Death by a thousand cuts

 

Death by a thousand cuts

These are strange times, for sure.  So many souls daily leaving bodies in states of sadness and separation from loved ones, as they lie in isolation.  When I think of it, I imagine an LA style traffic jam in the sky.  However, it is the departure of one soul in particular, not touched by Covid-19, that lies heavy on my heart.

I live in separation from all that pandemicamania.  I live a hermit’s life high in the Sierra Madres, outside a tiny village on a few acres of land, surrounded by pasture, farmland and orchards.  The town is five miles away, where we wear masks into the shops.  Some shops were closed initially, but have now opened.  The church holds fewer Masses and restrict numbers, but is open.  It is summer time, so it seems normal that schools are closed.  Kids are still roaming the streets in packs; some in masks, most not.

Ensconced in my hermitage tending my gardens, I listen to the news from far away.  Is this a mimic of Orson Welle’s fantasy catastrophe?  It is not real to me.  I can only imagine the terrible losses of loved ones.  I cannot imagine living six months out of work, without a paycheck.  I sympathize with the formerly enslaved class now demonstrating on the streets.  I have had my white privilege knocked out of me long ago, in my years of traveling around the world ‘on a shoestring’.  I know the difference between the entitled middle class family I was raised in, now alienated from, and the hand-to-mouth existence of so many people in the world who feel rich having family close.  I see our country as in another period of civil war.  There are those who are in harmony with our constitution, believing that all…are created equal, with certain inalienable rights, and there are those, sometimes described as the ‘white privileged’, who are ignorant of their ignorance.  I feel a rage inside me that these people will not wake up.  They feel a rage inside them at the suggestion that this country was built by other than white men, and should be shared equally.  The latter have no idea what it feels like to be arrested for walking the streets being black.

But I digress.  I would be crippled by sadness if, added on top of all the deaths I carry, I also remembered George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, Stephon Clark, Philando Castille, Freddie Gray, …..

While working in China, already past retirement age, I was contacted by a friend of a friend and invited to join an expat community in Mexico.  I had always imagined myself retiring to Mexico, so my interest was easily piqued.  It was meant to be a combination meditation retreat and retirement community of 20 small lots, lined up facing a stupa; a Tibetan Buddhist tall statue meant to create positive spiritual energy that could ward off evil spirits.  There was meant to be a meditation hall at the entrance, where teachers would come to lead retreats, and whatever else the community wanted.

It was all the half-baked plan of a dreamer.  When the tale is told, it sounds like a scam but I choose to believe that the guy meant well, just had his head in the clouds.  A few houses got built, but the meditation hall never did.  As far as I could tell, that meeting hall was the focal point of the community.  Without it, there was no heart, no community.

I am a cockeyed optimist, so I sent my money ahead to get my retirement home started.  In those days the peso was very strong, so my dollars didn’t go so far.  When I arrived there were five structures on the land in various stages of completion.  One was already for sale.  One was utilitarian, holding the central water tank and a tiny tools storage and workshop.  One was mine, and I continued to put money into it to make a home out of the roofed shell that I encountered.

It has been over three years now that I live here alone.  I have struggled constantly to find competent workers to finish the house; one tiny project at a time.

It is a fascinating, if typical, village. In the 1600s a community of indigenous Tepehuanes had their homes and farms here.  Then the Spanish rule overshadowed the land, and through manipulation and treachery they were pushed out, and land grants were bestowed upon Spaniard families.  Poncho Villa once had a dwelling here, this being his native state of Durango, an hour by modern travel from his birthplace.

In the twentieth century, three families dominated the valley.  They are the Delgado’s, who had 17 children, and the Rodriguez’s, who had about the same number.  About six of these siblings intermarried.  There was also the Terrazas’.  I, on my acres, am surrounded by Terrazas land, and across the dirt road by Delgado farmland and orchards.

One brother, Beto, was introduced to me early on by the organizer of this failed community.  Beto was sympathetic to helping me out, to support this presumptive burgeoning project.  He has three grown sons who still live on the farm, located at the very edge of the village.  This family has been life savers in more than one emergency.  They have taught me much about how to live and farm in this climate and land.  While visiting them one day, I met another Delgado, who was helping them to apply for visas to make a visit to Texas.  Over time, this Delgado sister, Marta, would become a good friend of mine.  We found kindred spirits in each other.  I could speak to her in English, when my Spanish failed me. She was tied down by her elder care responsibilities, so she wasn’t free to hang out, except when I visited her there in the ancestral home at the center of the village.  She had raised her children in Chicago, put herself through college in the States, and became a teacher.  She worked there until she retired, with a social security pension.  Then she returned to her birth village to serve the family as the main caregiver to the matriarch of this clan, as this elderly woman slowly lost her independence through ill health and dementia.  She died this month, and so did Marta.

It reads like a Greek tragedy.  Marta was run down on the road by her vengeful sister-in-law and Milque Toast brother.  I had the sad fortune of finding her body on the road, and reporting it to the police.

The village is now split open, with years of repressed enmities spilling out their poisons on the land.  My peaceful, friendly if decrepit little village was gone.  For example, Beto nor his wife went to the wake or funeral.

Alone in my house, I sunk into immobility.  I was experiencing emotions unfamiliar to me.  I didn’t know how to cope.  I had no way to process what was happening.  I would go to the wake, at the family home, for an hour; say the rosary, and leave.  I met Marta’s three sons, and introduced myself to them.  They knew my name; Marta, when she visited Texas, would talk about me.  They were surrounded by family.  I could not expect them to help me process my pain when they had so much of their own.

The sight of Marta’s sprawled body was pegged to my eyelids.  Sleep was hard to come by, and troubled with dreams.  My garden awaited me which, in rainy season, was being overrun with weeds, not to mention crops that needed picking.  I couldn't find the energy to deal with it.  I sunk into my recliner and barely left it for days.  It hurt.  I hurt.  I needed to share this pain.  When I wrote to a cousin, I could see that I was acting as if no one in the world ever experienced the death of a loved one except me.

I took a step back.  I questioned everything about my current life.  Yes, I had experienced the passing of my parents, but both after an illness giving me time to adjust and anticipate.  This type and level of pain was very different.  In Marta’s death I felt cheated, deceived.  Now that her mother no longer needed her 24/7, she and I could spend more time together. I would have a companion.  But then she was taken from me, mid promise.

I thought wait, how could it be that I have never experienced the loss of a friend in my nearly 80 years of existence?  I journeyed down this road of despair. Slowly an awareness dawned. I could look down the long corridors of memory, as I left my home town and journeyed far and wide.  True, while living in the States I would meet people and make friends, but always feeling like an outsider.  No old school mates, no childhood friends, no one with whom I grew and shared the changes of life’s stages.

I spent many of my adult years abroad, however.  Perhaps most of them, if I could do the math.  What I experienced was that the intensity of such friendships among ex pats was abnormal.  I became addicted to this intense level of life sharing. It is in my makeup that I have a need for an abnormal depth of open hearted love and sharing.  My boundaries were faulty; they are barely rebuilt still. 

Now, in the solitary passing of my days, I think of friends.  In China, Lilly who took me north to her home village, where I helped her brother open a bakery.  In that week her family embraced me, and we spent evenings at the beer garden tearing apart shrimp, eating rice, flaming hot chile and other plates, laughing uproariously while sucking on liter-sized mugs of beer.

I could fill pages with other such memories.  In one Chinese town where I taught English, we ladies met weekly to play mahjong.  I loved those ladies, and waited impatiently each week for that Monday afternoon.

When I taught in East Tibet, the Kham region, I would drive on weekends over the mountain pass for four hours so I could visit with my old, old friend the temple’s head lama.  I think of him often, and long for conversations with him, but he is gone from my life, never to speak again, though he lives.

Angela, who spent her summer between semesters leading small backpacking groups up a remote mountain in the Himalayan range, with a team of nomads.  One nomad became her husband.  Her baby was born at home, as her best friends held her hand and took watch over the 33 hours of labor.  That little girl is as my grandchild now, but will I ever see her again in my life?  I long for them, as one longs for the departed.

Marta’s murder split me open; the poison of lost ones and loneliness spills out into my listless days and sleepless nights.  I fear my life will never be the same.  As the world experiences unfamiliar isolation, and awakening of consciousness; as our economy reels, splits apart and changes forever, I too cannot escape this epoch dynamic of change.

I am reminded of the sonnet I wrote, as I left my teenage years.

What is my future, may I see?

I want to know whom I will be

Ten years from now.  What will I know?

In what direction will I grow?

 

Will I within myself be great,

Or will I touch the life and fate

Of one who will in time know greatness?

 

Now why should I long for this crown,

This heavy capping of reknown?

I could not bear a weight so grand,

Considering my spine of sand.

 

You doubt the weakness of my back?

Look further, maybe brains Iack!

I am nothing, can’t you see?

This makes it clear, this poetry.

‘Tis nothing.

Well, indeed, my future has come and gone.  When I pass I will not be mourned as dear Marta is being mourned.  She left a huge hole in this community.  Not so I.  I am already forgotten by legions whom I once knew and loved, all around the world.  I hunch over the warm glow of their memories, warming my arthritic hands. How many more years?  Few, I hope. These are indeed strange times, holding challenges better met by younger, less scarred people.

Life update Feb 2020

Life update 3 years

The last three years in China was fun and educational.  In the end, the bakery was a money pit.  I arrived back to America broke.  Fortunately I had invested what was left of my failing savings in 2008 into a house in Florida.  Do you know about Reverse Culture Shock?  Have you experienced it? 

In that fog, (was it 2017?) I attempted to sell the house.  In the end I did manage to extract enough to serve me as a cushion, my medical emergency fund, a bulwark against my approaching old-age debilitations.

You may recall that I spent 2006 in India.  There I connected with a vague acquaintance from the time when I studied with the Tibetan lamas.  He introduced me to a retirement community designed to bring together Western students of the Buddha dharma in retirement, the focal point being a meditation hall.  I had sent considerable money to him in Mexico to secure me a lot and begin to build my house, which I designed.

He had told me that the shell was finished.  When I first saw it, the outer brick walls had been constructed, but where there should be a sliding door there was a gaping opening, through which a couple of horses and the occasional calf took refuge from the climate.  The floor was littered with fresh and aged poop etc.  Birds had nested, too.

A big chunk of that medical fund went into finishing off that house.  Far more than was prudent, given that the infrastructure was of such inferior material.  Curtains I made and put over the windows blew in the breeze.  This area is prone to wind storms, the gusts seem at least 80 mph.  It has knocked down my gas tank (breaking the valve which resulted in a cold fog as the gas rushed out in the middle of the night).  The cement roof has begun to cave in.  One day the rain inside the house was so intense, I left and went into the village to spend the day elsewhere.  There was no where I could sit or stand and not be dripped on.  Eventually we painted a waterproof coating on the roof, and installed a beam across the living room ceiling to forestall the cave-in.

I live on a hectare of land, between orchards, oat and corn fields, and pasture land. It is about 6,000 ft high in the Sierra Madres.  This valley is perhaps one mile wide.  The mountain ridges that enclose it are low, maybe 800 feet.  It runs mostly north/south, which makes for gorgeous and ever-changing sunrises and sunsets.  The Fall is rainy season, where the land is lush green and a morning mist shrouds it all in mystery.  The rest of the year is dry, prairie-like.  A trickle of a river meanders through it in a deep gorge where it passes through my land.

It is a beautiful and isolated place to live.  If only a community had grown here, it would idyllic (even though retired Tibetan Buddhists are eccentric people, not the mellowed out hippies you might wish to find here where weed grows freely).  Sadly, the community is a bust.  The meditation hall was never built. There is no spiritual community here.  Two kms away there is a tiny village occupied mostly by widows, very provincial people.  My home is too far for any of the ladies to walk to.  None drive.  The widowers ride bicycles, but none are inclined to risk the scandal of visiting me here unchaperoned. Since we are in this valley, a small dip of land, the cell phone reception in this small cluster of homes in the village is zero.  People walk in the street if they wish to use a phone.  This inhibits easy intercourse.  I can go weeks without talking to anyone.

I did purchase a wifi plan, using its own box and SIM card, to provide myself with internet at my home.  I get great reception, in this wide-open spot.

One house, immediately adjoining mine, is for sale.  For a mere $10,000 US you can own your own 10 meter wide brick house.  The brick walls are painted but not finished, the floor is not tiled.  It has a functioning kitchen and bathroom with gas water heater and well water.

There is another brick house, with a large floor layout, that is nothing more than a shell.  The fourth house structure is two stories, the roof room being the meditation room.  A Canadian guy paid for its construction and visits it twice a year.  He is a bachelor, a recluse, very awkward.  He doesn’t like to do outdoor work, is not handy at all with tools; not much support to the ongoing task of maintaining the land and infrastructure.  I have ongoing problems with the well and water distribution system. I am trying to tame the land; the ‘orchard’ has twelve surviving peach saplings, at last count.  All other trees I’ve planted have died, probably for lack of water.

I am a cat person, as you may recall.  One of the nearby farms had a lot of cats, before they got a dog.  I took one of those kittens, an unusual calico with gray instead of black as the third color.  She proved to be sterile (for a couple of years, anyway).  She cycled in and out of heat but produced nothing.

When I moved onto the land, there was a white dog living on the adjoining farm.  The farmer lives in town, which is about 15 minutes away.  She was like a Maltese, but very bedraggled.  She even had a bald spot on her neck, which turned out to be from scratching fleas.

This dog, which after procrastination I finally name ‘Chula’, attached herself to me.  I tried not to adopt her, but she tried harder and won.  I cleaned her up, she proved to be very pretty, and the folks in the village were quite surprised to see how she turned out.  I had her for two years, before she got separated from me in the city of Durango, in a Sam’s Club parking lot.  At first I felt relieved of the responsibility, but after a couple of months I started missing her a lot.  She had taken a one-month road trip with me November 2018, when I drove to Vermont to empty out my storage there.  She was a trooper.

Stray females would wander on to the property, lovely dogs each one, but large animals.  I turned them all away.  Then a villager handed me a tiny white bundle.  It would have been rude to turn her away.  Of course, she could not compare with nor replace Chula.  I named her Peanut.  She was a pup, a bit wild.  Not like the sedate Chula, who already had maturity and a couple of litters behind her when she came to me.

I felt ambiguous towards Peanut. Then she got pregnant, her first cycle.  Way too young for pups.  She turned out to be a terrible mother.  She didn’t like nursing her pups.  The milk dried up after four weeks, she barely had enough to feed them.  They could wander off in the house and get stuck somewhere, and scream, and she would sleep on.  She never learned to grab the scruff of the neck to move them out of danger.

When it came time to find her a sire, of the dogs that hung out here, I chose a black one that had a similar body but long legs and pointed ears.  The week that she was in heat was a lot of work, beating off the big dogs and isolating the two small ones to court.  He managed to impregnate her, and so began our nine-week wait.

The owner is employed as the farm manager to a large piece near mine.  He is a cool guy; I think he lives in Canatlan (the town 15 minutes from here).  I don’t know anything more about him.  He has a gentle smile and demeanor.   Before the pups were born he walked over to my place and said he would like one of the pups.  His dog, the sire, had died from dog-fight wounds.  We hoped for a black one to replace him.

The pups were finally born.  Three of them came, two boys and a girl, but no black one.  Two look like Boxer-colored  twins, and one white one.  The twins are boy/girl.  The white one was the biggest.  As they grew, it became obvious that the white one would have the long legs of the sire, the other two would be squat sausages like the mother.  At the moment, seven weeks along, the twins really do look like little sausages, but I’m sure as they get bigger they will develop a more normal physique.

Meanwhile, as they grow older, the white one is transforming into a heart breaker.  She is not white after all.  A feint shade about the color of champagne is emerging.  He is no Alpha male, he sleeps a lot, and is affectionate.  I thought that would be the dog Julian would choose to replace his, but now I doubt it.  I think that if he takes any of them, he will choose the Alpha male twin.  I hope it works out that way, because I am leaning towards getting rid of all of them except Champ, my champagne dog.

Remember that gray calico?  When Peanut was two weeks pregnant, don’t ask me how, the ‘sterile’ cat got pregnant.  So now I have her, five kittens, three pups, a dog and another stray cat. The non-resident neighbor farmer has a plow team that I also interact with.  A beautiful black horse, not trained for riding, and a skittish jackass.  I could write a long essay about our adventures, but I won’t here.

You write me about the men in your lives; for me, it’s the animals that share my love.

This life is not fulfilling; I need a small circle of friends for support.  On the other hand, if I follow the pattern of forebears, I should have about five more years of lucidity before the Alzheimer’s kicks in. I think to move to either Morelia or Oaxaca, each deeper south into the Mexican heartland.  But then what do I do with my investment here?  Who would buy this house!  People in Durango, an hour away, do come this way to look for a second, country home.  But none have stopped to inquire here at my door. To complicate things, the hectare is owned by a non-profit association.  I am trying to buy my piece of it, but that is complicated.  So I could have to walk away from my considerable investment.  My monthly pension is not enough to live in a city, I think, without the supplement of the proceeds from here.  If I am right about having only five more lucid years, do I really want yet one more stressful move and re-acclimation?

It is unfortunate that after my long and wandering life I have never acquired a friend to join me here as companion.  I think, one good buddy who drinks coffee and plays board games is all it would take. 

So, here I am.  If you ever get to traveling this way, you will find me here.

Pets

Top of Form

Bottom of Form

the pets

The nights are cool here, but not freezing yet.  I got busy with the chainsaw that Jhampa brought us, and cut up most of the firewood I collected in the spring.  I have a good supply now, enough to take the chill off the coldest nights, but not enough to be self-indulgent. Guy's visit has been pushed back a month. Jhampa tells me that Armando will be coming, but I have no idea when.  I wrote Armando and asked him to call me the day before, so I am sure to be here and not in Durango.  I'm going to work with him to find a good plumber.  He seems to have better access to the tradesmen in Canatlan. The leaky pipe from the water tank is getting worse again.  That whole piece needs to be replaced. Our neighbor to the right has two horses he uses for plowing.  One is a jackass, kinda wild.  We enjoyed having the horses foraging our fields for the past couple of months, but Juan moved the horses out when I told him I think they are finished cleaning up the place; I didn't look for them. I suppose they were down by the river.  But yesterday they were back again.  Blacky is in our field tied to Juan's fence, with not much to nibble on underfoot.  Jacky is roaming, having better luck at finding fodder.  Blacky was clearly happy to see me, whinnying until I went to him for a talk. I had an entourage. I picked up Peanut from Sylvia's on Thursday morning after returning from Ben's wedding in Georgia, as you know.  She was in heat.  The black dog had waited for her the full five days, as far as I could tell, and he got first crack at her.  The next door neighbor Lalo's two big dogs also took up vigil, hoping against hope.  Soon the house was in full siege. They jump up on the doors and windows to keep an eye on the object of their lust.  Peanut is no longer free to roam and romp as she used to.  I carry her in my arms to the car and take her up the farm road.  The small black dog follows us afoot, but the other two do not.  She runs freely there.  I let him mount her a few times, but not anymore.  I think the deed is done.  We'll have puppies between Christmas and New Years.  My clothes take a toll.  The big ones jump up on me while I carry her to the car, and tear my clothes, and muddy them if there's been any moisture.  I do a lot of laundry these days. Even when she remains in the house, they follow me.  Now that her desire has wanted somewhat, I walk her on a short leash here on our land, and carry a four-foot long pole.  When she needs privacy I swing the stick 360°, until she is done.  It keeps them at bay.  Gradually I am letting the three of them get closer to them.  She wags her tail and enjoys ‘kissing’ them.  But as soon as one gets close to her tail, I poke them with the stick. I had to turn to the internet to find hope.  How long will this last?  How long is gestation?  The answers were vague and conditional, but I take comfort where I can.  It could last a few days to 21, but the average is 12.  Okay, seven down, five to go.  Actually, I think she is coming out of it.  She no longer seems so eager to receive the males.  Gestation is nine weeks, which brings us to the end of December.  At least I know that the puppies have only one father, so they won't be so varied.  I don't know how that effects size of litter. This is all an experiment, a learning experience.  She'll be spayed after this.  I have midwifed many kittens (and a couple of puppy litters too, but only the delivery phase), so I was curious to round out my midwifing experience with domestic animals. I am slowly putting in a bed of alfalfa.  I've removed the corn stalks from the 6 by 8 ft plot.  Next I will till and level it.  Apparently November is the month to seed alfalfa, so I'll get it done.  Then we can have green smoothies.  You might look up some recipes for healthy drinks, and join in.  Here they like alfalfa and cucumber mixes.  Yummy on a hot hot day!  I want to have seeds for alfalfa sprouts, but YouTube videos tell me they are very hard to collect, being very small.  Still I have to try.  I think I mentioned that alfalfa is a perenniel crop, so we can cut it and it keeps coming back.  The horses will like hands full of that; easier to keep on hand than carrots. Would you believe, some animal likes to eat peat moss!  That 55 lb  bale had been broken into, and an eighth of it was gone.  I thought it was the horses, but I checked the next day and more had been eaten and the horses are gone.  I repackaged it and stored it more securely. The rototiller blade got bent, I don’t know how.  I had it straightened, and now I can do the last tilling of the peach ‘orchard’ (if 12 young trees constitute an orchard), and the alfalfa plot. It is pleasant working on these cool days, although the sun can still be intense at midday. Peanut seems a bit stir crazy, so I’ve opened the front door (and locked the screen door) so she can visit with her entourage a little. She sits there, in the pool of sunlight, still casting pleading eyes my way.  Just another week, Sweetheart; hold on.

Retire to Mexico

It's been a long time in silent exile.  Maybe not long to you, since I am out of mind, but for me counting the hours, days, weeks, months without familiar social interaction, three years since arriving here has seemed like forever; a lifetime.  A prolonged time of waiting for the other shoe to drop, as I try to build a home in a wilderness..

Once again we have arrived at rainy season.  It is late this year.Some crops have failed, including my own experiment in farming, a crop of oats.  My fields are green with weeds.

I had been chronicling since arriving here three years ago.  I have profiled for you a number of the most familiar local characters.  I was waiting to polish each one before posting it.  Two years of writing about Mexico have vanished, digital code wiped away by computer malfunction.  Three more years of the book on my bakery experience, plus all the files of recipes from the bakery, all gone.  The Cosmos is telling me I am not to bother my silly head with authoring a book. No one cares about my quirky life; it is just one of millions.

Two years ago the rain was so plentiful that the flat bridge that crosses our 'river' at the entrance to our village was overflowing with maybe two feet of water.  Villagers have to cross that bridge to get to the highway and the bus stop.  The old people hung back, waiting and hoping for a kind neighbor to stop their truck and offer a lift the twenty feet across.  The river was swift and scary.  This year, in spots across our valley the creek has dried up completely.  The driest I have seen it yet.

I came here to join a community of meditators, others following the path of Buddhist compassion and lovingkindness.  No one else got the vision; I am alone.  The village is about two kilometers away from the tiny village of El Pozole.    I am in the midst of orchards and pasture land.  My companions are the birds,  dogs, cats, horses.

One dog in particular is worth remembering.  She died only yesterday.  Petunia is mostly pit bull.  A guy tried to foist her onto me, as just the protection I needed on my isolated farm. He had found her in the street all skin and bones, and 'rescued' her.  But he was not interested in adopting her. She is a kind, gentle, affection playful senior of 8 years.  As much as I loved having her around, she saw the place my little Maltese mix had in the home.  The little one sits on my lap, goes in the car with me everywhere, is generally pampered.  And so Petunia tries to climb on my lap, when I am sitting in my recliner watching TV.  One night she came home with a lame hind leg; we never discovered the nature of it.  It could be a sprain, or arthritis, or who knows.  It makes it harder for her to climb up onto the recliner. At 55 pounds, she makes a large impact on my small home.  She tracks mud in, jumps on blankets, rubs against clothes, causing more laundry and mopping.  After about a year, the limp equally mysteriously disappeared.

She is a vagabond, a nomad.  There is a home in the village that maintains kibble for her.  This home is the home to a number of dogs; people bring their puppies to Sylvia.  She always finds homes, except when her own kids or grand kids adopt the puppy. Petunia would lie in the sun in front of the house.  She would protect the little dogs against the big digs.  She is very protective.

She would roam.  Across the street from Sylvia is a house being renovated.  In this village family properties are in clusters, so the three houses across the street belonged to her three aunts, only one of whom is still alive.  One empty house is being renovated by a son-in-law of the deceased sister.  He lives in LA.  He is an alcoholic, a retired person who never quite grew up emotionally, being the pampered youngest child of a large brood.  He escapes from an unhappy marriage by coming to El Pozole many months at a time, supposedly to remodel the house.  When his wife comes to visit her cousins for a few weeks a year, she is sad at how he has destroyed her childhood home.  These two love Petunia, and try to care for her when they are around.  Petunia feels adrift.  She comes to me for chats, and to just lie unmolested in the sun.

About a year ago she had an ulcerated mammary.  After Jose returned to LA, I took her to the vet.  He cut the mammary.  He also took out her uterus, saying that we were dealing with cancer and that the cancer originated in the uterus.

Last week Petunia came to me to show me her wound.  An ulcer had erupted, between nipples.  As soon as she came in the door, after looking me dolefully in the eye, she laid down and showed me her wound.  It was leaking like a sieve.  Blood was pouring out.  I cleaned it up, tried to bandage it, put antibiotic cream on it, but it bled all night soaking through her bed.  I took her back to Jose and Marisela and suggested they get medical attention.

Later in the day we texted; they said they had an appointment three days away.  I was beside myself with this news; I saw it as an emergency.  But I do not have the money for Petunia's care; this couple from California does.  I was helpless to intervene.  When the appointment came I went with Jose to keep the appointment.  It was a new vet; Jose said it was a cousin.  We waited an hour.  We phoned. There was no vet.  The phone number written on the wall was a Durango number.  I suggested that perhaps the vet's main practice was in Durango, and he came to Canatlan certain days.  From long experience with Jose I know that he is about the worst communicator I have ever known, one of those who talks but doesn't listen.

We went to the vet who did the cutting a year earlier.  The qualified vet was not there; only his father was in attendance.  He cleaned up the wound and sewed it up. I was startled when a spurt of blood came from the wound.  At this point we were still thinking that Petunia had impaled herself on barbed wired; this spurt made me question that scenario.  We were yet to learn that the cancer was still active inside her.

A few days later they texted me that they were taking Petunia down to town to have the ulcer cut out.  I texted back, "Get a second opinion" 

Within the hour we were in my car headed to Durango.  We found a vet.  He explained that she probably needed a complete mastectomy on the right side of her body.  To ensure that it would not spread further (we had no measure of how widespread the cancer was) she would need chemotherapy. To do nothing would be to allow the cancerous ulcer to grow until it killed her.  It was just a matter of time, and a lot of pain.  Because Petunia is a quiet dog, using barking only to communicate to dogs, not to humans, the humans presumed she was in no pain.  But when she would visit me she would look into my eyes for minutes at a time, trying to tell me about it.  Our choices were to spend hundreds of dollars on a now nine year old dog, in a situation where she could not get adequate hospice care given her nomadic ways; let the disease take its course until she died; or a mercy killing.

I held my own counsel and let them talk it through.  I knew it would be easy to find a gun back in the village, and quickly dispatch the situation.  Jose was of the same mind, but Marisela was in tears thinking of the dog's termination by whatever means. 

The next day Petunia was put to sleep in Canatlan.  Early in the day I visited them to drop something off they had left in the car.  Jose tried to persuade me to come with him.  The job did not need the two of us, he was a chicken.  Marisela was no better.  I offered to take her on my own, but Jose did not like that.  It is just as well, because I had a lot of work to do on my farm.  I said my goodbyes to her, and that is the last I will see of my good friend Petunia.

Because of the topography, I guess, there is no cell service in homes.  If someone wants to use their phone they must go outside into the dirt street.  This prevents me from developing closer relations to the other seniors in the village.  No casual chatting by phone.  None of them drive, so none has ever been out here to visit me, or see what a house I have built.

The exception is Berta, but she is worthy of her own story.

I did eventually manage to get a wifi box from TelCel, the main cell provider in Mexico.  Through that I get to watch Netflix and Prime Video.  I also have a satellite, dish, that dishes up old movies and old NCIS.  I see adds for Bull, but this shows after I have gone to bed.

I am so desperate for companionship that I have continued to talk to my boyfriend in Chongqing, China to come live with me.  He is a city guy; he would be miserable isolated on the farm. He would also have to give up all his government pension and benefits.  He professes his undying love for me, but is no fool.  He would treat me well if I moved there.  It is tempting.

My home is beautiful and comfortable.  I have a guest bedroom and bath.  In a narrow valley being bordered on the east and west by hills, the views can be breathtakingly beautiful.

Exiled in Paradise

Mexico permanent resident visa process

I write this because during the process of obtaining permanent residency in Mexico, I have relied on the internet to inform me of what I need to do.There is a lot of information out there, yet it failed me in the end.  Blame it on my poor internet skills, if you will, or because I enter the country by car instead of by plane.  What follows is the process I followed.

Caveat:I have only crossed at Laredo and El Paso.   Each of them have a few bridges, some are more suitable for passenger cars than commercial trucks.

Driving across the border is effortless.  At certain times of day the line is long, at other times it is only an hour.  The Mexicans ask for no papers.  As a tourist, one has permission to stay six months.

Problem is, no one stamps your passport when you drive across. 

You have to park your car and go inside a building to get your passport stamped.  At Juarez/El Paso the road  at the entrance to the border is short, narrow and crooked.  There is a yellow building on the left, with its own indoor parking lot.

At Laredo/Nuevo Laredo there is a very busy government building with a large parking lot, that deals with many services.  Your car needs a permit to enter the country.  This is where you obtain it, and get your passport entry stamp.

I suppose once you have your resident permit, this is where the paperwork is processed for 'importing' your car.

My car (2002 VW Passat in great shape) was too old; it was undesirable by the Mexican government.  I could continue to renew its permit year by year, but I could never get rid of the American license plates, which act as a red flag to the local police seeking 'morditos', bribes.

Any cursory search reveals that you cannot apply for a residence visa from inside the Mexican borders.  The application must be submitted at 'your local Mexican consulate'.  [Since I moved from China to Mexico I had no locale; I went to the consulates in Texas.]

The requirements are simple.  Bring along two passport photos. and your bank statements for six or twelve months  Laredo asked for six, Austin asked for twelve.  If you are receiving a social security pension, you receive an annual notice at the beginning of the year telling you how much you are receiving, net.  Make sure you make one photocopy of this. You must demonstrate that you have enough money to support yourself.  It is supposedly based on the average salary of a worker in Mexico City.  You can find this information online fairly easily.  I will try to include links here at the end. I think a savings or investment account showing $20,000 should be enough.  Print out the summary page, all six or twelve months.  Not necessary to make copies.

Now you need to make your appointment.  I found this to be the hardest part of the entire process.  If you live near the consulate, in Austin it is easy to walk in and make an appointment for the following week.  In Laredo, not so easy.  Laredo is a small office with overworked staff.  Austin, by comparison, seems empty.  In Austin there is a receptionist at the entrance, who will direct you to the window you want.  I'm guessing it is easier to find someone on duty in their office in the afternoon, rather than at the 8 a.m. opening.

On the internet you will be given a phone number to call to make an appointment.  This seems like a waste of time.  The person answering the phone says that she can only make an appointment for someone seeking a Mexican passport.  She says she cannot help you if you are seeking a visa.  Yet at the Laredo office they gave me that number and said 'everyone here' got their appointment that way. (It is probably true that 90% of those present were seeking a Mexican passport, but he overlooked that detail).

That Mexican office, in Mexico City, is listed under MexiTel.

However it is that you obtain your interview, the visa should be issued and placed in your passport within hours.  No need to sweat the interview; just have your papers ready.  It is conducted in English, of course.

Now, with this passport visa you have six months to enter the country.

Once you have entered the country, you have thirty days to present it to your local Instituto Nacional de Migracion, commonly called the Migracion Office.

You should arrive with a filled out form (printed from the internet), the INM formato basico**.
The photos you need are tiny, called 'infantil, 2.5 x 3 cm , two front view and one profile.  Once you have shown your passport, they will print out a form you must take to a bank to pay the fee.  At the moment, temporary resident pays pesos $4,148 MXN.  The permanent residence costs pesos $5,056 MXN.  Depending on the exchange rate, it is somewhere around  .  US$200 ~$250.

Where I made my mistake was when I crossed the border, I forgot to get out of the car and enter a building to get my passport stamped.  Technically I crossed the border and had 30 days to register near my Mexican home.  But actually, because the passport was not stamped at the point of entry, I still have six months to drive back to the border and get it stamped.

For the Permanent Residency the process is the same at the local Migracion office.  I fill out the INM formato basico, bring photos, run out to the bank to pay, and return with the receipt. 

That local office will email you when the residence card has been issued.  The first time, two emails arrived on the same day.  One was to confirm that I had submitted my application, the second was to inform me that my card was ready.  I did not read the second one closely, just assumed it was a duplicate confirmation, and waited a month before going back to ask where my card was.  They greeted me with, "Oh, there you are!  We were wondering when you come in to get this."

This time I will be more conscientious in reading my emails.

Once you have either temp or perm residence card, you can deal with TelCel to get the better phone and internet deals.  You can open a bank account in your name, so that you can wire yourself money.  You present it at the medical facility when you have medical needs.

Your CURP number is printed on that card.  However, you still need to go to a local government office to geta peice of paper identifying your CURP.  I don't understand that, someone did it for me.

With a temp residency, you cannot get the senior discount on bus travel.  You need the permanent one for that. 

To register with DIF it is difficult but not impossible as a temporary.  You must go to the local mayor's office, to the Secretary of the town, and request an ID card.  With that you might be able to register with DIF Desarollo de Integracion de la Familia.  If you are living on the margin financially, there are certain benefits you can receive.  No problem registering with the permanent visa, I think.

The very amiable official at my local Migracion office told me that with the permanent status I would have all rights and privileges same as a Mexican.  He said I could vote, but other literature I've read said that is not included.  I only mention that because when trying to maneuver in public spaces, like registering a car or subscribing to Satellite TV, I am asked for my IFE.  That is the voting card.  I have registered my new car and subscribed to TV without it.

++++
to try to obtain an appointment by phone, for a Mexican Consulate in the US, you will be sent to this site and given a phone number. The Laredo Consulate offers this site on a handout.: https://mexitel.sre.gob.mx  I have found that using contact information given online by your local consulate is pretty useless.  No one answers the phone, no one answers the emails.

This is the official instructions for obtaining a residence visa.  https://www.gob.mx/tramites/ficha/expedicion-de-documento-migratorio-por-canje/INM811
This page has a link for you to apply online; it would not work for me.

This one is for Mexicans only: https://www.gob.mx/tramites

This page offers information to foreigners interested in living in Mexico
https://consulmex.sre.gob.mx/montreal/index.php/en/foreigners/visa  
Even though it is for Canadians, I think most information applies to US citizens as well.