Pozole
Some
years back I bought a small parcel of land in a 501c3-type community near
Durango, Mexico. (I have since learned that the legal category for this community is 'Asociasion Civil'). I bought it sight
unseen, through a network of people with whom I have a connection dating back
to the 70s. The Canadian organizer is
Jhampa, a Tibetan name taken with his vows as a Buddhist monk. I sent him the money he said would suffice, and a floor plan to construct the shell of a house. After about five years, I finally got to
visit the place. It was meant to be a
community of like-minded people, the unifying factor being that we all have
been students and practitioners of Tibetan Buddhism, of or near retirement age. After 15 years of teaching English in China,
I was ready to retire.
With
the funds I sent, the shell of a house was built by the caretaker, Juan. I was given the impression that the shell was
completed. I had only to work on
finishing the interior. Basic wiring and plumbing were complete. When the funds stopped, so did the
construction.
In November 2016 Jhampa
drove me out to the site for the first time.
While it has a roof with a passive solar hot water heater (rotting in
the hot sun for five idle years), one wall where a sliding door was to go was
open to the elements. The floor was
littered with hay, and other remains of cattle’s visits. The layout was good, fairly accurate
according to my drawing. It would still
take a lot of money to finish it the way I envisioned it, with a modern kitchen
and bathroom, a Franklin stove in the living room, wood floors in the bedroom
and tile in the rest, and lots of built-in closet space.
Before
I could work further on my dream home, I had to generate the necessary capital.
Though years of teaching English had
allowed me to build up a nice bank account, my last three years there saw my
career take a swing towards an alternate path; I opened a bakery, which became
my money pit. My pockets were nearly empty when I arrived in Mexico. Before I could begin my retired life in Mexico, I had to get to
Florida and put my house there on the market.
And
before that, the Christmas holidays loomed. After so many years away from family, I looked
forward to large family gatherings in Vermont and North Carolina.
I needed a car, no
matter what else I did. My house in
Florida is not on a bus line. Nor is my
house in El Pozole, Durango, Mexico. From
my research I learned that I should buy a car in Mexico. Bringing in a car from the States is
expensive, and maintenance of that foreign car could be problematic. But with a car built and registered in Mexico, one
could travel in the States without a problem (with proper insurance, of
course). Based on that logic, in January
I would fly to Mexico to buy a car.
Family
time over the Christmas and New Year holidays was rich. I got to see nephews
and grandnieces for the first time in many years. When January arrived I shifted focus once more to my
plan to retire. I went to Mexico, to Durango, to buy that car. It was in the middle of the Trump turmoil. The
soon to be president had struck fear in the Mexican nation. The value of the peso had dropped. The dreaded Mr. Trump was mentioned in most
conversations with an American, expecting the worst to come.
The pesos I bought
should buy me a good car. I knew which
one I wanted. I was sitting in the car
dealer’s office when my mind went forward to planning the next steps. Only then, like a dim light bulb, did I
realize that as a tourist I could not register a car in Mexico. I needed to wait until I had my residence
permit. That was a drawn out process,
not to be embarked upon yet.
Dejected
and confused, I left my pesos in Mexico and flew back to the States. I went on Craigs List and found a cheap interim
car. I focused on finishing the remodeling of the Florida house, in preparation
for putting it on the market. At the end
of May (The contractor was two months over and thousands of dollars beyond the
contract, and the house not yet finished.
But that’s another story) the realtor brought me a buyer. It would be six or seven weeks until I was
needed again to sign closing papers
Two
things drove me to go to Mexico just then. One was the sale of the house; I no longer
needed to stay in Brandon; the second was that the long delay in getting the
house to market had depleted my funds. I
did not have money for food, my two bank accounts were empty, my credit
cards maxed and my home-improvement loan payments were due. I was driven to exploring
the local food banks, just to survive. I
had, however, left the car money in Mexico in January. So I drove back from Florida to Mexico in my
15 year-old car, and on to El Pozole and our community, Luz de Compasion, in
June. My friend Dr. Rudy connected me
to an eye surgeon in Durango; the cataract surgery was scheduled for the end of
June. Until then, Luz de Compasion in
Pozole would be my home. I have written elsewhere about comparing the cataract surgery in the U.S. versus in Mexico, and how much cheaper the latter was.
Although there
were now four houses standing on the Luz de Compasion hectare of land, of the 18 or so potential future homes, only one
was livable. I had arranged to pay rent
on the house belonging to Michael, but when I arrived I discovered that there
was a problem with the water line. The
house had no running water, the toilet didn’t work, it wasn’t livable. That left Doug’s house.
The two houses had the same layout.
Doug’s
house, a slightly longer rectangle, has two rooms and a bathroom. The door opens into the kitchen. to the right is a doorway to the living room, and to the left the bathroom. Neither of these internal doorways has doors. The bathroom has a shower
stall, along with a sink and toilet.
There is an alcove for a washing machine beyond the shower wall. There is a gas-fired water heater above the washer.
For
some reason, Juan had trouble getting me running water. There were a series of tanks and pumps, and
hoses snaking across the ground. I went
without water some days, but there is a spigot outside the door. I couldn’t find a bucket for carrying water
to the toilet, or for hand washing laundry. I
managed with what was there, the pots and a water pitcher.
After
a week the water flow became steady. There
is a hot water tank that sits about 6 feet above the floor, in the laundry
alcove. I never could figure out how to
light the pilot; Juan also tried, but gave up. I made due with cold showers,
not so terrible during the warm summer weather. As for the washing machine, it is old and lacking
spin at the rinse cycle; the water pressure is such that it takes almost an hour
to fill the machine for a half-load. Eventually
I would check out the filter, and then I discovered that Doug had not found it
himself. It was thickly encrusted and
not functioning. In China my washing
machines had this type of filter, in the barrel of the washer. Perhaps for washers in the States this was
unusual; hence Doug did not know to check.
When the rinse cycle would come around, I would hand wring the clothes
each time.
The
two-burner gas camp stove is set high above a two-drawer cabinet which itself
was on blocks. The right burner burns unevenly, leaving a coat of soot on the
pans. There also was no microwave, but I
had brought with me a coffee maker and a toaster oven. Life was good.
On
days when I used the washing machine, the water tank seemed to go dry. Whether I washed by hand or by machine, I
would end up with sopping wet clothes. I
failed to bring clothes pins. I hung the
clothes to dry, at first, on the barbed wire fence. Then I remembered that I had a clothes line I
traveled with. The one thing lacking was
clothes pins, and so if I didn’t watch closely the clothes would fly off the
line. One day I came home to find hoof
prints on a T-shirt.
Did
I mention that Juan, who owns the adjoining property and who Jhampa hires as
our caretaker, has cattle. Not like a
herd; he buys two calves each year, then sells them. He also keeps two horses which he uses to plow
the fields. In the summer months, before
sowing, they roam around the Luz property, hobbled at the front ankles where
deep scars are visible.
The
design of Doug’s house provided poor air flow. In the kitchen, west-facing, an
uncurtained, unscreened window filled most of one wall. In the ‘bedroom’ or
largest room the north-facing wall has a round window about a meter across, but
it cannot be opened. The heat would accumulate, and without a huge exhaust fan (of
which there weren’t any) standing in the doorway or in a window, it was over 90
degrees at bed time. Of the two rooms in
the house, the larger room has a ceiling fan.
The morning air was cool, and the fan helped keep it moving. By evening the room was sweltering hot. The
fan did nothing to bring in the cool night air; it served only to move the hot
air around.
At
night the outside temperature drops. I
sit outside at dusk with the mosquitoes, flies and biting ants to cool
off. Then back into the oven at dark to
sleep.
One
day, out of sheer boredom, I decided to putz around in my own ‘house’. Tying a panuelo over my face, looking like a
Wild West bandit, I swept out the hay, bird, horse and cow droppings, along with
years of accumulated dirt. The previous
day I had asked Juan to close in the gaping hole, with bricks as a temporary
stop until I decided what to do with the house.
As I swept, I came across a sliding glass door lying on its side in the
bathroom area.
When
next I saw Juan, I asked him if that door was serviceable, and if he could
install it. Yes to both, he just needed
to buy some screws. So we nixed the
bricks, and went for the sliding door. A
few years back the large glass window in the kitchen area blew out, and so now
Juan would also replace that pane. I
noticed that in each window well the frames had been screwed in place, but no
proper encasement had been completed. A good kick and the door and window frames
would pop out. Having noticed this, I
asked Juan to put a proper casement around this large picture window, since he
was replacing the pane anyway. I would
have liked to have him do all the window frames that way, but I didn’t want to
spend more money than was absolutely necessary just yet.
Going to Canatlan
Durango
is the big city, with the big supermarkets, shops and entertainment. The hour drive to reach it by high-speed
asphalted two-lane highway gobbled up about a quarter tank of gas, round trip. With the cost of gas being much higher than
in the States, I needed to save money by finding everything I need
locally. Canatlan has internet cafes. Canatlan does not have any large supermarkets,
but with some exploring the basics are available. It is a sleepy town with narrow one-way
streets. It is about a ten minute drive
from El Pozole. Luz de Compasion is a
slow and careful eight minute drive from Pozole over dusty rutted and
rock-strewn roads, and through a small creek.
I was receiving a
lot of phone calls from realtors who wanted me to hire them to list my Florida
house again. About a week into my stay
in Mexico this phone traffic began. It seems that my house popped up on one of
the MLS lists, the one of expired listings.
The sale of the house that prompted my departure to Mexico fell through.
After almost a week of these interviews,
I finally did settle on a woman who lives in the same zip code as the
house. She had knocked on my door in
February, asking after the house. By
then I had contracted a guy to do the remodeling, so I couldn’t consider
selling it ‘as is’. Now, some months
later, she finally called again using the phone number taped to the large oak
tree on the front lawn. She volunteered
to have the necessary work done, replacing the electric junction box, so that
we could get the house on the market.
[The male realtors expressed distaste for jumping into the breach, with
liability concerns.] This entailed
emailing back and forth with DocuSign, getting my signature on our
contract. With one eye still dimmed with
a cataract, and dealing with a four-inch smartphone screen, this was a
challenge. I was on my way to Canatlan and the internet shop to take care of
these things when the unfortunate incident occurred.
11:15 After sitting an hour in the car on
this dirt road, a motorcycle passed by.
I hailed the gentleman, and sought his help. He said he would see if he could send the one
mechanic from Pozole.
I
had just forded the creek, driving slowly to avoid splash-up. I was still in first gear when I heard a loud
crash. I looked behind me and saw a
black splotch on the ground. I thought,
how could that much water have been shaken loose from my undercarriage.
A
moment later the dash oil light came on.
I
immediately shut off the engine.
The
oil pan, after weeks of abuse, had finally shattered. In the intervening days, waiting for the car
to be fixed, I found myself with lots of free time to write. Food, however, was low. On the plus side, my Verizon phone service
allowed me to send and receive Gmail. I
did not have Wi-Fi service for my computer or iPad however.
I am focusing more
on my surroundings, given my isolation.
I retrieved a couple of bags that I had stored in a locked building at
Luz de Compasion, last December.
Rummaging through these has been rewarding. I found a night light, to make the nightly
trips to the bathroom less perilous. I
found a set of ‘sheets’ that I had brought back from India quite a few years
ago.
When I put them on
the bed I discovered that they were too small for even a twin bed. I imagine they would fit a charpoy, but on my
bed here they were mere decoration. I
had a good cotton waffle-textured bedspread (bought in a second hand store in
Florence Italy a few weeks earlier, when I was planning to spend a night in the
Rome airport) that I laid on the bare foam mattress, and then put the colorful
Indian sheets on that. The color and
neatness of it brightens up the place. Much better than the random cloths I had
strewn over the mattress before.
I find that when
you live in a sparsely furnished primitive shack, you get to ignore the
surroundings in terms of neatness. Others
may have the opposite reaction, but I have a great ability to tune out my
immediate surroundings in favor of an active mental life. Things get strewn about. The table gets cluttered with random
things. Scraps of used tissue; empty
beer bottle; empty eyeglass case; a tube of hand cream; a vial of scented oil. I just don’t notice those things. But now, time seems to be measured minute to
minute, second to second as I wait for my mobility to return to me.
Hour 2.
A tractor just passed with three guys on it. No curiosity, they did not stop and give me a
chance to ask for help contacting a tow truck in Canatlan.
Time takes on a
vastly different profile. When you know
you can at any moment hop in the car and run out to get something you
lack…food, internet access, screws for a project…time takes on a carefree, unpressured
texture. The mind is wrapped up in
ideas, explorations, possibilities.
Tidiness is measured in keeping the clutter manageable, so that things
don’t get lost, kicked or dropped accidentally.
Remove that
mobility option. Resources are limited to what is at hand. The mind slows down, time slows down. The inward-turning eyes newly focus on the
surroundings. We are going nowhere. We
are not engaged in any projects that need external supplies to complete. We are here, now.
12:48 hailed a pickup filled with hay, an
older gentleman (Conrado Rodriguez Delgado) with a straw hat and no shirt. He
listened to my tale. He said he knew the
local mechanic. If I could give him a
half hour or so to unload the hay, he’d come back and track down the mechanic.
Survival. What about the next meal? These farmlands are dotted with bovine. Surely milk must be accessible? I can make fresh yogurt. I passed a tiny store in Pozole. I need a plan, a strategy to explore it, mine
it. Can’t go midday, the sun is too
strong. So, an early morning or late
afternoon excursion is planned. That
should take up the major part of the day, and total expenditure of this
retiree’s energies.
He was back after ten minutes. He called his nephew. We would wait together.
Spend
less time on entertaining myself with phone calls from realtors and
brainstorming creative ways to sell the house.
Decide, it’s done. Let it
go. The puppies who amused me greatly
when I first arrived have been given away.
Now it is only the sickly mother who hangs around my door, with swollen
mammaries. Given her skin condition and
the swarm of fleas she cultivates, time with her is limited to time spent
outdoors. No more chasing the cows,
feeding them my scraps, the mango skins and other peelings. Anyway, those foods are gone. Now the time is spent on survival. We are not talking ‘survival of the fittest’
here; more like survival of the gourmand.
I could live for weeks, months maybe, on all the dried beans I have
here.
I
talked with Juan about who sells milk.
He pointed across the road to the apple orchard, where a man sat upon a
tractor cutting down weeds. I walked out
the gate, across the road and into his field over the tracks he has been
plowing. I was hoping it was Mr.
Delgado, but I saw no purple birthmark covering the right eyelid and brow. Perhaps this was his brother; I saw the
likeness. I spoke with him, and made
arrangements for him to bring me two liters of milk when he returns from his
lunch break. He said he’d bring me
boiled milk. I told him boiled, raw, it
doesn’t matter. Now I could make yogurt.
I
remembered that I have rennet, bought and stored for many years. I could conceivable make an aged cheese. This could be tomorrow’s project, if I could
remember the recipe.
He told me his story. Now retired from field work, he lives in Wenatchee,
Washington. His wife and children are
there, all with either green cards or birth certificates. He has come here to the family farm for a few
months’ vacation.
I
still have not solved the problem of fresh fruits and vegetable. I still have a couple bananas; I ate the last
mango this morning. I have lettuce and a
tomato, a heel of an onion, but naught else.
I
rummaged through the boxes of things I brought from Florida. I brought four ceramic canisters, filled
eight years ago during my short stay in Florida. There I found two kinds of dahl, mung beans,
pinto beans, a handful of TVP (textured vegetable protein) and another unidentified
dried bean. I put some mung beans and
radish seeds in a jar to soak. With
luck, in three days I would have sprouts.
I still have one can of tomato sauce, left over from my raiding the food
pantry at church in Brandon; also one can of Great Northern beans. For that matter, Doug left a large bag of
dried Great Northerns, too. I was
disappointed not to find any rice in the stash.
I have a box of Sunmaid raisins.
I
won’t be able to find any decent multi-grained bread, so my hope is to find a
local source for fresh corn tortillas.
It was after 1:30 when his nephew arrived
on all all-terrain bike. He also looked
underneath, and confirmed there is a big gaping hole in my oil pan. We scrounged for ropes. I had a blue nylon strand in the trunk. The
old man had a yellow one in his blue pickup.
They tied up the car. I told them
I would drive the ATV, I was afraid to ‘drive’ a car in tow. It took a while to get the ATV going, but the
young man explained the basics and we were off.
I quickly discovered this vehicle was hard to steer, and tipsy. At one point it stopped; the nephew trotted
back to help. The chain had jumped
off. The next two times we stopped it
was because our weak ropes broke
Late
afternoon, the man arrived with two liters of milk, on a motorbike. I paid him 24 pesos. I forgot to ask if it was boiled or raw. He asked me to give him back the container,
so I went inside and transferred it to emptied yogurt containers. I gave a quick rinse and returned his container. He asked about Jhampa. I said he’s in Torreon, won’t be here for a
few weeks, but I do speak with him by phone.
He said to please send regards from Beto.
Finally we made it to the mechanic. Jhampa had texted me that Beto was the local
mechanic. The young man (Beto’s son?)
would let me know the damage. We
exchanged phone numbers but not names.
I
poured half the milk into a pan and heated it.
I did not boil it. I took the
last of the Greek yogurt from the fridge, and divided it up into three
containers. I poured the milk in, and
left it all on the countertop in the afternoon sun.
I
checked it after four hours, but it had not set up. There was a thick skin of yellow cream on the
top. I left it overnight. I surmised that the milk had not previously
been boiled.
In
the morning I found myself with something like clotted cream, and a whole lot
of whey. Thanks to the yogurt culture it
did not taste sour. I put a bowl of whey
out in a bowl for the dog, and the rest in the fridge.
I
needed something to strain out the remainder of the cream. I rummaged around, and finally came up with a
shirt that was loosely woven. It was
polyester with a fancy woven design. It
is usually too hot to wear, but I still carry it around. I spooned the milk solids into this cloth,
tied it, and hung it over a bowl. Then I
went out for a walk in the cool morning air.
Mr. Delgado put me back in his pickup and
we headed back to his field, whose gate is across the road from Luz de
Compasion. On the drive back we passed
the offending rock. He jumped down from
the truck and retrieved pieces from the shattered oil pan. They were too hot to
touch, from the sun. It was 2:30 when I
got back in the house.
I
walked to the local store, to see what was available. The sun was still low enough so that the lane
was tree shaded much of the way. I
hadn’t gotten far when I found myself accompanied by the little dog. She had decided to take a walk with me. We chatted companionably on the way. It only took about a half hour to arrive,
meaning the store was 2 or 2.5 kilometers away.
It certainly seems much longer when the car is creeping at 10 and 15 kph.
Five days later. The
mechanic still cannot find an oil pan for the car. He found one, but it was not for a
turbo. Optimistically, we wait.
The
little aborrotes shop door was still closed.
There was a man waiting in the shade of a large weeping willow tree, so
I asked him when the shop might open. He
said, in about 15 minutes. By 9:15 we
heard the latches opening. A white
haired gentleman with rimless glasses poked his head out the door, and invited
us in.
It
is a narrow store, walls lined with refrigerators. There are lots of drinks, both sodas and
beer. For vegetables there are a few red
onions, a potato or two, and jalapeño peppers. On the counter crowded with
candy displays rested a handful of very large mature and bruised bananas. A few oranges rested in a crate, and another
crate had a thick layer of limes. Behind
the counter on the wall there were some cans on shelves. I asked for tuna fish. The man went into a back room and fished out
a bunch of cans, in oil. I took three. The shelved cans were jalapeños of varying
strength. I didn’t see any large bags of
rice, or flour, or anything fresh. I
started to pay up, when my eye fell on a tall display rack on the counter to my
left. First I looked up, above my head,
and saw corn tortilla tostadas. Doug has
a bag of these in his cupboard. I tasted
one of his, thinking it would be stale, but it was edible smeared with Dijon
mustard and a slice of cheese. I thought
I might buy a fresh bag. Then I looked
closer at the rack, and realized it was packed with Bimbo bread. On the very top I saw a loaf of Orowheat seven
grain bread. I knew it could not be
fresh. I picked it up and did not see
any mold, so I bought it. Then when I
looked down through the glass of the counter display case I saw tiny packets of
rice, at most one cup each. So I bought
two packets of rice.
I
was pleased with my purchases, and so Dog and I headed home again.
We
carefully passed dogs along the way. Far
along the road a motorcycle with a man and woman passed us. Following far behind it a loose pack of dogs
was running. They were all small dogs,
and a few were obviously puppies. Dog
and I sat and let them pass. We started
walking again, when one straggler stopped to eye us from a distance. This time I picked up dog, not wanting to
stand there and wait for this drama to play itself out. I leaned down and, using the cloth shopping
bag as a barrier, picked her up. We walked forward. I let her down as we passed the last puppy,
and they sniffed each other out. It must
have been a male, because as he turned to walk away he gave out his fiercest
yap.
I
looked at the bag, and sure enough it was splattered with live fleas. This poor animal. I couldn’t say she had fleas, I had to admit
that the fleas have her. I wish I could
do something. I know that if I just
shampoo her with regular soap or shampoo some fleas might fall off, but many
would survive and especially the eggs. I
would Google an inquiry, for natural remedies for fleas.
At
home I checked the date on the bread wrapper.
Its ‘best sell by’ date was ten days earlier. Preservatives have their good side and bad
side. I usually avoid them, but at the
moment I was grateful that the bread was still consumable.
Toasted,
and spread with the clotted cream and raspberry jam, it made a decent
breakfast.
On
Saturday I needed to deal with the rest of the milk. If it was raw, I should boil it. While it was heating up, I searched my large
suitcase for the rennet. On my phone I
googled a recipe which would use what I had.
Rennet and citric acid. The
recipe that come up was for mozzarella.
I
remembered making mozzarella with my daughter in Vermont. It required a thermometer, a microwave, and
thick rubber gloves. I had none.
The
citric acid quickly separated the curd from the whey, but I think the milk was
too hot to begin with. The curd did not
come together. I strained it, but I
could not do the stretching under heat, at 135 degrees. I added salt.
It tasted okay anyway. I came
across a box of pasta among my stores, and a can of tomato paste. I think the ball of whatever fresh cheese this
is will go well; it will make the meal.
Sunday
morning. I got up, washed up, swept and
tidied the place; I put on clean clothes and headed out to church.
I knew
that there is a tiny church somewhere in El Pozole. I had passed it on earlier trips trying to
find LdeC. Lately I have more of a fixed
route in and out, which doesn’t pass by the church. On foot, I would explore the many dusty roads
until I found it. I didn’t know if there
would be Mass, nor when. I doubted there
would be a priest in residence.
I started
walking, with my trusty dog Dog by my side.
When we got to the creek I stopped to find another stepping stone to
drop there. I had just picked up a nice
flat one, when I heard a familiar motor chugging nearer. It was the battered blue pickup truck, and my
buddy Mr. Delgado. I dropped the stone
and hopped into his truck. Poor Dog
would have to go home alone. I had no
fear she would try to follow the truck, nor have any mishaps on the short walk
home. When talking about my immobility,
Mr. Delgado pointed out that there were two shops within walking distance. Two?
Yes, he said, further on down the road there is another.
Mr.
Delgado has picked up some gringo Spanish.
Something like, ‘tiene muy calor’ instead of ‘hace calor’. Odd.
He dropped me off at the front of the church which, as it turns out, was
right around the corner from the little shop I went to yesterday. The deacon who conducted our little liturgy
was none other than that storekeeper. We
were about ten souls in attendance, I thought.
But when it was time to wish the Peace of Christ to each other, I
noticed a young family of five clustered along the back row.
Walking
home after church service I appreciate the beauty along the way. There is a white horse in a field. He looks up at me each time I pass. The rising
sun lights the hills against the brilliant blue skies, the nearer fields and
trees still in shadows.
The blue
skies over this mountain prairie are remarkable.
I try the
washing machine once more, at risk of draining the roof tank. I discover that if I open the cold water
spigot water flows, even before I hit the ‘on’ switch to the washer. I’m standing by the sink next to the
fridge. Each time the washer cylinder
turns, the power surge protector clicks.
The wiring is precarious here. As
if I couldn’t see that, by observing a fuse box mounted to an exterior wall of
another building, the door open to the elements. I see wires strung across the ground, spliced
with tape; no insulated cables here.
I smell
sewage. I notice that the sewage system
respirator pipe terminates in the room instead of outside; it is waiste high in
the laundry alcove. It is frothing at
the mouth; there are soap suds on the floor. This is the vent, not meant as an overflow;
apparently the underground drain is too clogged to allow for adequate drainage. Eventually the bathroom floor will become
flooded each time I use the washer, spewing urine, feces and sand.
The walk
to the store is a fragrant one. At the
start it is oleander, a powdery smell reminding me of talcum. Closer to the cluster of houses, pepperbush
lines the street. They are in
blossom. The air is sweet with their
fragrance, the ground below strewn with their white snowy petals.
Mr.
Delgado had told me there was a second store.
A Lala milk truck crossed the road in front of me as I reached the
intersection. I assumed it was to
deliver to the Deacon’s little bodega.
Instead, nearer the intersection I saw another door open. This doorway was marked as the community
store, both on a large piece of paper and stenciled in black on the wall. I ventured into the black gap that was the
doorway. This store was even smaller
than the other. A woman spoke to the
milk delivery man. She had dark eyeliner
past the corner of her eyes like daggers.
She wore very red lipstick. Her
mouth was out of balance. It looked like
a horse had smashed her jaw; the row of large teeth pushed out the upper lip on
the right side of her mouth. The left
side seemed hollow. I had to listen very
carefully, to understand her speech.
I found
the vinegar I needed to treat Dog’s fleas, according to the recipe I found
online, but not the baby shampoo. I
noticed a package of rolled oats, the kind you want to soak before
cooking. I bought them. There were a few packages of freshly made
corn tortillas. They are sold by the
kilo; I would guess I bought a half-kilo, almost fifty tortillas. I would rewrap them in groups of four and put
them in the freezer at home. I asked the
Lala driver if he perhaps had yogurt in the truck. Only yogurt drinks were available,
however. After he left, I accepted one
from the fridge behind the counter. I
asked for butter, but was offered margarine, which I did not take. I bought a small can of milk powder, in hopes
of thickening up the yogurt culture in the drink to make a spoonable food. As with my last trip to the store, I spent
100 pesos; a little over $5.
As I
turned to the sunlight I hesitated, and turned back.
“You don’t
happen to have a spray bottle, do you?
When I mix the cure for the dog’s fleas, I want to spray it on her.”
She opened
draws, pushed things around on her crowded counter, and when I was convinced
this was an impossible request, she produced a small spray bottle filled with
what looked like water.
“Take
this, I don’t need it. No charge.”
Dog and I
made the return trip. Only one dog got
up from his nap under a car to come and sniff her, a big brown male. She twisted a couple of times to avoid his
sniffing, and then gave one sharp yap before walking away.
No dogs
barked at us this trip.
The walk
back home seemed long. We both cheered
and quickened our pace as we approached the creek. I stood in the shade as Dog waded in, standing
in the cool water and taking a long drink.
She waded a little more, cooling her hot and tired little feet. I took to the rocks and crossed over. Before long we were at the LdeC gate. I fished the key out of my backpack/handbag,
and let us in. She waited, rather than
hop through the bars of the gate.
Once back
at the house, I grabbed the bag of dog snacks I had brought from the States,
‘grilled beef’, and fed her the ritual two.
Even before putting away the groceries, I stripped to take a
shower. I was just entering the stream
of water when I thought I heard a knock on the door. A second later and more than my feet would
have been wet. I quickly put on a shift, saying ‘ya me voy!’
Juan was
here to discuss the glass window pane.
He was ordering two; one for the large kitchen window, and one for the
sliding door. Together it would cost
3,200 pesos. He waited outside while I
counted out the money. Then he said I
should call the guy. ‘No,’ I said, ‘I
can’t speak to him, you call him.’ ‘ No,’ he said, ‘I have no money in my
phone.’ So I grabbed my phone, dialed the number, and handed the phone to
Juan. He spoke, and then returned the
phone to me (without hanging up, I later discovered). It was arranged, the man would arrive at 4
p.m. this afternoon. Then I will find out what it means to order a
thicker pane of glass.
I finished
my shower. Feeling greatly refreshed, I
put the groceries away. I used up the
last of the gouda cheese from Durango, melted on top of a couple of tortillas
in the toaster oven. I was still
peckish, so I toasted another couple of tortillas and smeared them with crunchy
peanut butter. At last, I made me a
large cup of coffee and settled down to watch a movie. I feel really tired.
At times I
feel light headed and weak. I fantasize
that I am not eating enough. But I eat three times a day. My pants don’t fit any looser. It is either the heat, the altitude, or a
combination of both. This is the way I
know that now I am 75. I just don’t have
the stamina I once had.
I’ve
hooked up one of my two external hard drives, and discovered that I had a batch
of movies that I’ve never watched! This
may be from a time when someone was passing around a USB stick with a bunch of
movies in it. Surprising that I forgot
them. Some of them I’ve watched, but
others not.
Tuesday 4 pm. The mechanic
and his helper just arrived at my door, with my very broken oil pan in their
hands. They explained that the only way
they could get the oil pan would be to order it from abroad. It would cost 3,600 pesos to purchase it, and
1,000 more to install it. If I give them
half the money today, they can order it tomorrow and it should arrive four days
later. The person who did the talking is very young looking, thin and clean
cut. Perhaps he is the actual mechanic,
whom I have not met before.
June 21, Wednesday,
I asked Juan to give me a ride into town on his motorbike. My intention was to send money via Western
Union to my new realtor, to get the electric box work done. And of course, to buy groceries. I was out of coffee, and unless I found more
fresh grounds I stood the dismaying option of drinking instant. My shopping list included fresh onions,
garlic, tomatoes and a cucumber with the hopes of making a salad.
I
hopped on the back of his small red bike.
Jhampa had told me there was a ‘back road’ that was shorter, for
reaching Canatlan. Two miles, maybe, he
said. Off we go, and twenty minutes
later we arrive at the outskirts of Canatlan.
Juan waited patiently while I stood in line at Western Union, more than
half an hour. At last, my turn at the
counter, the clerk told me I could not send dollars, only pesos. I had also enquired at a couple of banks in
Canatlan about sending a cashier’s check, but they said without an account, not
possible.
By
then it was 1 pm and I was starved. I
invited Juan to have lunch with me. I
wanted him to pick a place, but he probably couldn’t imagine that I would eat
what he liked so he demurred to my choice.
Just then he spoke to a passing young lady. He introduced her as his daughter. I asked her to recommend a place. She too looked bewildered. So I picked a place with a pretty exterior,
and there we had ‘beef’ soup. The meat
was actually a string of small rib cartilage with about 10 grams of meat if you
could dig it out of the fat and grizzle.
But the cabbage and carrots were good, as was the broth.
Next
I went to the internet café, to try to sign the last disclosure document needed
by the realtor, sent via DocuSign. But I
could not succeed, because some of the boxes had been typed in, x’d wrongly,
and I could not change them. So far, not
a great day.
Lastly
I directed Juan to a supermarket that I had seen as we entered town.. He suggested one near the restaurant, but I
rejected it. The one I had seen as we entered
town was right next door to a vet. I
wanted to buy flea drops for Dog.
The
market was no Soriana. It seemed large,
but actually had few options. For
example, I wanted baby shampoo in order to mix a home remedy for Dog’s
fleas. No baby shampoo. I wanted to buy a can opener, but they had no
such household items. I did find small
cartons of tomato paste and of Huntz pizza sauce. I still had half a box of pasta at home. I looked in fresh produce, but the peppers
were dried and wrinkled. The onions
looked fine, so I bought three. The
tomatoes were of the Roma variety. I
reluctantly bought a few, although I had misgivings. I found a robust cucumber, fat and
juicy. There were potatoes, and large
winter squashes, but did not buy. Both
seemed to present cooking challenges, given my minimal kitchen equipment.
I
looked for bread, but there was only pan dulce.
At
the vet next store I found the drops.
They cost 150 pesos. This is not
expensive, yet in China I could always buy the generic for much less. Inexplicably, I walked away empty handed.
Back
on the bike, Juan asked how I did. I
said, not so well. Not a good
store. We rode a few blocks, and he
stopped at another brand new store. He
suggested I try this one. It was large
and bright and airy. Here was baby
shampoo! I found a small clear plastic
generic bag of kibble for Dog. There
were great bananas, half a papaya, and bread. I had to choose between 7 grain bread and
flaxseed bread. I was thrilled to have
the choice. I bought the flaxseed bread. I found yogurt, and bought one 4 oz flavored
cup.
We
repacked the bike, with the heavier things behind with me and the lighter bags
on the handlebars. Off we went!
Juan
kept checking over his shoulder to make sure I was holding fast, because I
wasn’t holding his waist. I was gripping
the luggage rack behind me, with white knuckles. Thoughtlessly, this meant that I was putting
weight on my tail bone. Had I been hugging him my weight would have been more
on my thighs. The road was ungraded
dirt, very rocky, very uneven. As we
went bumping over one rock, I felt a crack at the base of my spine. There went my tail bone.
Saturday, 4:00. I called
the mechanic’s phone, but there was no answer.
According to him, the part should have come in today.
On
Saturday I walked again to the little shops in El Pozole. The Deacon’s was closed, on a late Saturday
afternoon. The lipsticked lady was
there. She immediately noticed that I
had cut the fur off Dog. Yes, I told
her, and now Dog is flea free. I bought
another carton of milk, a small can of whole jalapenas ‘en escabeche’. I discovered
that this means there were also a couple slices of pickled carrots and a tiny
bit of onion. I bought a one-serving bag
of Fritos, and of chips. I had been
craving snack food, knowing that it is bad for my health.
I
had not gone far down the road towards home when I heard the church bells
chiming. Then I realized why the
Deacon’s store was closed. Had I
checked, I could have attended 5 pm Mass.
I continued toward home.
Meals are pretty boring. An egg and toast for breakfast. A tuna sandwich for lunch. Maybe yogurt for
supper, if I managed to get it together to make any. I stretched the papaya out for two days. I had bought four bananas, which went
quickly. Then, no fresh fruit. The tomatoes went bad quickly; I had to slice
away the bad parts. No celery to put in
the tuna. I add mayonnaise to the tuna,
and spread half a can on toast. The
other toast gets mayonnaise. Directly on
the tuna I layer sweet pickle slices, then tomato when I have it, and lots of
lettuce. It is difficult to eat, because
the pale romaine lettuce sticks up and out of the sandwich, the pickle juice
makes the whole thing leak. So I stand
it on a dish and start at the top.
The eggs I
bought from El Pozole were large, in comparison to the ones I bought in
Canatlan before the car broke. I had
been sharing the eggs with Dog. Two for
me, one for her. These large eggs were a
bonanza! I only bought six, for fear
that I would break more on the walk home.
I took
four corn tortillas from the freezer, where I had stored them after I bought
them from the community grocery store. I
preheated the toaster oven, while I wrapped these tortillas in aluminum
foil. I placed then in the oven at 400
degrees. Then I set about making myself
an ‘omelette’. I beat two eggs with a
drop of milk. I finely chopped half an
onion, a clove of garlic, and half of the last tomato. To that I added sliced and quartered
jalapeno. I put a teaspoon of butter in
the fry pan, and added the chopped mixture.
When it was thoroughly heated, I covered that with the egg. Add salt and pepper, and Bob’s your
uncle! Even though I had added more
butter before adding the egg, still the mixture stuck wickedly to the pan. It didn’t change the taste one bit. I scraped it all onto a plate, and took it to
my ‘table’. I divided it into four
portions. One by one I scooped that into
a tortilla, rolled it as best I could, and ate.
It was lacking only cilantro and a cold beer chaser.
To my
deprived taste buds, it was a gourmet meal.
I consumed
the frozen tortillas gradually over the days, but the process of freezing them
made them disintegrate; the centers were soggy.
The first
batch of yogurt I made with the runny store-bought flavored yogurt came out
only slightly less runny, and with a funny flavor from all the additives of the
store-bought. I restrained myself from
finishing the last of the culture, waiting until Saturday when I could buy more
milk. I finally made another, smaller
batch, using the saved starter and more traditional methods. I did not rely on the sun to keep the milk at
proper temperature. Though it feels like
an oven to me, apparently milk doesn’t react the same way.
This time
I made an even thicker mixture of about 40-60 of powdered milk to unheated
fresh milk. I add at least a third of a
cup of my previously-made yogurt. At the
same time, I heated the water in a small pan, and put the cold jar into the hot
liquid. I wrapped it in a quilt, and lay
it on a plastic mat in the bathroom. I
checked it twice during the four hours, and was satisfied that the temperature
was remaining hot enough, over 80 degrees.
In the morning I put it in the fridge.
It is thick, and except for the annoying taste of artificial apple, it
is a success. The glass jar I use holds
at most 16 ounces. To keep myself
supplied in yogurt I would need another glass jar. I am concerned about putting recycled plastic
yogurt containers in 110 degree water. I
know they won’t melt, but I am concerned there might be degradation and
leaching.
Monday Today I move my boxes into my own
house. It is not secured with locks, but
neither do I fear anyone coming on to the property to make mischief. At least the house is closed in on all sides,
so that the animals cannot get in. The
kitchen window has been replaced with a heavy glass, and also the sliding
door. Apparently that door was either
bought second hand, or the glass broke somewhere down the line four years
ago. The screen has holes, but now both
panels have glass and so can be closed.
Interestingly, I was never given a key to my own front door. As I mentioned earlier, since the frame is
secured only with screws, but no cement casing, anyone could knock it down and
gain entry.
Dog
insisted on going roaming again last night.
Juan agreed to pick up flea drops for me in Canatlan, but so far has not
delivered them. She had to sleep
outside, in her cage. She cried
unmercifully. To be fair, before I
shaved her she also cried. But in the
early predawn it occurred to me that she was cold. So I brought the cage
in. When the sun is well up, I let her
out again, and feed her. The kibble is
all gone, I forgot to ask Juan to pick more up.
What will I feed her?
Half a
heel of the 7 grain bread, heated milk and a lightly cooked egg. Will she like it? No, not at first sniff. She goes off to pee, then comes back and
tastes it. She is not thrilled, and
wanders off sniffing for better fare.
She comes
running back from the cow pen, tail wagging, obviously pleased with
herself. She brings me a piece of fried
pork rind, still bristling. I wash the
dirt off and give it back to her. She goes under the barbed wire fence and
crunches merrily. Juan is in the habit
of bringing the dog and cats scraps from home; cooked rice, tortillas, beans.
I ask Juan
to come pick me up with the truck, to take me to the bus station. The date had arrived for the cataract
surgery. At the bus station I buy my
ticket for the next bus, leaving in ten minutes
It cost 114 pesos, for a 75 minute ride.
Once in Durango, I catch a taxi to Rodolfo’s house. I had called him to expect me around
noon. He said if no one was there, I
should call him. As luck would have it,
I arrived just past 11:00; his wife was still home.
I call Shubert. He assures
me the part will be in tomorrow.
She showed
me into the bedroom, and checked the bed for sheets. It had none.
She called her maid, and found out the sheets were in the washer waiting
to be washed. With the maid’s
instruction, she managed to get the washing machine going. Then she left, for her mother’s birthday
lunch. She invited me to come, but I was
truly exhausted.
I hung the
sheets out to dry. For that, I needed to
haul a light ladder up the stairs to the roof, because the lines there are quite
high. In the sunshine they dried in a
few hours.
I was
famished. I lookd in the fridge and
found some cooked rice. I spooned some
homemade green sauce over most of it, putting aside a little, and zapped it. I gobbled that down, and then came back for
the remainder.
I laid on
top of the comforter, and fell asleep.
Ruddy popped in briefly, said hi and left again.
I made the
bed, and then scrounged for more food. I
found pita, which turned out to be a little sweet. I found a round of cheese, with red
skin. I cut a few thin pieces off and
put it on top the pita. I was hoping for
gouda, but silly me. This is one of the
many fresh cheeses ubiquitous to Mexico.
When I finally retire here I shall have to make a study of all these
cheeses. Most of them have a strong cow
taste, but not all. Some are milder,
some dryer, some more moist. A small
quarter of papaya laid in the fridge. I
ate most of it, but for some reason left a little corner. I would finish that the next day, when no one
else seemed interested in it.
I saw a
big green uncovered container of brown beans in the fridge. I would have loved to put some in the
grinder, fry up some onions and make refried beans. For two reasons, I did not. This is not my kitchen, I do not know my way
around. And more to the point, I was still too exhausted.
I call Shubert. He assures
me the part will be in tomorrow.
The next
day, the maid walked in the door. We
greeted each other with happy smiles.
She started putting together a meal that we would eat at 2:00. Unfortunately, I did not know the household
schedule and at first didn’t realize this was the usual lunch time, when Ruddy
had time to come home. It was also
dependent on the maid’s presence, I suspect.
Mrs. Bracho, Beatrice, does not cook.
I wandered into the kitchen casually, and chatted with the cook. I told
her I would have wanted to make refried beans yesterday, but didn’t know where
to find the blender. She opened a
cabinet door and it was there. I would
have found it, had I not been too exhausted to deal with figuring it out and
doing the work. She went ahead and made
a nice sauce for it, so that we could eat it for our lunch. She also made a soup with beef, with rice on
the side. It was delicious and filling.
That was
Wednesday, operation day. I was dressed
in fresh cargo shorts and a mauve cotton button shirt with cap sleeves. I put a drop of prednisone medicine in my eye
(left over from the cataract surgery in North Carolina in March) before leaving
the house. Mrs. Bracho generously drove
me to the clinic, and we went together to the reception desk. There they told us that the surgery would be
at 11:30. All along, the messages and
confirmation had been for 10:30, arriving a half hour earlier for check
in. It was before 10 am when we arrived. She left, and I waited.
My tail
bone was throbbing, so I stood. At one point
I noticed a man reading notices on the wall.
I had to look close to see that it wasn’t Ruddy. This guy was also balding, and generally a
similar shaped face and expression. But
the paunch gave him away. Ruddy is
fit. About twenty minutes later there
was someone at my shoulder saying quietly to me, are we ready? I turned, and there he was. This was Dr. Carrillo, who had first examined
me; Ruddy’s good friend.
Eventually
a nurse called me into a small room, where she prepped me with cover for my head
and shoes, and a gown over my clothes.
She put drops in my eye, and placed a sweet-tasting pill under my
tongue. She said that was for the pain. While this was going on, I saw an elderly
lady walk out of the other room with a brown path over her eye.
The
preparation medically thus far has been lackadaisical. The doctor had only looked the one time in my
eye, very briefly. I called the day
before the surgery to see if I should be doing anything special for
preparation. The Hendersonville doctors
had given me drops to prepare my eyes.
No, there was nothing except to fast four hours prior. This made me wonder if they would use a
general anesthetic. It is probable that
I fasted for the first surgery, but since I reported to the clinic at 7:30 am
that was moot. But today I am with
nothing in my stomach, not even water, until after noon. My brain is fuzzy, I am feeling weak. I am apprehensive.
Finally I
am admitted into the surgery room, and told to lie down on an examining table
that has been covered with a sheet.
Doctor Carrill is there, suited up, with Dr. Perez. He is to assist. The procedure begins with bright lights
shining in my eye. The procedure seems
to be similar to the Hendersonville one.
It feels five or ten minutes longer, but that could be my
imagination. In Mexico I don’t find
clocks everywhere.
It was
done, a brown patch of gauze and surgical tape was applied, and I left the
room. I sat again in the prep room to
have the booties and cap removed. Dr.
Carrill wrote out instructions for medication and gave it to me. I still had some leftover anti-inflammatory
drops from the other eye, and so I continued to use them. Dr. Carrill also told me to come to his
office the next morning, and he would check the results. I was expecting this. However, he did not
give me his phone number or his address.
I had to rely on Ruddy for this, and Ruddy found this a challenging
task. He is used to driving to Dr.
Carrill’s clinic, but does not know the address. After some time he did text me the address,
but he did not come up with the phone number.
In the
afternoon I walked to Soriana’s to have the prescription filled, and to buy
things to take back to El Pozole. When I
left Pozole I had counted out the cash I thought I would need, and then some. I
failed to consider medication, however.
There were
five items on the instruction list. The
first was for pain; I had ibuprofen, no need to buy more. The second, third and fourth were available. The most expensive was 350 pesos. While I was there I also picked up a box of
sertraline (Zoloft), but the cost was much higher than I had found at a
pharmacy in downtown Durango in January.
It was a little over $10 US, for a two week supply.
The fourth
item was unavailable.
I bought
what I could afford at the supermarket.
In particular I was keen on getting flea meds for Dog. I bought a couple of flea collars, and a vial
of Hartz flea drops. These should take
care of her after I’ve gone, perhaps until I return.
I
replenished peanut butter and jelly. I was
pleased to find crunchy peanut butter.
The jams were limited, so I picked zarzamora
jam, advertised as having lots of bits of fruit. The photo on the front was of a dark blue
berry. Blueberry? Next was a loaf of multigrain bread. Some cleaning products, a good scrub pad to
tackle the soot that coated the pans each time I used the gas stove, and that
was about it for the essentials. I
strongly wanted to buy good dry dog food, but knew I could not manage to carry
it all the way back to Luz on the bus. I
had been told that the Deacon’s little shop has dog food, so once I had my car
back I could get it there.
Friday; nearly two weeks.
Waiting at the bus station for a ride to Pozole. I call Shubert again. He is confident. He has the part, it will be fixed today. We
arrange that when the car is fixed, he will drive it out to me.
When I
disembarked from the bus from Durango a wizened old woman, hunch over but
portly and with a basket, looked up into my eyes and said “You’re going to
Pozole, right?” Yes, I said. She said that a ride would be coming.
After a
while I got tired of standing, and took a seat closer to where she and three
other women were sitting, each with their baskets. One woman asked me if I wanted gorditas. I shook my head. She turned back to her seat. I said after her, I don’t know what a gordita is. What is it?
She said it was potato and meat.
She pulled back to cloth, to expose a stack of greasy tortillas. How much, I asked? 6 pesos for one, she said. I’ll take one.
Green or
red sauce?
Which is
hotter?
Green.
OK, give
me one with green sauce.
Of course,
with that much grease, it had to be delicious.
We all know that fat molecules make everything taste better. I enjoyed the mashed potato inside; I have
not eaten potatoes for quite a while. I
figured one was enough of a grease bomb to satisfy my empty tummy, and so I
restrained myself from yielding to the urges of my tongue.
Eventually
a white van showed up. I climbed
aboard. I was the only passenger sitting
on the two rows of seats that hugged the walls front to back. The man drove me home. I asked after his prices, and whether or not
he did regularly scheduled runs. As it
turns out, he is not a shuttle service, but rather private livery. I wanted to ask if the 100 pesos was per
person or per run, but I didn’t really need to know. He stopped on the back roads of Pozole to
chat with a lady. He was hoping she knew
me and knew where I was going. He may
have lost confidence in my directions, because the way was so long. But the lady did not know me. He himself suggested that it was the
religious place with that white thing standing in the middle. We carried on. I unlocked the gate, and he drove me to the
door. I gave him 100 pesos, but he said
I was forgetting that since he had come all the way out from Pozole just for
me, I owed him another 50 pesos. Turns
out, the round trip is 150. He asked if
I had ever brought a taxi out here. I
told him not. Of course, I was wondering
myself how much a private taxi picked up in Canatlan would have cost me. I doubted it would have been that much.
Anyway, I
did take down his name and phone number.
Professor Rafael, I should call him.
I rode
with him back to the gate to retrieve my key.
Walking back to Doug’s house I greet Juan, at the usual place near his
few cattle. As I stand there talking
with him, I hear a rustling from within the talk stack of corn stalks. Dog comes wriggling out, tail wagging like
mad. I lift her up, and remark to Juan
that she looks clean. He has noticed it,
too. No fleas. She sits in the crook of my arm, facing out, paws resting on my
other arm as I embrace her on the walk home.
The day
draws to an end. Have I consumed 1,000
calories today? Cheese on a piece of
toast for breakfast, a PBJ sandwich for lunch with a cup of homemade yogurt,
and four thin slices of cheese layered between four tortillas, garnished with a
pickled jalapena and baked in the toaster oven.
My intake for the day. I just pray
that tomorrow my car will be done.
Whether or
not I have the car, I will walk to the little shop nearby and pick up eggs and
dog food, and another can of pickled jalapenas.
Gosh they’re good!! What’s the
point of being in Mexico if you aren’t enjoying jalapenos each day.
I feel
like Old Mother Hubbard as I say goodnight to patient Dog. He doesn’t even ask to go out to pee before
bed time. He just lays on his favorite
spot, an old van bench that rests on the floor against the wall at the foot of
my bed. (no wonder; weeks later I would
discover that she pees in the kitchen during the night.)
Early
Saturday morning, while the air is still cool, Dog and I set out to the little
shop here in Pozole. I empty the
backpack, and sling it on my back. It is
a half-hour walk; neither of us have had breakfast. The sky is brilliant blue. There is a cool breeze, though the sun is
hot. At the store I find a huge bag of
dog kibble; I ask for two kilos. A dozen
eggs, a couple of tins of jalapenos, and some Dos Equis beer. I pick up some potatoes and rest them on the
cluttered countertop. When we get back
home, there are no potatoes. They are
still hidden on the counter, no doubt.
I give Dog
a bowl full of kibble, and she is happy.
Later, when I start cooking myself an egg, she comes to sit near the
stove, tail wagging. I have to
disappoint her.
By mid
day, the clouds are blowing in; thunder rolls across the hills. The rain so far seems light. It might sprinkle for a short time, but then
it is gone. During an earlier stay in
Durango, the short rain came down very heavily, puddling the streets. Here I haven’t seen that intensity yet.
Saturday, going on week
three. Silence.
I step outside with Dog, as she goes for a
pee. About six feet away from me, on the
other side of the barbed wire fence, she gets my attention with gentle
woofing. In small movements, she thrusts
forward then back again, woofing; back and forth, starting to make a circle
around a rock. She is telling me there
is something living there. Is it a
snake? A scorpion? I take a step closer to the barbed wire fence
and watch the dark smooth rock. Did I
see a slight movement, a head pop out of a shell? Perhaps I imagined it. Clearly this is a turtle. I distract Dog, and leave the turtle to
itself. Of course, the next day when I
think to look, it is gone.
At 6 pm I looked at my phone. There was a message there from 4:30, from
Angelo. Was I at LdeC, the car is
ready. I called him. He delivered the car, and presented me with
the bill, which totaled 6,600 pesos.
This was certainly an unexpected expense. Oh, and as a present, he left a large carton
on the back seat containing the broken oil pan.
The trash I produce is already enough of a problem. What will I do with this?
Saturday night I set my alarm for 8:30. Even if I sleep until then, I can still hop
in the car and make the 9 a.m. Mass in El Pozole. My sleeping habits are bad again, waking in
the wee hours, reading or playing solitaire until pre dawn, then falling
asleep. Sure enough, when I awaken to
the sounds of NPR podcasts that I had turned on around 5 am to put me back to
sleep, I am glad I woke up before the alarm.
As I am slowly rousing myself, I have the faint recollection of a harp
playing a sweet few bars over and over.
Then it hits me. I slept through
the alarm! It is now 8:50, and no chance
of making Mass. I get up and dress in a
Sunday dress, and drive to El Pozole. I
am hoping there is a 10:00 Mass. When I
finally find someone who can answer, I learn that the Mass is at noon. I can’t
find anything else to do to hold me in Canatlan, so I buy fresh fruit and drive
home.
It is painful to sit in the driver’s seat on
my bruised tail bone. Clearly I am not
driving to the States anytime soon. I
look on the calendar to see what date is payday. It is two weeks away. Enough healing time? It is killing me sitting here doing
nothing. Yet staying in the States will
be awkward and expensive. Anna has
graciously offered her studio apartment attached to her house. As long as I have my car, I can get things
done. I do need to get the repairs done
on the house. I also have some catching
up to do with bill payments, once my social security check arrives. I will be late or delinquent on some bills in
July. I anticipate the house will close
somewhere between Aug 8 and Aug. 16 with this new buyer, that is 6 or 7 weeks
from the contract. I have not heard
anything from the realtor about inspection.
I hope all will go smoothly.
There is excellent bus transportation
between Canatlan and Durango. A
long-distance coach comes by every half hour.
The cost is 114 pesos.
I need to see the eye doctor again, Dr.
Carrillo, because a week after the surgery I am still not taking one of the
prescribed drops. On the day after the
surgery when I went to see Dr. Carrillo I told him that one medicine was not
available at the same pharmacy as the others.
He sent me to another pharmacy. On
this trip to Durango for my surgery, my car still isn’t ready; I travel around Durango
by taxi. On the way back to Rudy’s house
I went to the pharmacy to get the missing drops. The pharmacist asked what strength I needed;
it was not indicated on the prescription.
She gave me a 10% solution.
According to Dr. Rudy, this one is to avoid ulcers on the eye. I tucked into into my backpack; the next day
I got back to Pozole without ever trying the drops. When I did, I realized that they were too
strong. The salinity burned my eye too
badly, I did not feel it safe to take. I
tried calling Dr. Carrillo, but when the receptionist put their number into my
phone she noted it in landline-speak.
There were insufficient numbers for a cell call. I waited for my car to get back, and then
drove into town on Wednesday.
The surgery was
on Wednesday. I had arrived Tuesday
night, hoping to stay only two nights. I
kept my appointment with Dr. Carrillo, and it was early enough that I could
still grab my backpack and head to the bus station before noon. But there was a problem. No one would be home at Rudy’s house, and
they could not find a spare key. I was
told to come back at 2 p.m., Mrs. Bracho would be there to let the ‘engineer’
in. I let the taxi driver drop me off at
Soriana Supermarket. I sat at the lunch
area there, and had a Mexican hot plate.
Beans, rice, and chicken in a sauce.
I wanted a beer with the lunch, but buying drinks to drink in the store
is not allowed. Of course, had I wanted
to go to the front of the store and go through the cashier line, I could have
doubled back with my beer to the lunch counter at the back of the store. Probably no one would have noticed. I didn’t want the beer that badly.
I played games on
my cell phone for as long as I could. I
went around the store and picked up a couple of things I knew I needed for the
house, like domestic cheddar cheese and good yogurt. Finally, at 2 pm, I walked back to the Bracho
house. Because getting a ride back to
Pozole from Canatlan was an unknown process, I was reluctant to arrive there
too late in the evening. So I spent a
third night with my friends. They went
out at dinner time on Thursday, and came back very late. They slept in. I was packed and ready to go by 7:30. Focusing on being a polite guest, I did not
skip out leaving a note behind. I
waited. See? I’m not the flake I used to be.
Sitting here in Doug’s house typing is
excruciating. There is no cushioned arm
chair, only a hard molded plastic lawn chair.
Back to bed for me. Watch another
movie.
I have a Brita filter pitcher that I brought
with me from the States. I filter the
water at Luz de Compasion, before drinking it. However, the water in the pitcher is green. After the water sits for a day or so, the
bottom of the pitcher or the refillable water bottle has a green film on the
bottom. Obviously, the well is
contaminated. I later learn, from a
professional plumber, that the well should be treated regularly with tablets,
containing chlorine. Obviously, Jhampa
has neglected this.
Bottled water is for sale in Canatlan. It is rather heavy to lift into and out of my
car, but it is available at a number of places. Racks of those large bottles are for sale in
Oxxo, in the supermarkets, and other small shops.
I found one building that had a self-serve
water dispenser built in to the outer wall. Pop in a ten-peso coin and the water pours
into your bottle.
In time, that bottle too produced a green
slime on the bottom.
At last someone told me that the best water
comes from the water company office. They
have a neat service window. You present
your empty bottle, a friendly lady puts it under the hose and fills it and
seals the lid. It is cheap,
certainly. But once again, that full bottle
is awfully heavy to lug into and out of the car. Now this is the exclusive source of water for
me; it is trustworthy.
I thought I should go see the eye doctor in
Durango, because he has not yet removed the stitch. Unlike my first cataract surgery in
Hendersonville, this doctor used a stitch in the eye. He said it was somehow related to the slight
astigmatism in that eye. He said he would
do that about a week after the surgery.
I went to see him five days after the surgery, as I mention above, and
he did not remove it. Now it is ten days
past, and the eye is sore.
It was one of those mornings when dawn comes
too soon. Here in Durango Daylight
Savings Time is a bad deal. The sun
rises after 7 a.m., and sets way past the energies of any farmer. It was past 8 a.m. by the time I mustered
myself out of bed. The sky was blue, I
thought it would be a beautiful day. I
did a load of wash. Actually, Dog had puked
up her kibble on my bed, and I needed to wash my only set of sheets.
I hung the line again between the thorn tree
at the barbed wire fence, and the window grilling. I had breakfast. An egg omelet with a cut up tomato and a
slice of cheese, and a dollop of yogurt to make the omelet rise. A few slices of pickled jalapenos added
zest. A couple of slices of toast and a
cup of coffee rounded off the meal.
The washing machine is very slow. It takes an hour, at least. The digital timer says 58 minutes, but the
clock stands still during the hour it takes to fill the machine. To speed things along, I fill a bucket at the
sink and pour it into the machine. It
takes about three such buckets full to get enough for a half load; and repeat
for each cycle. After each cycle I
manually wring out the clothes, since the spin cycle doesn’t work. At last the clothes were ready for the
line. I wrung each piece off as well as
I could, and stretched the sheets across the line, with enough room for a bath
towel. The underwear went on the barbed
wire fence, along with a pair of socks.
It was late when I finally left; 12:30. Google Maps said the trip should take 1:15
minutes. Dr. Carrillo keeps his own
hours. The posted hours are 10 a.m. to 2
p.m. I went directly from El Pozole to
his office doorstep; he had left for the day.
I arrived back to my home in El Pozole only to find that the wind had
whipped up and a strong rain had fallen. My laundry was not so much on the line
anymore.
I drove into Durango twice more on different
days, but never could find Dr. Carrillo in during his posted office hours. Finally I went back to Dr. Perez, and let him
remove the stitch he had put in place.
In mid July I drove back to
Florida; the house was due to close in two or three weeks, and I had yet to
take care of some small details around the house. Anna graciously opened her cottage door to me;
that is where I stayed for the next few weeks.
The drive
from Mexico to Florida was not good for my eye. It was stressful, and caused a tenderness and
redness to return to the eye. I went to
an ophthalmologist near Anna’s house in Lutz. From then on until I returned back to Mexico
in September I was under constant care for the eye.
