employed as a maid all her life, she and her cab driver husbad could never have owned their home without help.
There's a long waiting list for these houses. Plus, I think there's a lottery involved. Until your turn comes up, you just have to do the best you can. Often, that's not very well.
"Pablito! You're driving me crazy. Go outside and watch TV!"
Well, one option would be to stop right in the middle of the narrow cobblestone street, turn on the emergency flashers, and take the tire for repair. No need to worry about blocking traffic. Everyone expects traffic jams and delays. It's a natural part of life in Mexico, land of mañana.
So, block the rear tire with the "parking brake" carried in the truck bed (on account of the factory-installed one hasn't worked in years). Remove the right front wheel. And just leave the whole thing sitting there while finding a place that patches tires.
What we're looking for is a sign like the one pictured below; one that says vulcanizadora. Means "guy that fixes flats."
These signs are commonly written on old tires, to make their meaning clear to the illiterate and the Spanish-impaired. You see them everywhere. Good thing, too, because Mexican roads are tough on tires. Cobblestones, potholes, rocks left on the pavement, pointy junk falling off trucks and thin tires; people are always getting flats.
This sign tells us to look across the street.
Oooh-Kay. Vulcanizadora "Casaneda." This time vulcanizadora is spelled right. Things are looking up.
We Norteamericanos are accustomed to businesses that look a little more... well... businesslike. But in my experience, this place looks typical for a vulcanizadora. Not to worry. Go knock on the door.
Nobody home. What's that sign say?
Ah. "We are now changed to our new address..." It's about a mile away. Keep rolling that tire, Juanito.
Meanwhile traffic piles up behind the blinking truck. Horns honk. Maybe the traficantes will tow it away. ¿Quién sabe?
Drives us gringos nuts.
On a frosty morning walk I noticed this sign.
It's the No Name Fish and Shellfish Restaurant.
The sign caught my attention because the lettering was neat and colorful, although I think it could lose the droopy serifs on the P and the M. What particularly intrigued me, though, was yet another example of using a living creature's happy image to whet appetites.
Here we have a jowly octopus (or strictly speaking, a pentapus) representing a meal. Actually, octopus, called pulpo in Spanish, is widely consumed here, and is, en mí opinión, delicious. But then, I eat tako sushi.
Mmmm-mmmm.
But I digress.
The sailor hat is a nice touch. The octopus's expression could use a little punching up; I can't decide if he's smiling or gritting his teeth. Good orthodontia, though.
Bottle of beer? Must be party time.
A truly individualistic icon. Disney never reached this level of hominess.
Ciruela amarilla (Spondias mombin L.)
The name translates as "yellow plum," but this one's neither yellow nor a plum.
I think they may be gathered in the wild rather than cultivated, because they tend to come with blemishes, galls and scaly spots. They have a thick, waxy skin that tastes a little bitter, and a huge, woody pit. The flesh is only an eighth of an inch thick, so there's no point in peeling it, 'cause there'll be nothing left to eat if you do.
How you eat one is, you throw the whole thing in your mouth, grind off the tough skin with your teeth (which you chew up and swallow) and gnaw the pit awhile to get the flesh. One fruit produces maybe a teaspoon of nutrition.
They don't keep well, either.
Three ciruelas amarillas and one pit.
So why bother? Clearly ciruelas amarillas are never gonna compete with, say, a juicy, ripe peach.
Well, the reason you bother is because the flesh is intensely aromatic, exotically flavored and is the sweetest fruit you've ever tasted.
One of the benefits of living in Mexico is access to foods you've never eaten before. For every fruit available in the U. S., there are two or more here. I've not even begun to work my way through them all.
One other note of warning with this fruit is in order: Don't put the pits into the garbage disposal. I did. I had to replace it. The pits are incredibly hard. Tore the guts right out of the machine. Throwing in a handful of ¼—20 steel nuts would not have been harder on it.
...except here, they are called the Caballeros de Colón.
God, what a great name—redolent of mustachioed men in capes and flat hats, galloping through fields of cacti.
But whenever I see this sign, the romantic image quickly dissipates as I recall the old song I learned in college:
I am a gay caballero,
Traveling to Rio de Janeiro.
And I carry with me,
My bom-bom-badee,
And both of my bom-bom-baderos...
Sad, isn't it, that some people never grow up.
—§—
Boy it's a bitch getting old.
I guess I'll just rest my bony ass here. Jeez, do my feet ever hurt.
So what the hell is the problem here? I knew I should have worn socks.
Maybe there's something in my shoe.
Well Hellooo little schoolgirls. You want a Walnetto?
Hmmm. No takers. I guess they're wise to me.
Well, no point in hanging around here. This wall is hard. Now it's my butt that hurts.
Boy it's a bitch getting old.
Not so in Mexico. Mexicans are hard-working, practical folks. They don't have time for this stuff. Oh sure, there's a little Catholic mysticism; a dabbling in Mayan ritual. But no Mexican really takes any of this stuff seriously. There seems to be an absence of the truly weird.
Or is there?
I came upon the Instituto Gnostica de Antropologica on my daily walk. I tried to decipher the sign. No luck. Too many words not in my vocabulary. So I snapped this photo and took it home to evaluate at my desk.
What we have here is the Occult Institute of Anthropology. The name, of course, doesn't make sense. Maybe they meant to say, "The Institute of Occult Anthropology." No, that doesn't work either.
No matter. Neither translation tells us anything. Checking the rest of the sign, we are able to discern without referring to a dictionary that the Institute offers lectures (conferencias) on philosophy, art, science and mysticism. Well, that pretty much covers the University of California curriculum and then some.
Specific subjects include meditation, archeology, and "dream yoga", whatever the hell that is.
For the rest of it, I had to hit the books.
Fenomeno OVNI is an acronym for objeto volador no indentificado. It means UFO—unidentified flying object. "UFO phenomina." Already I can hear Theremin music starting to play.
For Culturas Serpentinas (snake cultures?) I found a reference on a web site that calls itself Metareligion.
A page on the web site states, "The authentic Aztec and Mayan cultures, the Egyptian and Chaldean, etc. are Serpentine Cultures that cannot be understood without Sexual Magic and the Kundalini." Huh?
(For a sojourn in the weird, check out Metareligion. Kinky sex here.)
The most obscure topic, La Masería, appears to have something to do with calendar medallions from Pompeii. That figures.
From all this, I conclude that Mexicans can be just as fruity as Norteamericanos. Paul Latour, who has lived in Mexico forever isn't so sure. He thinks the Instituto Gnostica probably is something created by expatriates. From Marin.
Maybe one of you knows something about this stuff. Until I hear from you, I'll remain a-gnostic.
No, they are not.
They are waiting to pay their electric bills.
Hard to imagine, isn't it? Up north, the first time something like this ever happened, there'd be outraged editorials, lawsuits, and recall elections.
In the U. S., electric companies may be monopolies, but it's commonly understood that they exist to serve people. Utilities are expected to cater to their customers. When consumers are inconvenienced by monopolies, hordes of bureaucrats descend on them, and the situation usually gets corrected fast.
So what's going on, here?
First of all, many years ago, the electric companies were nationalized. So, power is supplied by a government monopoly: La Comisión Federal de Electricidad, or CFE.
Think of it as getting your power from the US Postal Service.
Next, Mexico's economy operates on a cash basis, by which I mean, most people don't have bank accounts. So they pay CFE in person—with cash.
It may not even be possible to pay by mailing a check drawn on a Mexican bank. I don't know anybody who has even bothered to try. Nobody in their right mind mails anything important because Sepomex, the Mexican postal service, is broken.
All electric bills fall due on a single day every two months. Mexicans are frugal electric power users; even so, they struggle to come up with the cash for that bimonthly bill.
So they pay it on the last day. They wait in line for hours while CFE's disinterested clerks process the incredible amount of paperwork associated with any government-related transaction.
They wait patiently, because they have always been made to wait, and they don't realize that in many parts of the world, citizens would find waiting intolerable.
Real power continues to elude ordinary Mexicans. Of the many reasons why this is so, one is that a national attitude of passively accepting bureaucratic abuse dissipates pressure for change.
Would you wait in line to pay your bills?
I have to pay an electric bill. But I don't wait in line. I send the bill via our cook, Rosario, to Lloyds (think Schwab) with the bill and they transfer money out of my account to CFE's. I have to pay my bill a week early, and Lloyds charges me 65 cents to make the transfer, and Rosario has to do all the work.
Sometimes I hate myself for this rich gringo stuff.
Then the bill comes. No way I'm gonna wait in line. So I give it to Rosario.
All Mexicans need Rosarios. Or a better electric company. Getting the former is more likely.
But in Mexico, there's another option: Doctors make house calls.
Yes. Just like when I was a kid, the doctor will come to your house if you want him to. You pay a small premium for him to come over, but it means you don't have to travel when you don't feel up to par, and you don't have to read last year's New Yorkers in a waiting room while the doctor struggles to catch up with his schedule, and you don't have to breathe aerosol bugs sprayed by the sneezing guy sitting next to you.
It's worth the ten bucks.
So Jean called Dr. Jorge Martinez and asked him to visit. Here he is with Jean, taking her complaints.
Now, doesn't that look pleasant? Instead of a soulless clinic, Jean and the doctor sit on loveseats in our outdoor sala, enjoying a sunny, warm day, breathing the scent of blooming vines.
Dr. Martinez is an excellent physician. Like many Mexican doctors, he is a superb diagnostician. (Lab work is a heavy financial burden for many Mexican patients, so it's important to reach a diagnosis as directly as possible.) He has an comforting bedside manner, and he carries a supply of commonly needed medications in his little black bag, often saving you a trip to the pharmacy.
Also, Rose likes him.
(Rose is our Boston Terrier, seated beside Jean.)
Dr. Martinez has a substantial following among the gringa (female Norteamericanas) population of San Miguel, because of his elegant manner, his friendly demeanor, and because he is very handsome.
The gringas call him, "Dr. Gorgeous."
—§—
You can't go to Safeway and get animal heads wrapped in plastic film. Tough, if you've got a hankering for tacos de cabeza.
Most supermarket meat departments never see whole carcasses, and they never get heads to sell. In fact, the spoilsports over at the USDA have banned them as too risky to eat.
Norteamericano meat is processed in some huge plant in e. g. Wisconsin and is shipped broken down into neat packages that local workers, with minimal effort, convert into steaks, roasts and hamburger. Less desirable parts become pet food or something. I hope.
In San Miguel, we get the whole animal. In the carnicerias (butcher shops) you see more of your meat than you really want to. For that matter, you see parts of animals you'd just as soon not have seen.
The carnicerias, in turn, receive their meat from the local matadero (slaughterhouse), which is conveniently located not far from the central bus station. Mexicanos don't hide their meat processing away in some remote locale.
This building is ugly, which somehow seems fitting. What happens inside is ugly.
All the workers wear white plastic boots. I guess they need them. Eewww.
This guy is doing the meat-packing Hokey Pokey.
An ungrammatical sign has been painted on the front of the building. It is directed at farmers who bring animals to the slaughterhouse.
What initially struck me about it was the happy cow on the left, smiling from the truck that is bringing him to his doom.
Ah, yes. Happy chickens, smiling pigs, dancing shrimp—Mexicans don't seem to be put off by images of living animals intended for food. A photo of a feathered chicken apparently sets mouths to watering. I guess it's whatever you're used to.
The steer depicted on the right, the one being pushed down the ramp, looks unhappy. Hmmm. Something is wrong here. Animals are supposed to be happy about being eaten. This one doesn't fit the pattern.
Better read the sign.
It says, "The municipal authorities recommend that you cure and transport healthy livestock." (Italics mine.)
Well, I hope so.
I don't know about you, but do you want to chow down on beef from animals that have been cured?
Cured of what?
And how come the municipal authorities only recommend you don't bring sick animals to the slaughterhouse? Isn't there a law? Isn't there some kind of inspector that arrests and jails violators?
It gets worse. In smaller lettering, it says, "Transport (only) livestock that doesn't have lesions or maggots."
(Didn't need any italics there, did I?)
And just in case you're still missing the point, the painting of the steer (that we now know is being rejected) shows eight devilish little worms frolicking on its back. In a lesion.
Oh, ick! I'll never look at meat the same way again.
One other image is worth mentioning.
This appears to represent either a Mexican Air Force nuclear bomber or a radioactive fly.
I think the artist intended something like this, but he got carried away with circles.
Around 80,000 people eat the meat that comes through this place. There have been no reports of problems. The meat we get is fresher than any we got in the U. S. Today's lunch may have been on the hoof yesterday.
The sign gives the wrong impression. Agricultural inspection stations are located on the highways, and livestock cannot be sold to the slaughterhouse without certificates. But besides writing innumerable laws and hiring hordes of officials to oversee everything, Mexicans like to put up friendly advisory signs.
Somebody's nephew probably needed a job. The slaughterhouse owner probably asked him to paint a nice sign sign. Mexicans realize that it's just friendly advice. They know there's more teeth in the food safety system than just the sign.
But there's no getting around it. Slaughterhouses are nasty. Killing animals and cutting them up is vile and probably dirty. Anywhere in the world.
You think it's different up north? When did you last check? Your slaughterhouse is at least two states away and surrounded by a razor-wire-topped chain-link fence. We can't go in them. We really have no idea of what it's like inside those places.
Wait a minute. Actually we do. If you haven't read it yet, check out Eric Schlosser's Fast Food Nation. Then go to McDonalds and order a Big Mac. I guarantee it won't taste the same.
There's no excuse for scuffed shoes, because a shine costs only ten pesos—less than a dollar.
But I think the more important service these guys provide is a moment of rest on a warm day, and ten minutes of conversation. It's a way of pausing for breath, of chatting with friends, of indulging in a small luxury. You go on your way feeling a little better about yourself, knowing that you're looking good.
You won't find this at the shopping mall.
The pueblo of Adjuntos del Rio is a throwback to the last century—early last century. Plenty of automobiles roam the streets, but animals are still an important form of transport. Like if you're bringing alfalfa (or maybe those are weeds) in from the field.
(Note that the old woman appears to have suffered from rickets (wiki). You sometimes see such people, who grew up in Mexico when it was even poorer than it is now.)
A burro is good for drawing a little cart full of snacks to sell to schoolchildren. This guy probably doesn't make enough to afford gas, much less a car.
(Check out the motorcycle wheels.)
But the main business of Adjunto del Rio is making furniture and other items out of mesquite. Maybe a dozen workshops operate here. I'm told that no other place in Mexico harbors such a concentration of mesquite woodworkers.
I usually think of mesquite as a rangy shrub, but it grows into gnarled trees that yield beautifully grained, hard, dense wood.
It is so heavy that I could not lift one end of this piece.
Like most small workshops in Mexico, machinery is crude and decidedly unsafe.
The wiring on this horizontal saw is an OSHA nightmare.
This table saw looks like it's going to fall over, but it was built this way on purpose. The downhill slant of the table makes it easier to push heavy wood through the blade. The crack in the right leg is, however, not confidence-inspiring.
This worker is pushing a tiny piece of wood through a saw which has never seen a safety guard. He is not using the fence, so the fingers on both of his hands are about an inch from the blade. The blade is set way too high for the work he is doing.
Can you say "kickback?"
Several of the workers were missing fingers. Shaking hands with these guys is, let me say, an experience.
One old (retired) worker engaged me in conversation while my friend, Paul Latoures transacted business with the owner. My chat with the old man quickly turned into a Spanish lesson. Lack of fingers inhibited his writing. Lack of sobriety inhibited his spelling. I wondered, did he lose his fingers because he was drunk on the job, or was he drinking to forget his injury?
This portly man wandered around the premises carrying a framer's square.
I never figured out what his funciton was.
But I had no difficulty seeing what Julieta's job was. I watched her busily sanding, staining and finishing.
Developmentally disabled, Julieta was friendly, shy, and sweet. She would not let me photograph her unless she got to pose. One bright blue eye and one black one gave her an arresting appearance. She wanted to know if I was going to sell her photo.
This unlikely cast of characters, using their crude tools, makes beautiful furniture. We ate dinner tonight with some friends on their glowing mesquite dining table, sitting on their handmade chairs.
All that goes on in Adjunos del Rio is woodworking. There's no night life, no parks to walk in, only one paved street. All you can do is make furniture. Or tortillas.
The only excitement is the occasional lost finger. Maybe there's more to life in some other place.
Well, you can always dream.
You don't have to put up with disinterested employees like those robotically dishing out Starbucks coffee or Benetton sweaters. Here, you deal with the owner, and you know you're getting the absolute best he has to offer, from a man who is dedicating his life to his enterprise.
Here is an example: a blacksmith's shop.
The black oval sign hanging over the door announces that the shop is a herreria (smithy) and that the blacksmith makes rótulos (signs).
What caught my eye, though, was the A-frame sign on the street.
This is unrestrained ebullience, unfettered by convention.
You'll never find that font at Adobe. The owner wanted maximally decorative lettering and that's what he got. He didn't get readability, and he clearly wasn't looking for it.
An ad agency would have trimmed his sails. It would have stressed getting his message through to the customer. Easy-to-read lettering. A catchy slogan. A look designed with a future possibility of franchising.
This blacksmith answers to a higher call. What good is his smithy if it only focuses on sales? This guy wants more than just a place to make money. His soul yearns for self-expression. His business is his medium.
He has a dream, and he's following it. How many of us can say the same?
What changed?
To many, the consequences of sticking with the current policies were clear, and they voted accordingly in 2004. But many others supported the President and his minions.
Last Tuesday, they changed their minds. Why? The situation hasn't changed. The same partisanship, corruption, militancy, mendacity, irresponsibility, and hubris ran rampant in Washington two years ago, right out there in broad daylight for anyone to see.
My theory: A bloc of voters too uninformed or stupid to make reasoned judgments blindly accepted the fear-mongering of the President two years ago. Their tiny little minds needed another two years to come to the realization that his policies were dumping the country into the toilet.
Plato said that democracy is the second worst form of government—little better than anarchy. Was he right?
—§—
The count goes on in Virginia, where the fate of the Senate will be decided. I saw this in the New York Times this morning,
In preparation for certifying the outcome, election workers in Virginia examined receipts from electronic voting machines on Wednesday.
Doesn't this photo and its caption bother anyone?
The question of who will control the Senate of the United States is going to be decided by an election worker checking vote counts using a calculator that has no printer. So the only evidence we will have for his decisions is his word.
"Seriously, guys. George Allen won. There was an 8,000 vote error in Jim Webb's totals. See? Right there on my calculator. Minus 8,256. Honest."
Adjuntas del Rio—which I'll loosely translate as "Riverside"— is a tiny pueblo near Delores Hidalgo. There can't be five hundred people living there. But even as few as five hundred need some essential services, and Adjuntas del Rio has the basic ones.
First and foremost, there's that Mexican sine qua non, a tortilleria. Seven pesos per kilo. So nobody goes hungry.
The other business that operates at the main intersection in the center of town is the more interesting one.
Yes, it's Computer World. Sales, service, shipping, candy and popcorn, they've got it all. I can't imagine that their sales volume is all that great. Then again, it doesn't take much hard cash to live in Adjuntas del Rio. I wouldn't be surprised to find that the bulk of their business is conducted by barter.
But what really makes this place sing to me is the image of Homer Simpson, studious in his reading glasses, emblazoned on the front of the building.
What exactly is the intended message here? I mean, why would you want to associate a doofus with your high-tech business?
I can only imagine that the owner is unfamiliar with Homer's character.
Just wait until he finds out.
Doh!
—§—
(Thanks to Doug Lord for retrieving the name of the town, which I had forgotten to record.)
Groceries can be heavy, even if you only shop for one day's worth of food. And many people can't afford to own a car.
All this creates a niche for vendors to bring the grocery store to the neighborhoods. Usually these mobile mercados are small trucks with a tent pitched over the back to shade the produce. They service a set route, appearing on the same streets at the same times every day.
Yesterday, I ran across a more informal vendor.
Maybe this guy is a regular vendor for the modest section of Colonia San Antonio he is servicing. But I would guess he isn't. Some clues: the car is a low-visibility storefront, there can't be $10 worth of vegetables in his trunk, and the four guys in the picture are all members of the same family. There are no customers, nor did I see any when I checked back an hour later.
Most telling, though, was the apparent lack of concern for generating repeat business through satisfied customers. The guy on the right was rotating tomatoes in the plastic bag so that their rotten sides wouldn't show. From the tired appearance of his stock, I suspect they're selling spoiled produce discarded by a more reputable market.
Norteamericanos are amused by some Mexican brand names. Well, at least I am. For example, take the truck on the left.
Here's a brand name that would never fly in the U. S. It the kind of product name you'd expect to find on The Simpsons. Fud Beer, the lighter alternative to Duff!
Fud is a brand of deli meats. It could also be the sound a salami makes when it falls on the floor.
The sign on the truck hawks their Virginia Ham. (You know of course that this stuff has never been within a thousand miles of Virginia.) The tag line reads "great flavor for devouring."
Advertising slogans don't translate well.
The truck on the right distributes my all-time favorite Mexican brand.
Yes, Bimbo is Mexico's favorite bread. If you tried to market this up north, you'd have NOW on your butt before the ink was dry on your stationery.
Bimbo has "the power of wheat," whatever that means. It looks, tastes and feels exactly like Wonder Bread. If you ask for pan tostado (toast) with your breakfast, Bimbo is what you'll get. If you ask for pan integral tostado (whole wheat toast) you'll get Bimbo white bread colored with molasses, just like Wonder "whole wheat."
I'm glad it has the power of wheat, 'cause it sure doesn't have any flavor. Gotta rely on Fud for that.
One day, I'm gonna walk into a lunch bar and order a sandwich: "Gimme a Fud on Bimbo!" Just because I can.
And then I'm gonna devour it.
(All this is most amusing when you first come to Mexico. After you get your Spanish up and running, you realize that Bimbo is pronounced beam-bo, and Fud is pronounced food. Too bad.)
They're about the size of a very large egg, with a thin orange shell backed by a thicker, pithy white one. You open one by digging your fingernails into the hard shell and pulling the halves apart.
The edible part is a gelatinous gray mass full of crunchy little seeds. It's kind of like eating Rice Crispies Jello, except much sweeter.
I think the seed glob looks like brains. Sort of like a skull that has been broken open. To my adolescent mind, this is a positive feature. I love foods with high gross-out value.
You eat it by placing your open mouth over the open fruit, and sucking.
Cool, huh?
The demand is huge. Porters stream into the impromptu mercado, hauling great bundles of flowers.
Some stalls sell food. The saying is, "In Mexico, no one dies of hunger."
(The woman on the far left is saying either "Garçon!" or "Don't you dare take my picture!")
Other Day of the Dead essentials are on sale. These ladies are selling one-gallon jalapeño cans, to be used as vases. Five pesos. It's hard to imagine that even the entire population of San Miguel could eat that many hot peppers in a year.
The city laid on extra services to handle the celebration. Mounted policemen...
... garbage trucks to carry away trash and weeds...
...and a line of tankers carrying water for all those flowers.
In the mid-morning, the lines of people coming in and out of the cemetery are already thick. By mid-afternoon, it will take an hour or more to make it through the gate.
Everyone cleans and decorates graves. Some get into serious gardening. When my friend Erika saw this photo, she asked, "¿Excavan los huesos?" (Are they digging up the bones?)
Yeah. Right, Erika. They give 'em a good scrubbing every year.
The water trucks delivered water through a pump and a hose to this cistern (below, left). The stream from the faucet was splattering bystanders, so with typical Mexican make-do ingenuity, someone fashioned a deflector out of the commonest object available—a plastic Coke bottle (below, right).
(Coke bottles get used for everything: paint cans, pots for plant starts, protectors for exposed rebar ends, and urinals, to name a few.)
Young boys with plastic buckets dipped water out of the cistern and delivered it to those who needed it. They were learning young how to make a few pesos on Day of the Dead. The water ended up in those jalapeño cans, keeping the flowers fresh.
Some families held graveside memorial services.
Here, a departed loved one is treated to a favorite song.
Up north, we usually visit graves singly or in small groups. We're solemn, maybe a little sad. We don't do it very often, and we've all seen how neglected some cemeteries look. Up north the dead are soon forgotten. They're gone forever.
In Mexico, departed loved ones are never completely gone. They return every year to visit with with their families.
I saw no tears. I heard prayers and laughter and singing. I saw tamales and tequila being consumed. I sensed the presence of those who had died, sitting with their families, benign, happy, content on a lovely day for a picnic.
A Mexican graveyard is a place for happiness, a place of beauty.
—§—
On the following day, it's back to work. The crowds, the stalls, the singing have all gone away. The street outside the cemetery is empty except for a lone flower vendor, hoping to sell his leftover roses to a late visitor.
He's not trying very hard. he knows the main show is over, and nobody is in a buying mood. But in Mexico, you don't throw stuff away. Not knowing what else to do, he's gonna try selling them.
A city worker sweeps up yesterday's trash with her home made twig broom.
Dogs patrol between graves, looking for spilled food. Today, there's no one to chase them away.
The cemetery road is much quieter than normal. Everybody is partied out. In a few days, the traffic will pick up again.
But today, we've all had enough of the dead. Time to get back to living.
Well, of course, the Day of the Dead is not about tragedy or loss or moldering bones. But without actually being there, how could we gringos be expected to understand it?
So now we are here. What a privilege to reside in Mexico, and to join in celebrating this most wonderful and warm holiday.
On the Day of the Dead Mexican families go to the cemetery to commune with loved ones who have gone before. They honor the deceased by decorating their graves, and they share some hours with them, conversing, singing, picnicking. They believe that the spirits of their forebears return to join them in a comfortable, happy family reunion.
The Day of the Dead is the last of a series of three holidays, each after the other. October 31st. is of course, Halloween—somewhat toned down from the U. S. holiday. Then we have All Saints' Day—November 1st. I don't see a whole lot of saint honoring going on, but then I didn't go into any churches, so maybe I missed it. And finally, November 2nd. is the big event—El Dia de los Muertos. Here's a look at what's been happening.
—§—
October 31: Halloween.
Trick or treating, wandering around in costumes, jack-o-lanterns, witches and such don't figure much in Mexican life. But they're beginning to catch on.
Children with plastic bags or little plastic jack-o-lantern baskets come up to you and say, "Deme una favorita" (Gimme a treat). They'll accept candy or pesos.
This trick-or-treater is waiting for a handout from a costume and candy vendor, whose stall is one of the few I saw dedicated to Halloween (as opposed to Day of the Dead), with masks and a Spiderman cape on offer. The boy apparently comes from a poor home: His costume consists in its entirely of red makeup smeared on his face.
For more than a week leading up to the holidays, vendors in tents set up shop in the Plaza Civil and other locations around San Miguel. Most of them sell candy.
Here a muchacha, held by her mamá, stuffs her face with a candy lamb while her abuela (grandma) rummages in her handbag for a couple of pesos to pay for it.
(Note how mamá effortlessly holds her six-year-old one-handed. Mexican children are held and carried much more than their Norteamericano counterparts. Consequently, they rarely fuss and cry, and their mothers are really strong.)
Yes, kids don't munch on candy skulls exclusively. In fact, most of the figures, called alfeñique, are modeled on animals, fruits, and toys.
Part of the decoration of graves and altars includes candles, sold at dedicated stalls.
The prices are in pesos, so the small white candles on the left cost about 45 cents.
(I would ask my friend, Paul Latoures, photographer extraordinaire, to lighten up when he sees these images. They were taken in low light without flash using a hand-held camera—f2.8 was my widest aperture. So gimme a break, Paul. They're not that noisy. Or blurry. Or whatever, given the shooting conditions. Did I mention the crowds? The vendors shooing me away? Sheesh! Critics!)
All over town you can see signs of the approaching holidays.
Here in front of the Parroquoia, San Miguel's iconographic church, is an image of yet another Mexican icon, Katrina, fashioned after the famous drawing by José Guadalupe Posada.
What a beauty she is, with her high-style hat, her toothy smile and her bony décolletage.
—§—
November 1: All Saint's Day
Truckloads of flowers have come into town overnight. Impromptu flower stalls have been set up near the Tianguis Ignacio Ramirez, the Mercado de San Juan de Dios and other locations around town.
Orange marigolds are the traditional flower, found on most graves and altars.
This altar honors Lic. José Vasconcelos, a deceased prominent citizen whose family is connected with the Vasconcelos school, where I volunteered as an English teacher for the last three years. The altar contains his picture, flowers, candles, sugar skulls and candy lambs, and a few of his favorite foods: tamales, a yam, jicama and sweet rolls. Gifts for his returning spirit. Often you see cigarettes, or bottles of tequila on altars, always with a family member nearby to keep an eye on them.
Flower paintings appear on the pavement and papeles picados (elaborately cut tissues) fly overhead.
Flower paintings contain a lot of orange, owing to the availability of inexpensive marigolds.
After night falls on All Saints' Day, people crowd into the Jardin—the central plaza—to party. Mariachis play old favorites. (I swear, if I hear Cielito Lindo one more time...)
Ghouls come out to dance...
... or to see and be seen.
All of this has been the warm-up. Tomorrow is The Day of the Dead—the main event.