Wandering minus Wanderlust- Pozole again

 

As one wandering through the wilderness, I have grown weary and disheartened.  To pile on the clichés, the day seems darkest before the dawn.  Intellectually, I knew things would get better..eventually.  I doubted my weariness could be endured much longer.

In Durango for six months, I found nothing to lift my hope.  I endured, because of the animals.  The captivating Parrot who accepted my friendship;  the rescue dogs in the back yard cell; and of course, the steadfast loyalty and love given me freely by my dear Junior, these are what sustained me.  Meanwhile, I shared the house with the landlord’s ex husband, who is a burnt out heroine addict.  He no longer uses, but lives in a world unfamiliar to me.  I was still in transition, looking for a permanent place to live.  Most of my boxed possessions were with me in that house.  Systematically, his friends slowly stole away with some of my most valuable kitchen possessions that were boxed up in the front room.  My expensive Kitchen Aide was most notable and missed among the thefts.

In Mazatlan, I quickly discovered the Vinyard community church.  It is an oasis of English and northern culture.  The heart of the community is outreach, to spread the bounty that drenches the coastline and bring it to the less endowed among the greater Mexican Mazatlan.

I arrived in Mazatlan in January.  I enjoyed the spring months together with the Snowbird congregation at that church.  They were friendly people, joining together for an after-church brunch at a restaurant; a tradition very familiar to me in other places.  Then they began returning to their thawing lands to the north.  What is left is mere dozens of old retired white permanent residents of Mazatlan.  The community is held together by a handful of dedicated servants of the church.  The preaching couple; the musician who enjoyed a riotous burnt out life as a professional musician until he settled here, an empty shell.  There are a number of ministries that carry on year-round.  I have not taken the time more recently to arrive once a week at 7 a.m. to prepare the sandwiches that go out with the bus touring the dump and a few villages along the way, distributing oved 300 sandwiches twice a week.  Then there is the young man who has a heart for the animals, and has found a paid position in the local government to champion these populations.  He has little awareness of the life of an elderly citizen.  I proclaimed my dedication to his work, the weekly trips to the rescue center to walk the dogs.  He dismissed the value of my dedication; not even taking my phone number, a kind of de facto ‘welcome to the team’ gesture.  I was not included in special events, like a day of bringing adoptable dogs to a public community venue; or a parade of the dogs for whatever that celebration was.  When I showed up weekly at the ‘usual time’ for the walks, I did not see him. I did not take the long detour to the church to join him and whatever volunteers might come in a church van; I drove directly to the shelter, much closer to my home.  But I never again saw any sign of his ministry from the Vinyard.  I saw him at church, huddled with his younger cohort.  He never went out of his way to give me a Sunday morning greeting.  I did; but it never evolved into a conversation of what was going on with the ministry; just a cool nod.

And then there is Junior to be considered.  We are each other’s world.  In everything I do in my day, I must consider him, his needs and his security.  He misses our country home in Canatlan as much as I do.  He no longer has a few acres to call his own.  Now his security is wrapped up in the atmosphere of my life.  That is very small right now.  If I must leave him home, when I return he is almost hysterical with joy and relief.  I do not like to put him through that.  He accompanies me almost everywhere, even though many places in this world are not ‘dog friendly’.  This means he must wait outside when I enter a building, in whatever weather might be happening.  He sits on guard; he lies in the place where I left him.  He understands when I tell him he can get out of the hot car, but must wait for me in its shade.  Well-meaning dog lovers have seen him sitting outside a supermarket, being his friendly self, and took the time to read the phone number on the collar to call and tell me he was lost.  Now I either put a leash on him, or park him in a less-trafficked spot, where he obediently stays.  He does not ‘get’ leashes.  His ears go down, as if receiving scolding or disciplining.  He will not be seen prancing beside me, leashed, with a perky step.  He has learned not to be so friendly.  As an aside, I really do wish that stores would adopt a policy of allowing pets to ride in the shopping cart with owners.

Our bond is such that, if I must leave him outside the church door during service, my heart is very conscious of him and his well-being.  It is less stressful for both of us if he sits with me during the service.  But then we are subject to the self-proclaimed rules that are laid down by people who are given a little responsibility.  Like the lady who attends to the library at the back of the church.  She sees me walking in with Junior, and tells me he cannot come in without a leash.  She does not know me, apparently doesn’t care to know me.  But she has her sense of right and wrong, and this must be laid down over my dear friend.  So to appease her, we sit at the back of the church away from the congregation, lest anyone be offended by his lack of bondage.  Now we are without fellowship.  Of course, I should have ignored this officiousness, and joined my congregation.  Instead, I chose to play the role of the submissive obedient servant. 

The incident led me to the conclusion that I do not really have a role to play in this group.  After three months of attending these Sunday morning services faithfully, no one in that building sees me.  I am still invisible.  They must be very worn out and weary, after hosting the large Snowbird population for half the year.  Many among the Snowbirds are yearly visitors, and assume leadership roles in the many outreach ministries during their winter stays.  Now who are carrying these roles?  I wanted to be among those who do.  However, first I must become visible.  I guess I have myself to blame.  In the turmoil of my life since arriving in Mazatlan, with Oscar and his erratic behavior, and Melissa and all she put us through, then trying to buy a car and get it legal (insurance, registration, license) and I won’t iterate the rest here, I failed to go weekly at 7 am along the miles in commuter traffic to help make sandwiches.  Had I done that, I may have become more visible.  I will try that in the few weeks I have left here, to exonerate the church from this negative description of the congregation.

Oscar teased me with other suggestions of places I might live in Mazatlan.  He would drive me around a neighborhood flooded with ‘for rent’ signs, and tell me the rates were low.  I expected him, then, to arrange to show me one or two, but he wanted me to do that leg work.  And in the following days I would, only to find out that the rents were in no way lowered, but still could be asking as much for one month’s rent as my monthly pension check.  How naïve am I that I continue to fall for these false hopes.  That is just one small example of how fond he is of leading me on.  I have come full circle now.  I choose to no longer fall for any of his games.  He owes me money, proceeds from the sale of my house, but he will never pay me.  Instead, he would take me on as his ward, being my insurance policy against indigence until my death.  I have seen enough of how he takes care of me, and decide that I no longer choose to be held in his careless hands.  Even without that remaining money, I can get along just fine on my own, as I have already for 80 decades. 

I needed a break from all this emotional upheaval.  On impulse, I drove back to Canatlan, where I lived for seven years.  I would try once again to find a home to rent there. 

This time I have better luck.  A house I had pursued a year ago has finally come within my grasp.  In Pozole there are three houses side by side, built by three sisters, in the center of the tiny cluster of homes in El Pozole that make up the little hamlet.  One of them had been the center of drama for a number of my years in Pozole.  The daughter of one of the deceased sisters wanted to update the house.  She put the task of doing it to her husband.  Their marriage was pretty much dead, and she was happy to have him spending so much time away from their home in California.  He is an alcoholic and pot head.  Because he speaks English, and is so gregarious, I became acquainted with him, and eventually with her, too.  Until their house was complete, over two years, they lived next door in the middle house.  The wife, Vanessa, did not spend long periods of time there, except to come occasionally and give her opinion on the many decisions that had to be made.  They fought over that project as much as any other in their lives.  Now the house is done.  I have not seen the husband there, but Vanessa comes for months on end and spends time getting to know her cousins again.  The third house was occupied by Tomasa, until her death.  I liked her a lot and spent more time there with her than any other place in Pozole.  Her house is large and full of windows.  The front room is so large, I imagine pushing the furniture aside and having a square dance, or the Mexican equivalent, there.  Tomasa never was that social.

More than anything I wished to rent Tomasa’s house.  I have fond memories of her there, and the brightness of the house gives me a psychological lift.  But alas, whoever has it entangled now is not letting it go.  If I move to that village, I will learn more about who that is.  I only know that the house is empty most of the time.

That leaves the middle house.  It is small.  It needs updating and renovating.  I hear the roof has problems.  I spoke with the ‘heiress’, who lives in California, last year.  I don’t remember the details of why I could not rent the place.  Now the young lady is more amenable.  We are to talk this weekend by phone, and see if we can come to agreeable terms.  This seems my only hope of returning to a familiar, home-like place.  In the intervening time, the energy, Fifth Density that is bringing about universal change towards a higher awareness of the power of love, has brought changes about in me, and I think I am now better prepared to live among the old ladies of this hamlet.

Has my wandering finally come to an end?

 

 

Distressed Ocean Dog

 An afternoon visit to the RV Park at Punto Cerritos

I went at sundown.  I sat by the pool, in a chair upon the cliff.  Three larger figures and two smaller ones caught my attention,  in the surf.  I kept watching until the smaller figures disambiguated themselves.  One, a child, soon left the three larger.  Other family adults lifted it out of the water.  What was the smaller remaining object that seemed to pass back and forth among the three?  It was a dog!  The dog would swim to one, he seemed to prefer the more matronly figure.  She would push him off towards one of the other two, males; one looked to be a teen of perhaps 14.  The latter seemed to enjoy dunking the dog below the surface of the water.  Then the dog would swim to the shelter of the woman.  She would not hold him for more than a minute, before his four little legs would be paddling off to one of the other.  The dog must have been swallowing water.  I don’t see how he could have avoided that, given his dunkings, and his swimming in rough choppy sea.

It was a small dog, I could see that.  Perhaps the size of my Junior.

This activity went on and on.  Ten minutes, fifteen minutes from the time I first spotted them.  Eventually play time was over, and they all struggled back to the rocky land.  The young man had the dog in the crook of his elbow, and plopped him on a high rock.  The black dog just stood, as if stunned.  He did not shake the water off him.  He was scooped up again and carried, I could not see where because of the cliff ledge blocking my view.  One thing was clear.  This dog was exhausted.  I sent prayers his way.  Was this abuse usual for him, or did this family have ways to coddle him and care for him in the course of his daily life.  By the bulk of his stubby shape I sensed he was not a puppy.  Did he enjoy this game of keep-away? Does he feel more loved because his family includes him in these water games? 

I am left to wonder.  Clearly, I was witness to a dog in distress; I cannot get the picture of it out of my mind.

Ocean breezes

 

It is a struggle to find a home when the pension is at subsistence level.  I am not alone with this problem; I know it is worse for seniors trying to live in the States.  I did not even try the States, knowing it would be impossible without additional help, like family support emotionally if not physically.  I had a modest savings account from my years of teaching in China.  I invested it in a non-profit development in Mexican countryside, that proved ephemeral.

I sold my Mexico farm home of seven years for much less than my investment in it.  Since then I have been somewhat subsidized by the new friends I met while the property was on the market.  For almost a year now I have been trying to find a less stressful environment for me and my dog, Junior.

Mostly I hung out in Durango, with the help of these friends. Throughout the years, I had visited Maazatlan as a possible retirement home, because I thought it would be nice to have access to the American culture, through the large number of snowbirds and smaller number of permanent retirees.  Each trip ended with the same conclusion.  There was no place for someone in my income bracket.

Then one day Oscar, one of those new Durango friends, announced that he had found and rented a house in Mazatlan for me and his new girlfriend.  Splitting the rent suddenly made it affordable.

Yet my life was not yet stress-free, nor relatively so.  The house was on a very busy street.  Junior, now four years old, was not used to city living and city traffic.  He was learning that when we crossed these busy streets, he had to watch me for his cue that it was safe to cross. As weeks went by, he became a little cocky, and would sometimes make the decision on his own.  I must say, he was usually right in his assessment, but there was at least one heart-in-the-mouth crossing.

He was developing ‘bad’ habits, like eating discarded food from the ground, and insisting to come with me whenever I got in the car.  He was canny in picking up cues like my carrying a handbag as I headed towards the front door.

The house had no trees growing in front.  It was one door down from the busy boulevard, and on a street subject to heavy traffic accessing the whole development.  Cars would whip around the corner on a red light; there was always danger of my car getting clipped by one of these reckless drivers as I pulled into or out of my driveway.  The public bus stop was in front of my driveway.  Noise, pollution, wall-to-wall concrete best describes life in this house.  I was growing to hate it.

The sharing arrangement lasted two months.  As we got to know this girlfriend, we discovered that she was not wholesome to have around.  Having a passive resistant-type personality, she was sweet to my face but uncommunicative.  Apparently, she would rather have the house without me as baggage.  Behind my back, she would call the landlord and talk trash about me.  She left, at m request, but then the full burden for rent fell upon me.  On a day when, fortunately, Oscar was visiting from Durango, the electricity went out.  He scurried around looking for a failure in the line, but I was still in the dark when he returned to Durango.  Next day I drove to the utility office to sort out the problem.  Turns out, she never paid the bill in spite of receiving money from Oscar to pay it.  I paid it, plus a fine.  Power was back on when I returned to the house.

Oscar had made a deal with the landlord to secure the house for us at a reduced rent.  He promised he would ‘fix up’ the house.  Maintenance had been neglected for some time.  Faucets leaked, the sewage system wreaked, the paint on the walls was blistering from the humidity.  His idea of getting things done usually involves coercing someone who was indebted to him in some way to do the work for Oscar, as long as it took.  This does not usually involve riding down the mountain from Durango to Mazatlan and sleeping over for three nights.  Experience taught me that the results, the quality of the work, could never compare with the job done by a professional.  I told him to hold off on this solution, to give me time to get to know the local market of professionals.  Nevertheless, he arrived late one afternoon, with a worker in tow.  He then took off to attend a prearranged meeting, leaving me alone with this guy.  I was to put him up in the spare bedroom.  This had a king-size mattress, and I had no sheets for it.  What ensued over the next 16 hours is a tale on its own, better treated separately.  They went back to Durango the next day; no improvements had been made.

One day a lady showed up at the door, with her daughter.  As it turns out, this is the actual owner of the house, with the most recent resident in tow.  They were curious as to what had really been going on in their house, and wanted to get to the bottom of it.  They were concerned over interactions between Oscar and the presumed landlord.  They suspected that Oscar was deliberately confusing the old man, and manipulating him.  What ensued over the next few hours was a fascinating conversation, and ended with the ripping up of the old contract and writing of a new.  The old contract did not have my name; only Oscar’s and his new girlfriend.  We ladies took charge, and removed the men and his plaything from the situation.

We ladies had a series of meeting.  They de facto lowered my rent, and I stipulated a five-month commitment, not six months.  I really wanted to get out of that place.  I figured I could get the maintenance work cleaned up by then, and will have found an affordable space, if one existed.

As I have said elsewhere, the center of my new life in Mazatlan is the Christian church, The Vinyard/La Viña. This is most likely where I will find my community, in my again-renewed retirement life.  On Sunday I asked around about information regarding housing.  I was passed along to this American retiree, Douglas,  and his Mexican wife.  He looked off to the distance and said, *finger snap* “I may know just the thing for you.”  We made a date to meet out at Punto Cerritos.

He failed to mention that he was the unofficial but exclusive agent for the property, which I would later discover after I had found a viable option for sale and tried to pursue a conversation with the lady who was eager to sell.  He sent me a message indicating that any future communications between me and her were to go through him.  She and I continue to try to communicate through WhatsApp, though I was having trouble finding her in the app.  She only has a US number. 

This Douglas, in our initial meeting at this for-sale unit, was answering all my questions about costs in terms of dollars.  My brain functions in pesos, so I was constantly converting, and clarifying; this is in pesos, or dollars?  I found the man to be pompous, officious, and annoying.  I did not understand why I needed his intervention.  I guess he is used to dealing with foreigners who are helpless in a Mexican financial environment.

This new opportunity comes in the form of an RV park.  I had heard of it, I had in previous searches over the years come across information about it.  Efforts I had made to learn more, to visit it, were thwarted.  Now that I meet Douglas, it occurs to me why.

 

It is on a twenty-foot bluff overlooking a rocky shore and rough surf.  Regulations stimulate that all roofs much be palapa, like the one in this picture.

The park has about five rows of lots, at their core is a concrete slab or 'apron', four or five per row.  Each unit consists of an RV on one half of the apron, and a concrete slab on the other.  Each seems uniquely designed, although walls to north and south sides seem universal.  The other two sides might have a half-wall barrier, or may be totally enclosed.

About four years ago, the whole place went up in flames.  Nothing was spared.  The unit currently for sale was rebuilt four years ago.  The RV hauled and put in place has no motor.  It will never move again.

It is a beautiful location.  No matter how hot the day, there is always a cool breeze blowing under the talapa roofs.  I have heard that, in the evenings, residents assemble at poolside and socialize.  I have not verified this rumor.  Especially now, as the season closes, there are not many residents remaining.  This is a popular resort for the snowbirds.

To buy out a current resident, the price will vary depending on the degree to which the living space has been developed.  The current prospect is asking $47,500 US.  That is a one-time expense, subject to wipe-out in event of a fire.  Of course, insurance is not an option here.  Then there is the ongoing expenses of garbage, water, sewer, grounds keeping, security guards, pool maintenance, whew.  That amounts to $450 US/month.  Are these people so certain in the exchange rate?  They seem not to consider the fact that it fluctuates.  Anyway, at the current exchange rate, that is 9,000 pesos.  I am currently paying 7,000 pesos in this house. 

There are vacant, undeveloped aprons.  I wonder what it would cost to find an old RV, move it in place, and pay for my own palapa roof.

This is my dilemma.  My quality of life would greatly improve.  Good bye traffic noise, pollution and cement.  Hello ocean breezes, flowers, and corrosive ocean air.

As much as Oscar annoys me, sometimes being my Angel, other times my Demon, I want very much to discuss all this with him.  I do not trust the American, Douglas.  I want Oscar to go in there and talk with the actual owners and caretakers.  But Oscar is not available these days.  As often happens, he has gone incommunicado; this can last for a month.  He has, after all, a 'vast' financial empire to maintain.

Trailer Park Punta Cerritos

Av. Sábalo Cerritos 3500, Cerritos, 82112 Mazatlán, Sin.