Wandering minus Wanderlust- Pozole again

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Has my wandering finally come to an end?

 

 

Distressed Ocean Dog

 An afternoon visit to the RV Park at Punto Cerritos

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

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

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

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

Ocean breezes

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Trailer Park Punta Cerritos

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

 

Viva Mexico - Corruption

 

Viva Mexico - Corrupciόn

        The year is 1968.  I am living in Mexico, Acapulco to be exact.  I have come to Mexico City to take some courses.  This is an Olympic year, and Mexico is hosting.  Things romantically are not going well for me, and in my depth of despair, I look for a gun to end my problems.  The underground buzz is that there is a crackdown on firearms.  A broad coalition of students have congregated in Mexico City, where the universal eye of the media is currently focused brightly.  Each day, the students come out of their apartments in a large apartment complex, into the square there, to protest for more political freedom from the authoritarian government then in power, the PRI party.

            The tension is rising day by day.  The government is feeling growing embarrassment as the world begins to learn that its democratic facade has failed.  The national guard is called out once again to control the mass demonstration; this time, their orders are to shoot.  Thousands are injured, hundreds die, including women and children. 

            Now I am retired, and once again living in Mexico.  Fifty years later, I am eager to see how this colorful, intelligent population with a huge heart has grown and evolved.

            The city buildings are big, modern, digitally wired. The city roads and highways are wide and well paved.    Up and down the Pacific edge Developments have grown; hotels, condos, eateries and overpriced souvenir shops sprawl along the sandy coast.   Only the wealthy can afford to have easy access to the precious white-sand Pacific beaches. The lovely open markets of Acapulco and the mixing of the classes no longer exist.  It, too, has been clearly divided between haves and have-nots.  Yet inland, In the countryside, such as Acapulco was in that distant time, time has stood still.

In that long ago year in Acapulco, there was a hillside as-yet underdeveloped.  The people had taken it as their own, their native land, and built houses there.  The city government, and the corrupt politicians who owned the government, prevented the people access to water and electricity.  The enterprising community had illicitly supplied water and power themselves.  An idealistic politician saw the injustice, and ran for mayor under the principle that the land belongs to the people.  In the course of his campaigning, he was shot down in the streets.  The land developers succeeded in chasing off the people, and slicing the pie for themselves.  Expensive homes were built, and the privileged few claimed exclusive rights to the God-created lofty vistas of the Pacific Ocean and magnificent sunsets.

            Here I am again, living in this blessed nation, still under the spell of an authoritarian system disguised as democracy.  People have the right to vote, but the elected officials have no power to change the status quo.  What changes have been made, such as empowering women’s rights to not be beaten and abused by their husbands, and a system of scholarships for students for higher education, are clearly on display when one looks for progress.  Much of the country is still rural and agricultural.  Away from urban sprawl, time has stood still. 

            In rural areas, children still do not have access to basic education because there is no rural system of school buses.  A family must still provide money for uniforms, and homemade foods for their midday meal.  This situation has greatly diminished over the years, as the extended families leave the farms to have homes in the towns, where they can board their country cousins during the school year.  The mindset, however, has changed little.

            One that has plagued me since I retired here is the mindset that says, if you have it and I want it, I can take it when you are not looking.  Theft is not a sin to these seemingly religious people who faithfully attend Mass on Sundays.  Dishonesty has always been a part of this Latin culture, where it is distasteful to abuse a person with the truth if a lie or half-truth would go down easier.  For a non-native to enter this society, picking your way through daily activities and official passages, not knowing whom to trust and where truth lies is not just maddening, it is disheartening.

            Bureaucrats are given narrow guidelines for carrying out their duties.  Paying taxes? Getting a drivers license? Registering a car? The legalities behind these operations are complex.  The average Mexican twists himself into a pretzel, or so it seems to me, to avoid paying taxes.  For example, I sold my house.  I wanted to keep my meager proceeds in the bank until I understood the lay of the financial land well enough to know how and where to protect it and grow it.  I was told by numerous people that a bank account was a bad option.  Why?  Won’t the bank protect my money?  The answer surprised me.  I, being American, expect to pay my taxes where they are due.  I understand that taxes are an economic necessity for the government to be run efficiently.  Government salaries must be paid.  Someone must pay for all the ink and printer paper that is consumed, the ink in the stamp pads that are universal.  But I was warned against placing my money in an institution licensed by the government, such as a bank or investment company.  I would be taxed on the sale of my property when deposited in the bank, perhaps as much as 25%.  If I could not falsify the amount paid and received, then the ‘right’ course of action is to keep the money under wraps.  The sale price, if recorded properly in the County Property registry, should be allowed to disappear in ledgers on dusty shelves, never being exposed to the bright light of the Revenue department.  

            I went to the Transit office to renew my drivers license.  I was given a list of documents needed.  I waited on a long, slow-moving line until my arthritic knees were screaming.  As I finally got to the door of the office, the guard at the door took a perfunctory look at my fistful of documents and identified ones that did not satisfy the requirements.  I returned home, made more copies, and added them to the stack for the next-day’s try.  The second day, long line, knees screaming, I got to the door and this time the guard realized that I was not just renewing my license, but transferring it from one state to another.  This called for an additional document.  Back home again, I found the document, added it to the stack, and waited for the next day.  I checked, of course, to see what the hours of operation were, on my first day there.  Here, on my third day I arrived on the line more than an hour before closing. About 45 minutes before closing, the guard came around to us standing on the line and said, go home.  There won’t be time to see you all before the office closes.  I had been so confident that this time, at last, as I had all the necessary documents and photocopies of them, I could not fail.  Me and all of that confidence turned tail and returned home for the weekend.

            My passport was among those documents I carried with me, even though it was not on the list.  Just in case it, though not identified as required, it was somehow implied.  When I got home, rather than putting the passport back into the home safe, I tucked it into a more accessible spot in my new house, where routines and ‘safe spots’ were not yet established. 

            Now, a couple of weeks later, I need to bring that bundle of documents plus some back into a different transit office to register a car.  This time a passport is on the list of requirements.  But I don’t know where it is.  I think, surely a birth certificate and a ‘green card’ (permanent residency) should qualify equally to achieve the purpose of showing a passport.  But here we are, dealing with a bureaucrat who does not need to read the fine print of the legality behind his job.  He is not interested in the spirit of the law, but only the letter, to the extent that he has read it.

            The police force is another area that is deeply entrenched in red tape, and corruption.  A Canadian lady was living with me for a few winter months.  We went to the hot springs for some relaxation.  On the way, in a lightly-trafficked four-lane road, a motorcycle police man pulled us over.  He informed us that she had driven through an orange traffic light.  He routinely asked us for our documents.  She said she has an international drivers license, but had nothing to show.  Even her Canadian drivers license had been left back at my ranch.  I offered him mine, which he took and attached to his clipboard.  His opening salvo, with my drivers license in hand, was to demand 4000 pesos from us.  An infraction for driving through a red light would be, probably, a couple hundred pesos.  Driving without a license might be a bit more.  It was in no way near 4000 pesos.  We negotiated for some time.  My companion did not understand the conversation being held in Spanish.  I was trying to negotiate down to 500 pesos, although I was not thinking about the driving without a license.  He escalated the situation, threatening to withhold my rear license plate until the fine was paid.  She was very nervous with the escalation of the conversation, and finally just took out 2000 pesos and gave it to him.  He returned my license to me and we drove off.  He never once offered to write a ticket.

            I can only imagine the chaos that must be traffic court.  I doubt it is anything like the process in the States.  I imagine you simply queue up at a window and pay the amount stated on the ticket, with no opportunity to challenge the justice of it. 

            I have fallen victim to a motorcycle cop who sits in wait, watching for an unsecured seat belt; plenty of people are casual about the seat belt law—and usually not a reason to stop a vehicle.  When I was victimized by such a vampire, who held my license in his clipboard, I shamed him for his obvious victimization.  He was not interested in writing a ticket, but only of securing a bribe.  I was willing to drive off without my license, rather to succumb to his thuggery.

Another example is this.  Instead of traffic lights controlling intersections, gloriettas, or roundabouts, are common here. In front of a heavily trafficked WalMart there is a glorietta, but there is also what would appear to be a turn lane.  That is, two lanes facing the glorietta, and one lane carved out of the meridian for a left-hand turn.  If you are in that lane, you cannot go forward to the glorietta without being forced to merge, which is not anywhere else a normal feature for a glorietta intersection.  It is logical to assume it is for the many shoppers who are approaching WalMart from the opposite directions, and just need to do the U to get into the parking lot.  There is no signage.

            I carefully made that choice, while there was no other car approaching the glorietta in the five lanes that existed there.  I was immediately pulled over and put into the position of negotiating for how much of a bribe I was willing to pay.  The policeman did not agree with my interpretation of the lay of the land.  In Mexico, if you get a ticket your rear license plate is removed, and to get it back you must queue up at a cashier’s window in a busy transit office.  This will eat up many hours of the next day, and is to be avoided at all costs.  Again, at that traffic office, there is no judge or opportunity to explain extenuating circumstances.  The cop rules supreme, his word is never questioned.

            So I question what is his impetus for extortion?  Is he underpaid, and need the extra money to put food on his table?  No, in fact, here in the city of Mazatlan his salary is above average, and well above the salary of, say, an English teacher, a career from which I am retired.  Again, how is the government paying his ample salary if the revenue from traffic stops is a fraction of what it would be, if all traffic stops were duly processed?

            I find myself, in theory, in the same position of those students in Mexico City on that Olympiad day decades ago.  I want to question the status quo.  I want to shake you up when you answer my question, Why do you put up with this?  “That’s the way it is.”  Shrugged shoulders.

            In the tiny rural village where I lived on my farm, I attended the State senate candidate rallies, to listen to the stump speech and ask questions, and express the community needs.  One hot issue that seems to garner popular support is, access to internet in rural areas.  Our village is in a slight depression of land.  A valley seems too noble a label, but in truth we are surrounded by mountains.  The highway connecting the population centers skirts the edge of the west hillside.

Common sense seems to point to the solution for lack of signal as being an additional tower in the valley to serve these depressed terrain.  The senate candidate came to us to garner our support, our votes.  We brought up to him the delinquency of the TelCel company in claiming our monthly fees for telephone and internet service, while not providing us with the same.  In our little hamlet it is common to see the residents strolling up and down in front of their houses, in the dirt road, talking on the telephone.  It is not for privacy.  Inside the houses are dead zones; no signal.  A call cannot be received while inside the house.  Yet everyone dutifully pays the TelCel company for service, every month.  Yes, the candidate earnestly responds.  Better internet access in rural communities is a definite need.  Undeniable.  Widely acknowledged.  Ask TelCel why they do not offer an additional tower, they will say it is not cost effective.  Yet, over the years, they have earned through unearned fees more than enough money to build such a tower.

I had a heart-to-heart conversation about this lawlessness with the pastor of my parish.  We saw the endemic nature of this mindset.  Homilies on the topic of a more fastidious examination of conscience were useless; each listener thinking of their neighbor’s guilt, but not acknowledging their own.

I was visiting Oaxaca one year when there was a mass demonstration lasting weeks, of educators, filling the streets around the center of the capital with tent-cities.

We think of the Bible verse, ‘train up your children in the way they should go, and they will not stray from it’.  Where to begin?  Where to get a fingerhold to pry open the mass delusion?  In the primary classrooms?  In teachers’ college?  In State education boards?  Who will finally not accept the response, “That’s the way it is.”

Can we expect the teaching professionals to be on the cutting edge of societal change?  While they are required to earn a higher education degree, they earn less than the police profession, which only requires a high school diploma.  Male teachers earn more than female teachers, regardless of excellence or lack thereof.  Mexican culture still puts the majority of household responsibilities on the female, whether employed or not.  Imagine the household of a policeman and a primary school teacher.  He comes home, sits on the recliner, opens a beer and waits for his meal.  She rushes home from class, maybe with a bundle of papers to review and correct, and struggles to put the meal on the table while attending to the physical and emotional needs of their two children.  Of course, in the traditional household there might be a grandma available to do the household chores.  However, there are not enough of those to go around in the average family, unless the family occupies a large compound housing family units in separate spaces.  That, too, is a dying dynamic.  This scenario used to be far more widespread in rural Mexico.

One feature of modern Mexico might be an instrument of pot-stirring.  Since World War II brought about major shifts in labor markets, when blacks no longer felt limited to farm work, Mexicans have picked up the slack.  The Brazero movement made it attractive for Mexicans to cross the northern border for agricultural work, and return each year with earnings.  This trend has seen many evolutions over the years, and has had a lasting effect on Mexican culture.  It is a very slow-moving change factor, more like lava flow than tidal wave.  For those for whom family obligation requires them to return to Mexico, or retirement, or are forced to through conflicts with the US law, they try to reestablish themselves back into their communities.  While in private conversations with the casual ex pat they might meet and indulge their longing for a better way, they are quickly swallowed up into the quagmire of the surrounding complacency.  “That’s the way it’s always been.”

            To conclude this essay I will recount what has happened in the past 24 hours. This morning just before noon my friend Oscaar walked through my front door, with Damian.  Oscar had brought Damian, a worker on his Durango ranch, down to Mazatlan to help out for a few days, to fulfill the promise Oscar had made to the landlord.  For reduced rent, Oscar would paint the house.  Meanwhile, on Sunday at church I connected with some local members who would look for a worker or two in the community to do the work at a slower, more considered pace.  During the previous day’s phone conversation I had told Oscar he need not bring this worker.  But once Oscar sets his mind, he is not easily persuaded.  Damian was in my house for a few days then, so I may as well put him to work.  It was late in the day now.  Oscar had left us to attend to a nephew in a rehab program.  Damian and I were awkwardly alone; so I put him to work.   I gave him a pair of wire strippers to fix a burned out outlet.

            Although it was late in the day, Oscar returned and the two of them set out for Durango.  On the way out of town they passed through the ‘Gold Zone’, a heavily touristed area.  Damian jumped out of the car to go to an Oxxo and buy a coke, while Oscar parked and dealt with a phone call.  Some twenty minutes passed, and Damian had not returned.  Oscar went to look for him.  The clerk at Oxxo said the police took Damian away in handcuffs.

            Oscar rushed to the police station, but he could not get Damian out; it was passed the hour for that.  He asked why the boy had been taken.  He was clean; no drugs, no booze, nothing offensive about him.  The police said they found a wire stripper in his pockets, which could be used as a lethal weapon. 

            Oscar was told to return in the morning at 8 a.m. to speak with the judge.  He arrived at 7:30, not wanting to be late.  He was made to sit unattended for an hour.  He asked, what is the holdup?  The judge was having breakfast, he was told.  He waited more.  Ten o’clock, eleven o’clock.  Eventaully he was told the charges, and what it would cost in fines.  He was told $1,800 pesos.  No, he said. The boy did nothing to warrant arrest.  Each party postured; this was the negotiation.  Finally, a whisper in his ear said all could be resolved with a bribe of 1,000 pesos.  And so the boy was set free.

            Both he and Damian counted the number of people that passed through the jail cells that night.  The station was busy with mostly this sort of nuisance arrest. They calculated that the police were earning about 70,000 pesos in one hour.  This is the real danger in the tourist area, not the drug traffickers like the media would have the public believe.

There was never a formal charge filed.  Nothing was put in writing.  It was a high stakes game played by the police, who had all the power.

            I am left with my unresolved question.  A large ocean liner has a proportionately small rudder.  Turning it around is a slow process; it cannot turn on a dime, like a speed boat.  Where is that rudder?