House Hunting

House hunting

                This past weekend it rained, a wintry rain with high winds, outside the traditional rainy season.  This means that once again the roads are muddy sinkholes, and the stream will be too high to ford by car, although one hopes it will recede quickly.

                Friday night Doug’s house suddenly went dark.  There was a power outage.  The power company (CFE) was closed for the weekend, apparently no emergency repair crews go out on the weekend, so I searched out a supply of candles and a lighter.  Actually, all the candles I had bought were still across the way at Michael’s house.  Oh well, it was time to go to bed.  I still had my small halogen flashlight.  Thank heavens that was not in my handbag, which was soon to disappear.

                My dirty laundry was piling up. Finally I had successfully arranged to have the septic tank pumped out so that the washing machine would not cause a backup to flood the bathroom floor.  I had not yet had a chance to take advantage of that.  I hand wash the smaller items, but when it comes to jeans, two pair at that, the electric agitator is preferable to my hand efforts.  However, without electricity I could not work the partially crippled washing machine.  [the spin cycle no longer worked; the water pressure is so poor that it would take over a half hour to get enough water for a small load, but I fill buckets at the sink and pour them into the washer to speed the process along; three buckets for washing, another three buckets for rinsing]. 

                These are some of the reasons I have decided to look for a temporary home in Canatlan, until my own house construction has been completed.  At the rate it is going, that could be six more months.

                I screwed up my courage to impose on one of my new friends.  Esther and Eloy are a warm and hospitable couple.  Esther came with me when I drove to Durango to visit the Immigration office, processing my residence permit. 

They had encouraged me to join them (and Esther’s sister Lupe and Lupe’s American husband Chris) in a night of an elegant supper dance, arranged for the alumni of the local junior high school.  Surely that is a sign of friendship.  I held hopes that at that dance I could network a little towards my house-hunting; the full-throated sound of that wonderful dance band with horns and strings did not lend the night to networking.  I sat in awe of Esther and Eloy as they stayed on the dance floor all night, with tremendous energy and elegant skill.

And so on Saturday morning I bundled my laundry bag into the car, with Dog, and drove to the far side of Canatlan.  They have an estate, with a home that meanders over many bedrooms and baths, the estate sprawling over many hectares and across the river. 

                I visited with them over a cup of tea as their washing machine did the heavy work.  In the course of our chatting, they invited me to join them that afternoon to visit old friends out on the dam.

                I had heard of this body of water, mostly referred to as a lake, and seen its image on Google maps.  This would be my first excursion outside of Canatlan in this direction, past El Presidio.  I was thrilled by the invite.

                I still had the bottle of expensive Tequila that I had bought for the Virgin of Guadalupe evening, when they had invited me to visit the sisters’ mother above the bakery.  On that evening, I had no details of the invitation, did not know if it included dinner and a crowd.  I bought this bottle so I would not enter empty handed.  As it turns out, it was just them sitting with the family matriarch.  We stayed a short time, and after Grandma took the polite shot, she urged us to take our bottles home with us.

                Here I was again, in fear of the social faux pas of entering a home with empty hands.  In spite of Esther and Eloy urging me to hang my laundry on their line, I insisted on bundling it up and taking it home to my own line.  I wanted to grab that bottle of tequila and take it with us to the lake, where I was sure it would be appreciated.

                When Dog and I arrived home at Luz de Compasion, I discovered that once again the lock to Doug’s house was being cantankerous.  Try as I may, I could not get the danged thing open.  Fortunately for the laundry, I had in the morning tucked a bag of clothes pins into the car, along with the laundry detergent and softener.  I got the wet clothes hung, and we bundled ourselves back into the car to return to their house, still with no hostess gift.

                Still needing to deal with the empty-hands situation, since the tequila was locked up in Doug’s house, I stopped at a beer store at the entrance to Canatlan, just a few doors down from Chris and Lupe’s house.  I had my wallet with me, and there I paid for some beer and a bag of chips.

                Did I take my wallet out of my bag before exiting the car?  This question hangs unanswered.

                I arrived back at Esther’s house, with yet another hour to wait before the appointed departure time.  I sat on their front wrap-around porch, overlooking the dry swimming pool, enjoying the pale winter sunshine.

                At 2 p.m. we bundled into the pickup truck.  Esther had in her arms a large basket of bunuelos that she had made at home, and her hand bag, and so we squeezed into the car.  I put the bag with beer and chips on the floor at our feet, next to her bag, and with Dog on my lap; I was squished against the door; nor room for another thing, certainly not by purse.

                It was a long ride to the far end of the meandering lake/dam, to a lovely country home.  The wind was up, that day, tossing the trees into a melodious frenzy.  We all piled into the house, with the extended family.  There was Rosie and her husband Heriberto. There were two young couples, I believe a son and a daughter and their significant others or friends.  The daughter of the house, Sophie, was without her Norwegian mate, who was in Brazil doing business at the moment.  I would meet him soon, on Christmas Eve at the family’s Canatlan house.

                I entered the small living room with Esther, and was introduced around to the women.  Soon I wandered out to the small porch which was crowded with rustic furniture; a round table, chairs and benches.  I only needed to wander back into the house to replenish my version of ‘tequila sunrise’, with a fruity bottled drink of orange and lime, and a little tequila.  Even though I was drinking from a juice glass, and being carefully moderate with the amount of tequila, by the third tasty glass I began to realize I was not just slaking my thirst with a fruity drink.  I made the third glass last much longer.  I relaxed in view of the mountains to one side, the lake to the other, and clusters of low trees dancing between.  Soon I had closer entertainment, as the men gathered around the barbecue in a masculine tradition.  Below the porch at ground level, and coming up to a few inches below the porch edge, there stood an empty barbecue grill of the simplest kind.  A rectangular metal trough, and a grate that would fit above the burning coals.

The plan was to do barbecue.  Heriberto had prepared wonderful beef cut into ¼ inch slices, and some bologna-type hot dogs.  This would be the main course.  And so the ritual commenced.  He layered the charcoal (which still retained the shape of the tree limbs) just so, explaining the technique to his son as he did it.  This piece of scientific precision was ready to be ignited. Here is when the plan began to crumble, or at least hit a speed bump.  Neither a match nor a butane lighter could hold a flame against the wind.  The helpful young men began to scour the surrounding weeds for small bits of wood.  They gave it a good try, gathering more and more such kindle, but the wind still beat them back.  Finally someone (ahem) suggested gathering a bundle of the dry tall weeds; at long last the fire took, and grumbling stomachs took heart.

                Dog, after years of hanging around Juan’s acres, was being initiated quickly to a whole world of new experiences.  Rosie and Heriberto, and their neighbors, had large country dogs of indiscriminate breed.  Dog sedately stuck by my side, and was not challenged.  She sat quietly at my feet on the porch.  She occasionally got up and walked around on the porch, sniffing this and that, but always stayed out of trouble.  She received admiring comments from the host family.  Unlike so many tiny breeds, she did not bark or threaten, but sat quietly, contentedly, with an ingratiating smile and a wag.

                In the course of the afternoon Esther mentioned to Rosie that I was looking for a house in town.  Rosie said she had that ‘little’ house in Canatlan that they only occasionally used, they could probably do without it.  She would call me when she returned from a quick trip to Mexico, probably in a few days.

We got home at last.  The wind had tossed my laundry about, but I retrieved all but one pair of underpants.  That would require, the next day, the assistance of the broom’s long handle, as I gingerly finessed the barbs on the wire beyond where the panties had blown.

This time I was able to persuade the lock to yield, and let me in.  I brought my laundry bag and detergent from the car; I did not see my handbag.  Well, in the light of day tomorrow I would find it in the shadows of the car.

But I did not find it.  Oh well, I thought, at least I have my wallet and my money purse, which I had tucked under the seats of the car.  Why and when had I done that?  Logic says I decided not to take my purse with me, only my drivers license (in wallet) and money pouch (too valuable to leave wherever it was I was leaving my purse; if not in my house, whose?)

Jim, from Oklahoma, had taken me for a walk one day pointing out the houses that he thought were empty and available.  He had also given me the phone number of a realtor in Durango who represented homes in Canatlan.  Jim introduced me to one property owner.  We stood at his metal garage door and knocked, and called out.  I heard a duck quacking; no, two ducks; a dog barking…?  When the elderly gentleman opened the door, he had at hand a very wide signboard advertising a house he has for sale.  Behind him, I could see two white ducks with very orange bills strutting; a couple of dogs were peeking between his legs; one, a schnauzer, managed to squeeze out of the door.  The gentleman said he raises dogs.  Being an animal lover myself, I thought I would like to get to know this family better.  Back to the purpose of our visit, he really had no small house or apartment to rent.

I called Claudia, the realtor in Durango.  She said she’d call me back, but she never did.  The real estate market in Canatlan is so empoverished…not that there are no houses being sold or rented, but their value would not yield commission enough to make a realtor’s trip of 45 miles one way worthwhile.

The housing market is very much in flux.  There are houses at all economic levels.  Adobe houses with crumbling exterior walls, up to the very nice house of my friends Esther and Eloy.  On the drive to their house I passed a house with a ‘for sale’ banner and a phone number.

A week later I was driving by this house and noticed the door was open.  I parked the car and stood at the door.  ‘Is this house for sale?’

They invited me in.  The mother and young adult daughters were in the kitchen preparing a light supper.  The husband showed me around the house.  It has archways bordered with large fieldstones. It was a blend of traditional Mexican and modern comfort.  The floors were tiled; the kitchen had two built-in breakfronts; the appliances were modern, including a large oven.  A courtyard surrounded the house on two sides behind the high wall.  Of course, the other two sides were the street, this being a corner house.  A garage door allowed the car to be pulled in off the street into the paved courtyard.  In the remaining corner is a free-standing room, about 12 x 12 feet. Now used for storage, the owner told me that in the summer it is nice to be in this room for its coolness. 

Inside there are three large bedrooms, all holding queen-sized beds with lots of floor space besides.  There is only one bathroom.  Maybe that alone is why they are now building themselves a larger, two-story house. 

Bottom line, the house is huge, far more than I need or could use.  I would have to think up a business that would justify so much space; AirBnB?  Rent to temporary workers?

The asking price is 800,000 pesos.  At the current exchange rate, that is about $44,000 US.  I enquired about the furniture, since I have none. He added that to the price, but then the wife started saying something about, ‘well if you really want the house we can negotiate that,’ when I stopped her.  I did not want to get their hopes up that I might buy the place.

My mind was flipping out, yes I want it! No, don’t be silly, as an investment could you really find someone to buy it down the road? But I want it!!  It is beautiful; I love the location; I could cover the outside with potted plants, even vegetables…   No!  you don’t want to complicate your life with this responsibility.  You’d be tying up your money in a risky venture.

Sigh

I was growing aware of the few apartment buildings in Canatlan, all downtown (which, mind you, is a square of about 9 blocks).  I asked in the shops, near those buildings.  Who owns these apartments, where can I get information on availability? 

One nice looking building had an open door to the stairwell leading up to the apartments.  I climbed the stairs and knocked on a door.  What is the phone number of your landlord?

And at last I had success.  The landlord came to meet me, and showed me the place.  It is clean and modern, even including a washer and dryer one flight of stairs above me, on the roof in a locked enclosure.  It is two bedrooms, one bath, maybe 900 sq ft altogether.  It has appliances and two beds, with built in cupboards in the bedrooms as is the custom here.  Otherwise, it is unfurnished.

The price is Durango price, way above the average rental of even houses here in Canatlan.  It is on the ‘second’ floor, which is actually the third.  This means a lot of stair-climbing.

In the end, I decided I was not going to do better.  The price, although high for here, was still well within my budget.

I asked, can I think if over.  The current occupant would be leaving the next day, then after one more day for cleaning, it would be available.  However, the landlord said he had someone else also interested.  And so I committed to it.

The next day I drove out to fabled Nuevo Ideal, a city down the opposite road almost as far as Durango.  There is a large Mennonite community there.  I heard they made good wooden furniture.

It was a lovely drive.  Halfway there I came alongside a body of water that followed me the whole distance.  It is a very large lake; I had no idea it was there.

I was very focused.  I came for one purpose, that is, to buy a recliner.  One day I would return and seriously inspect the furniture market. But for today, I only needed one thing.

I did not go far into town, but stopped at the first furniture store I came to.  It is obviously not the fabled Mennonite workmanship.  However, I did find a suitable recliner that didn’t put a wallop on my wallet.  I had to have the cashier call my new landlord to get directions for delivery (no additional cost; you won’t find that in Durango), and it was arranged for next day delivery, when officially I was to pay the rent and get the keys.

It was my Christmas present from God.  I took the place on December 23.

I took my time emptying my stuff from the Luz de Compasion site, one small bundle at a time.  In the first couple of days I made many trips up and down those steps.  Then I took my blood pressure, and it had dropped down to a youthful reading!  Hello, a little exercise goes a long way to good health.  Still, my obesity had me heaving for breath mid flight.

 Even after a week and until this day I have not found my purse.  Although my wallet and wad of cash was not in it, my passport and US phone were.  Not to mention my favorite ear buds.  Often in my life things have disappeared, and then days, months, years afterwards they would reappear.  Makes me think there is a hole in the universe where these things drop into, only to reappear at a designated time beyond my ken.  Is that where my purse is?  The last place I remember seeing it was in Eloy’s dining room, on the floor beside a chair.  They are certain I did not leave it behind.  [cue the Twilight Zone music]

Our Lady of Guadalupe

Guadalupe

            December 12 is a very special day to Mexicans.  I vividly remember the night, in Walla Walla, Washington, when my Mexican adult English students, their friends and families gathered at our church, St. Francis of Assisi on a cold winter night.  Each person had a candle. Some had guitars.  We processed through the streets from St. Francis to St. Patrick. In Spanish, we sang songs of praise to Our Lady of Guadalupe, and songs of rejoicing.  It was a solemn and joyful experience of community and solidarity.  Once again, years later, as I experience this solemn event I am brought closer to my own heritage, and the stories my mother's family told of their life in Little Italy, Manhatten.

            Now I live in Mexico.  Her day has arrived.  Some weeks ago, when I made friends with CeCe the pharmacist/nurse in Canatlan, I gave her my phone number and asked her to let me know what the scheduled events would be on this special holiday.  She did not call me.  On the 11^th I happened to go to the tiny, dark grocery store in our little town of El Pozole, for eggs.  There the kindly storekeeper, she of the misshapen face, told me that on the 12^th there would be a Mass at 9 a.m. in our little church, and in the afternoon live music.

            I set my alarm to be sure to arrive at church on time.  It is hard to get up on these cold winter mornings, and I tend to put it off.  But not this day.  I arrived before 9 to find a lot of cars parked (five or six), the church doors wide open, the front yard festooned with flags and plastic flowers.  Inside, the altar was crowded with flower arrangements of red and white, and green foliage.

            Our little church could hold 100 people in the pews, but on the average Sunday there might be 20.  There are additional benches along the walls which I had never noticed before.  This day, the church would hold at least 150 people.

            The nine o’clock hour passed.  A familiar woman set the altar, bringing the cup, water and wine, lighting candles, and placing the prayer books that the Priest would read from during the Mass. The blind pianist had just finished leading a chorus standing around his little table, where his electronic keyboard rested, in the side aisle midway down the church.  This group drifted off, and I too went out to the courtyard to enjoy the warmth of the weak sun.  People were milling around, waiting for something. 

            Then I heard the sounds of police sirens in the distance.  They grew closer and closer. All who were inside now came out to the courtyard in anticipation.  A group of young men and women dressed in white track suits came from around the corner running through the narrow dirt street towards the church. They carried a banner, a couple held torches. Behind them was a white pickup truck, the source of the siren. Above the cab secured to the bed of the truck was a large picture of Our Lady of Guadalupe.  Secured behind it and facing backwards was a 3-foot statue of the same honored Lady, adorned with plastic flowers at her feet.

            The fifty or so group of white clad sprinters rushed into the church and into pews on the right front.  They stood, and chanted something.  While they proceeded with their orchestrated rituals, I noticed their outfits.  Each had a large patch of the traditional image of Our Lady of Guadalupe on the left chest.  Below the hoodies that fell at their necks, each person’s name was sewn in black felt letters.

            The church was now fuller than I had ever seen it, the way I would imagine it to be for Christmas or Easter.

            Finally the waiting was over, and the priest came out in vestments to begin the Mass.  I did not recognize him; the Diocese had sent us a spare priest from Durango.  Usually our Mass is led by a white haired deacon, who also runs one of the two tiny grocery stores in our little town.  In October, however, he left for Mexico City to seek medical treatment for his knees.  I also heard a rumor that his elderly mother was there, needing care.  Whatever the truth is, we have not had Mass at our little church since then.  The Diocese cannot spare us a priest on a regular basis.  I have been attending Mass in Canatlan, instead.  Today was a very special day, indeed.

            After Mass I joined the throng in the courtyard.  It was an overcast day; the sun shone through weakly, but still it is warmer outside than in the cold church.  I didn’t know what we were waiting for, but I quietly stood, waited and observed.

            Styrofoam cups began to appear.  I realized there is a small room off this courtyard, and the warm fruit drinks were emerging from there.  I sipped, I wandered, I observed.  The old ladies I usually see and talk to on Sundays were not there.  The group was multigenerational, with grandmas and infants in family groups, and teens milling on their own.

            As I sipped my second cup of hot brew and finally settled on a cold wall bench, a lady across the courtyard waved and grinned at me.  I recognized CeCe.  We met halfway, in a warm embrace.  She escorted me back to her little ledge corner, with her two sons, her boyfriend, daughter-in-law and toddler granddaughter.  They were dressed in the white track suits.  I wondered if this weren’t a sodality in honor of the Virgin of Guadalupe.

            She started telling me of the events of the night before.  She said when she noticed I wasn’t there, it was too late to call me.  She said, why weren’t you there?  And I chided her:  You have my phone number, you were supposed to call me!

            They had had a procession, and then the large group went to Durango where there was more solemn and festive activities.  I promised myself that next year I would be there.

            By now it was going on eleven o’clock.  Ladies had been coming out of the kitchen with trays of the warm drink, making sure that everyone had their fill.  Then I saw a couple of pint cups filled with chopped onions and cilantro, and two more of halved limes, set out on a cement cube abutting the church wall, next to the kitchen door.  Soon plates started coming out, too.  CeCe got up and brought me one, before she served her family.  I added onions and a squeeze of lime, and soon warm tortillas were passed around as well. 

            This was menudo, with pozzole; a dish of which I am well familiar from many years past.  It is made of pig intestines and the big white hominy kernels (pozzole), in a red and spicy broth.  I had to laugh at the casual attitude of these delightful people, wearing white and eating a soupy dish out of flimsy plastic bowls.  I guess they have learned over time how to get the greasy red stains out.

            I remember my Mexican friends teasing me, in Walla Walla, about this dish.  It could be a dreaded experience, forced upon one by a kind hostess.  If the intestines were not cleaned out well, indeed it could be a foul-tasting dish. 

            The noon hour was quickly approaching, and I had not yet fed the pets.  I verified about the music…it would begin at 6 at the church and continue for three hours…and then I left.  The festivities must have continued well past noon, because from my Pozole home I could still hear the BOOM! Of the firecrackers that were set off a few times each hour. 

            I put the bee in CeCe’s bonnet about my needing to rent (she said ‘borrow’) a home in El Pozole or Canatlan.  I think she had a wide social network, if only she remembers my cause.

            The idea of carrying the holy statue through the streets reminds me of stories my mother and aunts would tell of their childhood in Little Italy, New York, and of their participation in these opulent processions.  No wonder I feel so close to this culture, so at home here in Mexico.

Oklahoma Jimmy

I met Jim in the Canatlan hardware store on November 7, in the afternoon.  There are many small shops that are ‘ferreteria’, or hardware stores.  However, the one nearest the church is large, well displayed, and has lots of windows.  I also discovered that one clerk, Raul, speaks English.  On this day I was purchasing adhesive for tile and grout.  I had to wait for a few minutes while Raul went to the other store to bring the heavy bags over.

A thin faced blue-eyed older gentleman walked into the store and greeted the cashier with ‘buenos dias’.  Then he held out his hand to me with a ‘buenos dias’, which I returned.  He then switched to English and said I must be the new gringa in town.  The one that is building a house in Pozole.

It was early afternoon.  

On my way out of El Pozole I stopped by the mechanic’s shop and arranged to have my oil changed.  I had bought oil and filter in Durango.  I said I’d drop the car by in the afternoon, and pick it up the next morning.  Juan and Eduardo were waiting on this tiling material to start the tile work in the bathroom.  Once Jim started talking, my work day ended.  All my arrangements went out the window.  

He has the gift of gab.  He begins, he weaves a tale with flourish and innuendo, he goes on to the next topic while barely taking a breath, and he is unstoppable.  And fascinating.

Knowing how it is, that in my life I have told some true stories about myself only to be met with skepticism and outright scoffing, I listened and withheld judgement.

These are the things I ‘learned’.  Raul spoke English because he worked with Jim in construction, and paid for English lessons.  He sent Raul to law school, so that Raul is now a lawyer.

He has $7M US dollars in antiques.  He rented a house in El Pozole to store them, but then felt they were not safe so he bought a house in Canatlan, where he has them now.

He is building a two-family house for himself (upstairs) and Raul and his wife and child.

In order to get citizenship and be done with rushing to the border every six months for visa renewal, he arranged to marry Raul’s single mother.  The arrangement leaves her living independently.  But he has not yet obtained the paperwork; he still makes border runs. Perhaps he said there is a two year waiting period.

Canatlan was established in 1623, November13, by migrants from San Diego.  Hence the name of the church, Sandiego. [and what was the ethnic origin of these migrants, I wondered? ]

The current municipality of Canatlan was started in 1917 (coinciding with a new Federal government?), when it got its first governor.

He retired as a federal judge.

He got his undergrad degree in botany.  He corresponded with a Japanese ‘student’ who wanted mushroom samples in exchange for butterflies.  Many years later he discovered that he had been corresponding with the Emporer of Japan.  Every Christmas he received precious gifts; they are part of his antique collection.

He ‘grew up’ with George Bush in Texas.  He was good buddies with Lyndon B. Johnson.  He is good friends with Vicente Fox, and gathered funding for his campaign for president of Mexico.  And was disappointed when Vicente did not achieve his pledged goals.

He had been a school teacher, and a councilman.  He caused to be written the Mexican Federal Law that allows foreigners to own property in Mexico. 

And then there are all the stories of the colorful citizens of Canatlan.

The guy who opened a sawmill in Durango.  Then the drug gangs approached him to launder money; they bought him an apple orchard.  Then they bought him a spread of many hectares at the border between Canatlan and Pozole.  That man hired a Canatlan man, Jaime, to run the ranch for him.  Jaime had many children, around 14.  The sawmill man had a predeliction towards young girls; he took Jaime’s 12 year old daughter to be his housekeeper.

One day the drug cartel came to his door looking for payment.  The man quickly packed his things that night, and with the young girl in tow, took off to Guanajuato.  As time passed, his still-teenaged housekeeper drew the attention of a young policeman in that town.  She was easily stolen away by him.  The old man died alone in his house, leaving his original wife and children in Durango to wonder what happened to him. 

He had taken out a loan, using the house as collateral; he still owed 30,000 pesos on it.  An enterprising city clerk decided that the acreage was unencumbered, and started selling it off and pocketing the proceeds. 

Thirty years later, Jim wants to approach the old widow and try to make a deal with her for the abandoned ranch land, the part that still holds the liened house.  The original bank no longer exists, so he has to track down who holds the paper now.  He presumes that if he offers to buy it, for pennies on the dollar, they will be glad to dissolve the lien.  [I had to wonder if, after all these years, that lien had been purged]

Then he wanted to show me the house he is renovating for Raul and himself.  He told me a long and twisted tale about efforts to get title to the land.  It is the second lot in from the corner.  He desires the corner lot, as well.  One story held that in the 1970s a man went to the States to work.  He sent back money to his sister, telling her to buy the land.  Gradually he sent back money and the house was built, but never quite finished.

Jim tried to track this guy down, but could find no trace of him in California.  He heard a rumor that the man had a gay lover.  So he guessed that perhaps once in the States, he took the name of his gay partner.  That would explain why the name that was on the title could not be traced to anyone in California.

The sister put the corner lot, presumably also paid for by the mysterious brother, in her own name.  Jim has been negotiating with her for the title, but she has not been cooperating.  What stands there now is an adobe wall and remnants.  There is no house standing.  Jim wants to put a 30-car garage there. (?)

I am sure there was more, that I missed a detail or two.  Like, he pointed to the hill that is the edge of Canatlan and said that the original settlement was on the other side of that hill; some foundations were still visible.

Like his deceased wife, mother of his 3 sons, was native American.

He put into question the real ownership of our community land, Luz de Compasion, and my rights.  He suggested that we look in the Record Clerk’s office to see who is the owner of record.  He thinks I should try to own outright the land my house is on.  He also says that the cost of the Pozole land such as this was about 3,000.  I have to assume he meant dollars.  He switches back and forth between pesos and dollars indiscriminately, one has to guess since there is no chance to break in and ask.

If that is the truth, was Jhampa robbed, or is Jhampa making a good profit on the land?  Jhampa did dig a well and have electricity brought to the property.  But he is selling 20 lots at $12,000 each.  When I bought my house the pesos exchange was about 12 to the dollar.  Now it is 18 or 19.  Ani Tsultrim just bought a plot of land here.  So, did she pay 216,000 pesos, or 144,000 pesos?  She arrives in a week, I will ask her then.

I arrived back to Pozole at dusk, around 6:30 p.m.   I dropped the car off with the mechanics; one of them drove me home.  The ceramic adhesive and grout were still in the parked car.  Juan had gone for the day, of course.

The next day I was too lazy to walk to the mechanics.  I busied myself with clearing out Michael’s house, in preparation for Ani Tsultrim’s arrival (also called JoanMarie by the Vancouver guys, Jhampa and Doug)

The car was returned to me close to 4:30; by then Juan and Eduardo had left.  Their excuse, should I ask, would be that they did not have the materials to work.  They were waiting for the adhesive to begin the bathroom tiling. Those heavy sacks were still in my trunk.

  

I will be lucky if the house is habitable by Christmas.

Midday I called Jim to ask for help in getting a plumber out to fix Michael’s toilet.  I was able to keep that conversation to under an hour.  During it I learned that he was in Washington DC, in the White House storage building, having a conversation with Jaqueline Kennedy.  Jim claims to be a descendent of assassinated President McKinley.  Jackie found a desk she liked, that originally belonged to McKinley.  She said that since he was heir to McKinley, she was asking for permission to use the furniture in the White House

.

Since he is a year older than me, this would have put him in his college years.  When next I see him, I will have to ask where he went to college, or did he spend a summer as an intern in DC. 

He says he is German, first generation American.  But to hear it, the other side of the family came across in the Mayflower.

He spoke more about his ranch in Guanajuato, which adjoined that of his old friend Vicente Fox.  He told a tale about fights with the locals over water rights.  One federal worker came out to survey the land and wells, to try to get to the bottom of it.  His bones were found later, and those of his car which had been pushed over a cliff.  At that point, Jim felt his life was in danger and left for Durango.

So this is colorful Jim.  He could be a harmless ranting old coot.  He could be an invested informant and bridge to the community.  He does not speak Spanish.  I have let it be known that I am available to translate, if he wishes to follow up with any old geezers who hold history that he wants.  Only time will tell.  Just moments ago he revealed his last name, finally.  He said that his father had started the Fisher nut brand, in Texas.  So now, fact checking can begin.

Consultation with Contractor

Saturday October 7

Last night I had a sore throat.  I could feel a cold coming on.  In the evening I went out to a pharmacy to get throat lozenges.  My regular cough drops had run out.  Normally I cannot get through the night without a cough drop.  With this raspy throat coming on, I risk being up all night without throat relief.  I looked for Cepecil (which is medicated and brings immediate numbness to the throat) but that was not available.  I did get something a little more medicinal than Halls, with benzocaine. 

I found a place that does only salads, to my great relief.  It is a short walk, two minutes really, from my motel room.  For 95 pesos I get a heaping bowl of lettuce, three vegetables and two scoops of ‘protein’.  The latter could be egg, or cheese, or chicken your choice of five flavors.

I choose cubed beats, mushrooms, and carrots or broccoli.  I am trying different chicken flavors, but the pepper lemon one is a definite no-go, since it brings a strong taste of white pepper.  They serve it with saltines, and shake a generous portion of parmesan on top. 

I feel no need for supper after that lunch.  I did eat a slice of bread, just because; it will spoil if I don’t do more than a PBJ once a day.  And of course, the ever present banana.

Through the night I doctored myself with water, a vitamin C 1000 every four hours, and ibuprofen.  I am needing the ibuprofen through the day, which is rare for me.

 I don’t know how much pain is the cold and how much is the eye still hurting.

A fleet of Harley Davidsons and entourage arrived at the Motel today, at noon.  My next door neighbors, a hefty couple in black leather, are from Torreon.

I went out to Mr. Gonzalez’s office today.  Before leaving the motel I studied the route on Google maps, including looking at the photos of intersections.  I selected the option to view it offline, also.  I am using the Samsung for this, which has no phone service, only Wi-Fi. 

I got lost a few times, but not too badly.  I had memorized sign posts along the way. Until I came to the last leg of the journey; I pulled into a supermarket and called him.  He came and got me immediately, I had overshot the office by a few blocks.  The offline map failed me.

We discussed the fine points of the house project.  He will design the whole kitchen, but we will proceed with just a small part of it now.  Maybe next year I will have saved enough to finish it.

I asked him to hire Juan as one of the workers.  We tossed around some ideas for housing, so the guys could stay onsite.  I was chagrined at the thought of staying at a motel for another month; I suggested that once the tile and plaster was done, even without water and electricity I could stay in the house.  Then he suggested that his guys could stay in the house.  I could easily stay at Mike’s or Doug’s.

Doug is coming this weekend, and JoanMarie will be coming mid November.  But I think there is enough space for all of us. 

Moving money is a problem.  It is urgent that on Monday I seek out the ministry of Immigration and start enquiries into obtaining a residence permit.  In the meanwhile, I will have to consult with my bank and let them guide me as to how to receive cash.

For the immediate, I calculated that with the dollars I brought with me I could at least give Mr. Gonzales a down payment, and he could begin.  We concluded with arrangements, next weekend his men will start bringing out supplies so that all is ready for them to begin Monday morning.  He said it should take a month.  Groan.

On the drive home I had a much easier time of it.  Google maps must have laid out the shortest route, not necessarily the most direct.  I was on Avenida L. Cardenas headed towards 20 de Noviembre, where the motel is, when I smelled a familiar smell while stopped at the traffic light.  I put my nose to the air, looking in all directions to see where that burning smell was coming from.  Then I heard guys laughing in the red pickup to the left of me.  The guys noticed my looking.  Smiling, they said, ‘you want some?’  I nodded my head vigorously.  They said, ‘follow us’. 

I pulled behind them and drove for a few blocks, past 20 de Noviembre.  Finally they made a left turn into a narrow one-way street and pulled over.  I parked behind them, and took a 100 pesos note out of my pocket.  They were nice, clean cut looking guys.  My pesos bought me one very fat cigarette.  As we turned to go, one guy turned back towards me and offered me his business card.  The card advertises home remodeling and painting services.

I paid for three more nights; Sunday night will be my last.  I have arranged to meet Jhampa out at the compound Monday.  If I haven’t heard from Eddie before then regarding renting a house in Pozole, I will try to get a good price from the hotels or motels directly in Canatlan.  Since the eye doctors can’t do anything more for me, no need to stay in the city.

The floral arrangement

In November, 2016, I left China and came to Mexico.  My introduction to my new life included a breather, a time out to regroup.  I immediately began a week-long retreat with my Canadian friend Jhampa Shaneman, and his students.  We were in the beautiful city of Morelia, at a countryside resort hotel.  There I met Rudy.

At the end of the retreat I planned to visit my friend Catherine, at Lake Chapala in Jalisco.  Jhamps was also going to Jalisco, and so we go by bus.  Rudy, however, over breakfast volunteered to drive us.  Extraordinary!  I came to learn that he is a semi-retired medical doctor, who admired Jhampa and just wanted some stimulating conversation.  He agreed that when I returned to Durango, he would meet me at the airport.  He offered his home for a brief visit.

Rudy and his wife turned out to be two classy people.   Rudy still had his private practice, though he had given up his University gig.  His wife was very active in a group of ladies who were in a guild and focused on helping underprivileged women.

I grew very fond of them.  Unfortunately, I was not a very good guest.  Still, they suffered me when I returned in June for eye surgery; they put me up for pre and post-surgery days.  I was living at the time out in the countryside, in the Luz de Compasion compound in Pozole.

At the time I was painfully aware that I had a duty as a guest to bring hostess gifts.  This is a skill I am woefully bad at.  There seemed no grace to my state as a guest.  I could not regulate my schedule to theirs.  I would eat at noon, as is my custom, only to find that at 2 pm the servant would prepare a meal for them.  It took me a while to realize this was not random.  I longed to think of what I could do to show them my appreciation.

For months I have been thinking that when I returned to Durango, flush with the sale of the Florida house, I would buy a huge flower arrangement for Rudy and his wife.  I finally got to do that Monday, late in the day.  I got a call from the florist, saying it could not be delivered.  No one was home. 

I picked up the bouquet and drove to the house.  I saw that both cars were in the garage, and a white car was parked at the curb by their door.  I surmised they had taken a plane trip.

Salvo, their large schnauzer, was roused after I rang the bell.  I spoke with him some through the barriers, until he went up to the roof so we could talk.  I stood in the street and we had a happy reunion, but mostly he wanted me to take him with me.  I couldn’t believe they would leave him alone, but what else could they do.  No doubt someone came to add to his kibble bowl.  There was enough rain falling each day to fill his water bowl naturally.  He was used to peeing and pooping on the roof; that was not different.  But I wondered how often he got to go outside.  His usual routine would be to go out early every morning and check out the neighborhood, going far down to the corner on a regular route of his own, to meet and greet, to sniff and suss.  He was crying in distress, and I felt so helpless.

I put the bouquet in my car and brought it to my tiny room at the motel.  When I occupied the room initially it held the overpowering smell of camphor.  I removed the camphor from the toilet bowl and put it outside.  The dominating smell then was from the bouquet.  Knowing I wouldn’t keep the bouquet there, I also bought an air freshener for use in subsequent days.

On Monday I drove by Dr. Carrillo’s office, before seeking out the florist.  Dr. Carillo was just pulling up as I was leaving, I having made an appointment for the following day.  He came to my car, saying oh what a miracle, Rudy said he hadn’t heard from you.  Gee, it would have been nice if at that moment he had gossiped just a tad and mentioned that oh, by the way have you heard they are on a trip to the Vatican?

I only learned that tidbit on Tuesday, when I arrived for the appointment.  By then I had spent a large chunk of change on a gorgeous and fragrant bouquet.  I told him that I would bring it to his office, so that he and his patients could enjoy it.  He said oh no, no, no need, don’t do that.  I said well then, would you prefer I threw the arrangement in the garbage?  My tiny room is too small, it overwhelms the room.

Gosh, I can’t imagine myself ever spending that kind of money just to have a nice bouquet in my recluse’s home.

This eye clinic is on a very short one-way street on a hill, with extremely limited parking.  Earlier that same day, planning for a 12 o’clock appointment, I left my house at 11:15 to make sure I found it okay.  I got lost again on the way, got into traffic, and when I thought I was minutes away I hopped into a shop to get a gordito to go.  But still I arrived just minutes before 12 noon.  There was no parking space.  He keeps one space in front of the clinic marked clearly for his clinic only; it was occupied, although the office was empty of patients.  I parked behind that car, in a driveway clearly marked for no parking.  The receptionist came out and said I had to move.

Fifteen minutes later I returned to the office, out of breath.  The receptionist tried to usher me into the office, but there was an elderly lady sitting there waiting for her 12:15.  I insisted that she go, not wanting to appear like the pushy American. 

Eventually I saw Dr. Carrillo.  He looked into the eye and pronounced it sound.  Apparently, he did not see the folds that the other ophthalmologists had seen.  He recommended ending the medication.

I felt a little puzzled by this, but perhaps I have been focusing too much on the eye and imagining the pains that I’ve been feeling.  So we are off the drops.  The last time I tried that, just about three weeks ago now, my eye turned deep red and light hurt like a knife through the brain. [two days later:  sans medicine, the eye is once again red and painful.  It is evening now; in the morning I expect pain upon seeing the sun]

I caught him up a bit on my travels, anchored by visits to ophthalmologists.  Then I finally enquired about Dr. Rudy and his wife.  That is when I learned they were on a trip to Europe.  Dr. Carrillo could not say how long they would be away.  So I told him he must enjoy the flowers in their stead.

As I left the doctor’s office I said to the receptionist, please doni’t leave until I get back.  I knew she had a penitent for keeping her hours to the absolute minimum. I don’t know what her deal is, no doubt it works for the doctor, but it has caught me up short a few times.  So I purposely said, please don’t leave!  I’ll be back right away.

Well, of course I got totally lost on the way home. I found myself on a new very wide connector road, it didn’t match the map, and I was utterly lost.  I pulled over to the side of the road, tears of frustration streaming down my face, the large map I had just bought stretched across the wheel.  I heard a tap tap on my window.  A very nice man, who reminded me a bit of a young Uncle Tony (Dad’s brother), smiled and said hello.  He had obviously noticed my Florida plates, and wanted to be of assistance.  It turns out that I was on a new road, the 3-year old map was inaccurate.  He handled my teary story with class, and helped me back on my way.

I finally found the motel, grabbed the flowers and headed back to the doctor’s office. 

By this time I knew by heart the direct route to the doctor’s office; I was unthwarted by the jumble of one-way streets. 

The car that had been parked outside the clinic, in the parking spot clearly marked reserved for the clinic, was still parked there.  Without hesitation I parked in front of a garage.  At the top of the hill I saw what looked like a homeless guy waving his arms and screaming at me, No! No! No!  I ignored the madman.  I was still in my car getting ready to open the door.  He banged on my window!  I, still in my Zoloft-deprived state, fierce face swollen from the recent tears of frustration, banged back at him.

I carefully lifted the flower arrangement out of the back seat, noting signs of wilting, a rose petal fluttering down.  I tried the door of the office.  It was locked!  I set the flowers right down at the entrance, and left it.  If it stayed there all night, if the crazy man came back and helped himself, it was no concern of mine.  I was done with this good deed.

As I pulled away from the curb, it occurred to me that perhaps this homeless-looking guy was actually employed by the homeowners on that hill to protect their garage entrances from cars like mine.

Once back home, I tried the office number.  It was hooked up for fax reception.  I could not leave a message.

I called again the next day, asking if they enjoyed the flowers.  The receptionist smiled an affirmative.  They were received, I did not ask at what hour.

Rainy Season in Pozole

Rainy season Pozole (this essay is out of sequence.  Soon I will finish editing and post the backstory of my summer in Pozole, where I introduce some of the mentioned characters)

October 4, my early departed grandmother’s birthday, finds me making serious enquiries about finishing my house in Luz de Compassion.

I spoke with a contractor from Edil Construction, whose number I found in the yellow pages.  Mr. Gonzalez advertised that he spoke English, so I called him.  We arranged to meet tomorrow and drive out to the house.

I then let my fingers do the walking to a solar energy engineer.  I went to his tiny office in a humble, partially paved neighborhood on the outskirts.  He is quite knowledgeable about Pozole and its state of electricity.  He will meet me there tomorrow, as well.

Using his whiteboard and a fading yellow marker, he worked out the configuration that I was trying to describe to him.  Before I left China I had a serious sit-down over dinner with Pierre, where he taught me what I needed to know.  I wrote it down, but probably on my China phone.  Have no clue where that phone is now.

Happily, he told me that there was a project underway, the land had actually been bought (or committed, however a utility company deals with land ownership) to build a large solar array in Canatlan to supply electricity to Pozole.  We at LdeC would have to pitch in to pay for the cables that are needed to extend the power to us, but it would still be simpler than trying to build my own array.

I thought time had come when I needed to visit the house myself.  I was eager to see Dog, too.  In early afternoon I set out.  I arrived, to find the roads impassible with mud.  The creek that I need to drive through is swollen, too, and impassable.  What used to be a six-foot hop along stones to ford the stream was now a raging river twenty feet across.  As I entered the village I got stuck right away.  Fortunately, it was within a short walking distance to Beto’s shop.  Two of the young men, neither being Shubert, came and got me straight.  They warned me to stay up on the old railroad road, park there and walk in. 

The walk in was probably about a quarter mile.  That is the path that runs from the main paved Canatlan highway down the hill and between two fields, and comes out just yards from the entrance to LdeC; a poorly maintained right of way access.

It was not just muddy.  The path is unevenly strewn with rocks.  There are deep stands of water, green with algae, maybe 6 inches deep in spots.  The rest of the path, where it rose above the puddles, was slippery mud.  I was wearing sandals.  I remember a time in Bamei, in East Tibet, when I was driving along a dirt path turned to mud.  I was going slowly, but the car came off one submerged rock and landed on another sharp rock at just the right angle and force to blow the tire.  Even Gonzalez, the next day, with his big Nisan Pickup truck, would cry uncle midway, park the truck and go the remainder on foot.

I hadn’t gotten far down that path when I spoke out Dog’s name.  She gave a little woof, as she played with her black son in the mud 100 feet further down the muddy road.  I called again, and she saw me.  The tail started wagging.  Soon she was in a full run.

We walked together to the camp.  I looked for the dried food I had left, but no doubt has all been consumed.  She felt like a stuffed sausage herself, no ribs showing, so I know she has been eating well. Her topside was white and clean, and I could find no fleas.  Her son is with her, returned from the family who had adopted him some months earlier.  He is wearing the backup flea collar I had left.

In the summer I had glimpsed a small cat and a kitten in the compound, but never got close to them. I now learned that this was mother and daughter.  The mother seems the size of a 6-month kitten herself.  The one kitten had grown enough to where the mama wasn’t protective of her.  In fact, this petite mother relished petting.  The kitten was skittish, unapproachable.  Compared to Dog, whose belly and legs were black with mud, the cat fur was pristine white, around the tiger striping of the mom, more white and no striping for the kitten.

The weeds and corn were high, uncut.  Remember that Juan was just planting when I left, mid July.  Now the corn looked nearly ripe.  There are full grown round winter squashes, and white beans (chicharon) swell the green pods hanging on the bush bean plants.  Juan had shown me a handful of the seeds he was planting, back then.  I thought it odd to mix corn, beans, squash and what he called ‘rice’.  The long grass now has seed fronds on top, so I will have to ask him if these are indeed a grain, or just weeds. The garden is not as nice as the remnants of the garden I saw last November.  That garden seemed to be more orderly, planted in rows of corn, and a separate patch for squash.  This garden plot is overgrown with weeds, and a jumble of squash, bean pods and corn crowding each other out, and all choked by weeds.

Everywhere I drive in Durango and environs I see this huge yellow flower in wild profusion.  I see them not only by the side of the road, escaping stone fences, just everywhere, as well in what looks like cultivated fields.  They seem like miniature sunflowers.  They must produce some kind of food.  Perhaps oil, like safflower oil?  I shall have to ask after that, too.  The front of my house is a wall of these flowers, six feet high.  I had to struggle, at the edge of the row where it meets the brick façade of the house, to get past them.  I tried to go directly through the wall, but it was impenetrable.

As I was slogging through the bog towards LdeC, I was thinking I needed a pair of galoshes.  Indeed, on the drive back through Canatlan I did stop and buy a pair.  Meanwhile I found an old pair sitting on a bench in the small corral.  I decided I could borrow them for the walk back to the car.  I doubted they would be missed overnight.  Of course they are old, with plenty of punctures through the rubber giving me a wet walk back, but at least I would have clean shoes for the drive home.

After I stopped at my house and picked up the things I felt I needed in the city right now, I went to Doug’s house to wash my feet and shoes.  I was a bit surprised to find that there was water at the sink.  Doug keeps one large melmac bowl on his fridge.  I pulled it down and filled it at the sink. There are no wash basin there.  The water coming into the bowl had flecks of dirt or hay in it.  Using this, I was able to clean my feet, although I made a bit of a watery mess on the floor.  Doug is due this weekend from Canada, so I’ll have to make time to clean that in a day or two, once it dries.  When I left in July there was still a half-full 5-gallon jug of water. After washing the bowl in the sink,  I then used purified water to rinse out the bowl before putting it back on the fridge.

Dog was happy to be back in Doug’s house, where we had spent many summer weeks.  After we left my house, Dog’s son went his own way, and Dog kept to my heels on over to Doug’s house.  She came inside, watched me for a minute, and then disappeared.  When I was ready to go, I found her on her usual perch, on the pillow on the car bench.  I should have checked it for mud (at least I no longer worry about fleas), but I was tuckered.  Perhaps I am not acclimated to the altitude; I felt heavy-limbed.  We had a happy memory moment there. 

I locked up the house, picked up the things I fetched, and left the camp.  Because my key did not work the padlock of the gate, I had to squeeze myself through the bars.  Surprisingly, I made it.  She followed me back up the path, through the algae green puddles and the mud, to my car.  I opened the driver’s door and sat while I changed shoes and wiped the muddy waters from my feet.  In the summer she was a most reluctant car passenger.  However, this time she was ready to jump into the car.  Sadly, I had to hold her back.

So tomorrow is a big day.  I will finally bring the dream into the sharp focus of reality.  I will have a serious meeting with the contractor.  A few days later I should have an answer.  How much will it cost to make this house livable.   Then I have to decide if it is worth it.

I called Gonzales, the contractor, and Eddie, the electrician, to warn them they needed either a high 4-wheel drive vehicle, or mud boots for our trip to Pozole in the morning.

I tried calling Juan, the caretaker at LdeC.  He didn’t answer the phone.  I attempted to leave a message, but I am not sure he knows how to listen to messages.  I also texted him.  One way or the other, I hope he will get to the land early enough to open the gate, and to prepare a path through the overgrowth to my house.

Coincidentally, next Monday Jhampa will also bring round an engineer, to consult on the septic or sewer system.

Now if we could only agree to dig a deeper well.

Thursday started as an overcast day, but there had been no rain in the night.  That was a good thing, since I had carelessly left the VW sunroof open.

I make a quick trip to Soriana Supermarket to buy kibble for the dogs and cats, and a pan de los muertos for my own breakfast.

Gonzales picked me up in front of the Oxxo mini market which is next to the Motel, at 9 am.  We had a nice chat on the long drive to Pozole.  I learned that he had spent quite a number of years working in construction in the States, including Danbury, Connecticut.  Not a place I picture having an enclave of Mexican workers.  What do I know.

I talked about the house and my plans.  As I talked, it became clear that I could live in the house with a bare minimum of work.  I wouldn’t have to immediately finish off the half-bath and the second bedroom.

We arrived.  I noticed he had not worn boots.  He had on ankle length sports lace-ups.  He felt confident in his Frontier, I guess.  However, as we got halfway down the road and he saw the green algae on the surface of the water-logged ruts, he decided to go no further.  I felt bad for him, me in my newly acquired galoshes, but we got out of the truck and went the rest of the way on foot.  Just as I had vocalized my thought of the previous day, that it would be pretty awful to slip in the mud and fall head long into the algae goop, I slipped and fell.  I went down on one knee, before regaining balance.  Oh well, no harm done that a washing machine couldn’t fix.

At the gate to the compound we both tried jiggling the key in the padlock.  I slipped through the bars, but he just could not.  Fortunately, Juan emerged out of the head-high weeds coming towards us, and unlocked the gate. 

We beat our way through the weeds and tall yellow flowers to the house.  We surveyed it, tossed around ideas, and finally came up with a plan.  He would plaster all the walls, even the unfinished half-bath and bedroom, after tiling all floors.  He would plaster and seal the disgusting looking celiing. There were blotches of what looked like that dangerous black mold you hear about.  He would fix all that, and also put a finish on the roof to further seal and strengthen it.

So, armed with a final plan, he took off to his truck.  I didn’t want to think of how he was going to get his truck back out of that long wet trail.  I understood that he is a business man and I was taking a big chunk out of his day, so I had paid him 400 pesos.  He wasn’t doing me a favor, this was a business transaction.  That assuaged my conscience a little.

Eddie should have been there by then.  I called him.  He said he was about 20 minutes out.

He called me back a little later, and asked if it was okay to drive through the river.   I told him the little that I knew; I had been advised not to attempt it.  Juan had just told me that by going a little further on the railroad path, there was a passable road.  I passed that along to Eddie.

Eddie must have backtracked a little, and found a resident with whom to discuss roads.  He showed up quickly, from the direction of what had been, last June, a shallow stream.

We took a few moments to survey the wires suspended across poles along the road.  We noted the one meter on the wall of the compound’s enclosure.

We walked to the house, the weeds barely pressed down from the recent foot traffic.  We surveyed the inside of the house, and it then occurred to me that there was no junction box.  We looked at each other with the same thought, but he was ahead of me.  Outside, he said.

So we fought our way through the overgrowth to the back wall of the house.  Sure enough, there hung a tangle of wires and a little box without its fuse.  He explained to me that here we had aluminum and copper trying to join, some of the wires were exposed and oxidized.  Lovely.  Clearly, this was the job he came for.

Further, to ensure an undiminished flow of current, he suggested we run an independent line with its own meter from the road to my house and my junction box.  This solution felt right. 

As we headed out, I suggested that as a courtesy we talk to Juan, and explain our plan.  We found him in the little corral, working the power saw.

They stood and talked a while.  When Eddie mentioned getting a separate meter for me (and each subsequent house), Juan apparently said he didn’t think the power company would give permission.  Eddie told him that he had friends in the department, he knew the ropes, and would have no problem obtaining my very own meter.  Juan looked ahead and just nodded, taking in this information.

Just then a great big backhoe or earth mover roared up towards Eddie’s parked truck, and stood noisily idling.  The two men got the hint, and quickly moved the truck inside the gate.

I said a sad farewell once again to Dog, knowing that at least she would have delicious kibble again.  I mean, it is not like she has been starving.  The pets’ dish in the corral was laden with tortilla and beans.  Nevertheless they greedily chowed down on the kibble, so I think it will be appreciated. We hung the bag of kibble from a hook in the rafter of the tiny enclosure in the corral, beyond their reach.

As we drove home, Eddie and I had a most interesting conversation.  He talked about how Durango has only recently started to grow, but still didn’t seem to have much to offer foreign tourists.

I think Durango is a well-kept secret, and maybe it is time to let the word out.  The vision began to grow and develop.  His father has a parcel of land ready for development, about ten minutes outside the city.  Wouldn’t it be nice if it developed into the kind of condos that retired people liked, with maybe a clubhouse where the residents could meet and play cards and such, and have weekly trips of sightseeing and shopping organized by the management.  That sort of thing.

I said I needed to create a web site, perhaps a blog, for ex pats.  I should carefully document all there is to see and do in Durango.  I wonder if there is a golf course nearby.I would gather some of the history of interest.  Eddie mentioned that there was a very ignored war memorial in the hills we were passing, dedicated to the revolutionaries of the Zapata era who freed the republic.  Leading to the thought that there must be many more hidden treasures, known only to the natives and mostly ignored.  There is the wild west restoration, which is a bit of an amusement park, he says.  There is still the the 'chupaderas', a movie set built by John Wayne and not incorporated into any amusement park.  Downtown, there is the cable car from the museum to the one hill that sits in the middle of the city, offering an awesome view.

But most of all, I need to write vignettes of life in Durango.  What does a retiree need?  In my opinion, the weather here is ideal.  The blue skies of Durango are famous in Mexico.  The temperature is constant.  There are chilly nights in the winter, but the daytime sun quickly pushes the temperature back to 70 degrees.  The downtown area is small but picturesque, with traditional markets.

The traffic sucks big time, but where in the world is that not true anymore?

At the moment, the airport has limited flights, unlike Torreon where one has multiple options to fly to Mexico city or other domestic destinations.   But once the flood gates open and demand increases, surely another airline or two would want to enter the market.

So, gentle reader, whereas yesterday I despaired of my life, feeling like a withering expendable appendage, today I am re-energized with a vision, a project. 

I paid for three more nights at the hotel, and hope that soon I will be moving into Pozole.  Eddie has a colleague, a fellow electrician, who is a native.  He has set him to work finding temporary housing for me among the many vacant homes in our little hamlet.

Oh, and by the time we had reached the motel, Eddie already had an estimate for me.  The project, he said, would cost 5,500 pesos; about $333.  

Here is how the land looked in July, during sowing. That is my brick house