Written sometime in early November
I used to hum this little ditty on the way to work occasionally. Now, not so much. Mexico turned back their clocks yesterday, so Nunez was up at 5:30. Are you kidding me? So we decided to take a walk on the beach before the sun bore down on us. Hurricane Rick wrecked some serious havoc for some folks here. Its crashing waves did benefit us beach walkers by sending sea shells higher up onto the beach than ever before. I found a rare Mexican sand dollar. I didn’t know or care before yesterday, but when I spied it, I snagged it. Every woman who has subsequently seen it since has been all a twitter. It’s not a baseball card though.
Now invigorated, I wandered over to the gym for a two hour workout, then showered and made my veggie egg white omelet. I ate it on the deck while watching a pod of manta rays playing Marco Polo. They are cute little buggers. The ocean this morning looks more like a lake which bodes well for an afternoon float about. But first we have errands to run.
Nunez and I waltzed downtown to the gringo library near Puerto Viejo in Old Town on the malecon (six mile boardwalk with intermittent statues celebrating various aspects of life in Mazatlan). We exchanged our books, sat down for a beer at Puerto Viejo, and I hesitate to tell you this, but we clinked our long neck Pacificos to a Monday morning in Mexico. We discussed the weather in the northwest and the up coming conferences we would be missing.
Puerto Viejo’s owner Antonio came over for a chat before we departed and he kissed Nunez. My wife loves a Hispanic man’s affection. We trekked a block down to La Cueva de Leon under the Belmar Hotel where their rooms are named after early gringo residents: John Wayne, Robert Mitchem, John Huston etc. The owner of La Cueva used to own the Topolo restaurant where Vic, Pam, Nunez and I ate for back to back New Year Eve’s dinners. Manulo since has opened this tiny well located restaurant with four outside tables with a palapa awning and a menu on a chalk board. The most expensive meal is $55 pesos which is about $4 dollars. All of his dishes are gourmet, but he doesn’t serve chips and salsa. He keeps it simple and elegant. I had chile relleno stuffed with shrimp with a crème sauce. Sharon had shrimp cooked in a mango sauce. Both were obscenely delicioso. Nunez scored another kiss, and we left.
Due to the strenuous nature of our day, Nunez and I decided that we probably had over extended our work day and crunched up our list of chores. We drove straight home, and contemplated our next effort: nap in air conditioning, catching some rays, reading a book, splashing in the ocean, hanging with Jaime and a cerveza. Nunez chose to take a children’s book that she has shared umpteen times with her munchkins and translated it into English to teach some orphans that we are visiting tomorrow. She needed help from Jaime and Salvatore, our masseuse. She may have scored another kiss, but she’s not fessing up to it. I, on the other hand, chose to lounge poolside with a book, nap, wander off to the ocean for a dip, and meet up with friends at the palapa for happy hour. I don’t know why we call it happy hour since Jaime shows up at noon and the drink prices are always the same (17 pesos for a pina colada about $1.40).
Sharon felt guilty that a couple purchased 15 racks of baby back ribs to share with folks, so she made a salad (blue cheese, apples, romaine lettuce, tomatoes). So ribs and salad were for dinner. The Canadians who brought the ribs invited us up to their place after Jaime left at 8 and he swapped stories and lies. They lied. I told stories. I actually caught Nunez telling my stories. She’s improving. They told us about their Canadian friend who tattooed SWAN on his penis. When he had an erection, it said SASKATCHEWAN. I called bull shit. Nunez called for visual verification.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Christmas Comes Early
December 2009
Wednesday night I coached my second basketball game of my Mexican career. We won. We beat a team that had previously destroyed Encolep II, name of the high school and we don’t have a mascot (how cool is that?). After the game I met Rafaela’s estadios unidos boyfriend of four years. He said that the two local English periodicals in Mazatlan should write an article about the gringo coach. If he thought that was news worthy, he should have been with me Thursday and Saturday.
Jaime’s family invited Sharon and me to attend Eladio’s ordination at the main cathedral in El Centro. Jaime’s wife is Lupita. Lupita and Eladio are not brothers and sisters, but they call each other that. Eladio and his mother moved in with Lupita’s family at an early age. At age 29 he decided to pursue priesthood. Eight years later his initiation into priesthood took place. Touched doesn’t begin to describe how this experience felt to anyone in attendance.
In Mexico the first building in every city and village that stands out is the cathedral. Mazatlan’s cathedral brings tourists inside to marvel at the grandeur of Catholicism and its opulence. Subtlety is not a strong suit in a Catholic church in this country. Walking in to witness a spectacle like an ordination in a building designed to host spectacles moved me. Close to a hundred priests marched in. Eladio with his ornate sash looked exactly like the newbie should as his elders all sported vestments with differing arrays of colors and symbols that distinguished them like the markings on a military uniform.
Something about not understanding the lyrics made the music mesh with the choir in a much more spiritual manner. I did not become lost in lyrics. I became emotional through melodies. The ordination impacted me like an opera so well acted that my lack of Latin or Spanish failed to impede my understanding of the performance. When the bishop walked into the audience and presented Eladio’s mother with a blessing, I knew that he asked for permission to take her son into a spiritual world. When each of the priests walked up to a kneeling Eladio and put both hands on his head to say a brief blessing, I knew they passed on wisdom. When a priest escorted Eladio’s mother and Lupita to face the congregation and receive a plague, I knew that permission had been granted. When each of the priests hugged Eladio and kissed each of his hands, I knew that he had been accepted. In his new vestments, Eladio beamed. Then the priests filed out, and the congregation lined up to hug Mazatlan’s newest priest.
The post ordination party a couple of blocks north of our condo paled in comparison to the theater of the morning. The setting with white canopy shelters blowing in the wind, and the tuxedoed waiters who never allowed a wine glass to be empty would impress the most cynical observer. The meal worked well, but I must note two cultural oddities. First, women who dress for special occasions in Mexico wear the most outrageous footwear. Nicole calls the Mexican women style, “matchey matchey.” Color coordinated to an extreme dominates the look, but the amount of money put into high heels and their outrageous flairs truly impresses me. Birkenstocks will never open a store in this country. Second, dessert in Mexico is a public passion. In America women pretend that eating dessert in public is a most unacceptable extravagance. Priests would politely and covertly wander over to eat a little something so that the hostess felt appreciated. In Mexico a dessert table reminds me of an Oklahoma land rush. Anyone who stands in your way is an opponent. A well dressed Mexican woman may walk into a confessional and admit to impure thoughts and other sins, but she would lay out her confessor to reach for flan. And a priest will turn a blind confessional eye to a sinner he knows to snag his favorite pastry. During desserts Mexicans sport no pretensions of their intentions.
* * *
After Wednesday’s night game, Rafaela asked if Nicole, Sharon, and I could chaperone a trip to Burger King. When we arrived at the orphanage, a weekly guest Mexican hippy played hand held drums that look like tambourines and danced around with his waifish hippy wife. The kids love it. I twirled several children like batons as the energy amped up for a big day out. After the music stopped, the kids lined up to go out the gate. Rafaela had ill prepared any of us for what we encountered for the rest of this day. Six motorcycle gang members in their colors and on their idling Harley’s greeted us. Senor Frog’s garishly cartooned vehicle beckoned the children who piled in with five adult chaperones. A clown then appeared who entertained the kids who laughed and shouted and screamed the entire way to Burger King. The El Rocos motorcycle members escorted us and stopped traffic to ensure that we felt privileged.
Six high school girls dressed in pink and white fluffy dresses walked the kids into Burger King which has the largest inside playground in Mazatlan. They dove into it with abandon. A classic American meal of French fries and hamburgers arrived. Tino, my five year old partner, looked at his first hamburger. He squirted the catch up sauce on top of the sesame seed bun and proceeded to eat it in a circular manner from the outside in. How else would a kid eat a burger sight unseen?
The pink and white fluffy girls painted the faces of the children in outrageously colorful designs. More motorcyclists took pictures and then presented each of the kids at least three wrapped presents. Rafael assigned me to collect them before they unwrapped them, so they could be put under the tree back home. A television crew filmed the entire event and interviewed Rafael and several of the girls. Unbeknownst to me this is an annual event that brings together a pair of interesting groups. Watching hard assed motorcycle gang members melt in front of orphans was almost worth gagging down a junior whopper.
* * *
On the seedier side of experiences I attended the fights that Mazatlan’s bull ring hosted Saturday night. Nicole’s husband Decote works out at the local pugilistic gym and knows many of the fighters on the card. He raved about the lineup with the main event being a former welterweight world champion fighting a boxer from the Philippines.
Decote mostly wanted to watch a Mazatlan fighter who fights at his gym who is 19-0. His reputation drew a visit from the current world middleweight champion who visited him ringside before his fight.
Speaking of ringside, Decote scored us ringside seats for this nationally televised fight. Most seats in Mexico that are outside and most seats in Mexico happen to be outside, are plastic. If you don’t like the row you are in, you can move your seat up. My ticket informed me that I had a seat in row one seat one. I realized later that our row expanded as the evening wore on.
The floor of a bull ring is not tiled. It’s dirt. The dirt near the beer vendor is mud. The restrooms are five portapotties. They sold over 4,000 tickets. No problema. The mostly male audience didn’t choose to wait in line to pee. They just went outside and peed in the parking lot. The parking lot is made of dirt. The parking lot became muddy.
Women did attend the fight. Those who worked the aisles to seat the high rollers would stand out in any crowd. Those who escorted the fighters into the ring drew whistles, cat calls, and drooling and deserved it. In the States when a woman holds up the number signifying the next round, she dresses scantily, exhibits bodacious curves, and smiles seductively. In Mexico all of the above holds true as well, but at the middle of each of the four corners of the ropes, her strut stops to put on a pelvic thrusting, butt wiggling display that is inspiring. One of these young ladies inspired one of Decote’s buddies to yell out, “Vas a mi casa.”* This drew laughs and cheers from all who heard except for the lady with the card. She winked. We had to help Decote’s friend off the dirt floor.
The fights too inspired the audience. The quality of the fighting and the officiating sincerely impressed me. The introduction of the main event included fireworks as did its conclusion. You can do this in an outdoor arena. A night at the fights was glitzy, crass, and so much fun.
*Translation….”Go home with me.”
Wednesday night I coached my second basketball game of my Mexican career. We won. We beat a team that had previously destroyed Encolep II, name of the high school and we don’t have a mascot (how cool is that?). After the game I met Rafaela’s estadios unidos boyfriend of four years. He said that the two local English periodicals in Mazatlan should write an article about the gringo coach. If he thought that was news worthy, he should have been with me Thursday and Saturday.
Jaime’s family invited Sharon and me to attend Eladio’s ordination at the main cathedral in El Centro. Jaime’s wife is Lupita. Lupita and Eladio are not brothers and sisters, but they call each other that. Eladio and his mother moved in with Lupita’s family at an early age. At age 29 he decided to pursue priesthood. Eight years later his initiation into priesthood took place. Touched doesn’t begin to describe how this experience felt to anyone in attendance.
In Mexico the first building in every city and village that stands out is the cathedral. Mazatlan’s cathedral brings tourists inside to marvel at the grandeur of Catholicism and its opulence. Subtlety is not a strong suit in a Catholic church in this country. Walking in to witness a spectacle like an ordination in a building designed to host spectacles moved me. Close to a hundred priests marched in. Eladio with his ornate sash looked exactly like the newbie should as his elders all sported vestments with differing arrays of colors and symbols that distinguished them like the markings on a military uniform.
Something about not understanding the lyrics made the music mesh with the choir in a much more spiritual manner. I did not become lost in lyrics. I became emotional through melodies. The ordination impacted me like an opera so well acted that my lack of Latin or Spanish failed to impede my understanding of the performance. When the bishop walked into the audience and presented Eladio’s mother with a blessing, I knew that he asked for permission to take her son into a spiritual world. When each of the priests walked up to a kneeling Eladio and put both hands on his head to say a brief blessing, I knew they passed on wisdom. When a priest escorted Eladio’s mother and Lupita to face the congregation and receive a plague, I knew that permission had been granted. When each of the priests hugged Eladio and kissed each of his hands, I knew that he had been accepted. In his new vestments, Eladio beamed. Then the priests filed out, and the congregation lined up to hug Mazatlan’s newest priest.
The post ordination party a couple of blocks north of our condo paled in comparison to the theater of the morning. The setting with white canopy shelters blowing in the wind, and the tuxedoed waiters who never allowed a wine glass to be empty would impress the most cynical observer. The meal worked well, but I must note two cultural oddities. First, women who dress for special occasions in Mexico wear the most outrageous footwear. Nicole calls the Mexican women style, “matchey matchey.” Color coordinated to an extreme dominates the look, but the amount of money put into high heels and their outrageous flairs truly impresses me. Birkenstocks will never open a store in this country. Second, dessert in Mexico is a public passion. In America women pretend that eating dessert in public is a most unacceptable extravagance. Priests would politely and covertly wander over to eat a little something so that the hostess felt appreciated. In Mexico a dessert table reminds me of an Oklahoma land rush. Anyone who stands in your way is an opponent. A well dressed Mexican woman may walk into a confessional and admit to impure thoughts and other sins, but she would lay out her confessor to reach for flan. And a priest will turn a blind confessional eye to a sinner he knows to snag his favorite pastry. During desserts Mexicans sport no pretensions of their intentions.
* * *
After Wednesday’s night game, Rafaela asked if Nicole, Sharon, and I could chaperone a trip to Burger King. When we arrived at the orphanage, a weekly guest Mexican hippy played hand held drums that look like tambourines and danced around with his waifish hippy wife. The kids love it. I twirled several children like batons as the energy amped up for a big day out. After the music stopped, the kids lined up to go out the gate. Rafaela had ill prepared any of us for what we encountered for the rest of this day. Six motorcycle gang members in their colors and on their idling Harley’s greeted us. Senor Frog’s garishly cartooned vehicle beckoned the children who piled in with five adult chaperones. A clown then appeared who entertained the kids who laughed and shouted and screamed the entire way to Burger King. The El Rocos motorcycle members escorted us and stopped traffic to ensure that we felt privileged.
Six high school girls dressed in pink and white fluffy dresses walked the kids into Burger King which has the largest inside playground in Mazatlan. They dove into it with abandon. A classic American meal of French fries and hamburgers arrived. Tino, my five year old partner, looked at his first hamburger. He squirted the catch up sauce on top of the sesame seed bun and proceeded to eat it in a circular manner from the outside in. How else would a kid eat a burger sight unseen?
The pink and white fluffy girls painted the faces of the children in outrageously colorful designs. More motorcyclists took pictures and then presented each of the kids at least three wrapped presents. Rafael assigned me to collect them before they unwrapped them, so they could be put under the tree back home. A television crew filmed the entire event and interviewed Rafael and several of the girls. Unbeknownst to me this is an annual event that brings together a pair of interesting groups. Watching hard assed motorcycle gang members melt in front of orphans was almost worth gagging down a junior whopper.
* * *
On the seedier side of experiences I attended the fights that Mazatlan’s bull ring hosted Saturday night. Nicole’s husband Decote works out at the local pugilistic gym and knows many of the fighters on the card. He raved about the lineup with the main event being a former welterweight world champion fighting a boxer from the Philippines.
Decote mostly wanted to watch a Mazatlan fighter who fights at his gym who is 19-0. His reputation drew a visit from the current world middleweight champion who visited him ringside before his fight.
Speaking of ringside, Decote scored us ringside seats for this nationally televised fight. Most seats in Mexico that are outside and most seats in Mexico happen to be outside, are plastic. If you don’t like the row you are in, you can move your seat up. My ticket informed me that I had a seat in row one seat one. I realized later that our row expanded as the evening wore on.
The floor of a bull ring is not tiled. It’s dirt. The dirt near the beer vendor is mud. The restrooms are five portapotties. They sold over 4,000 tickets. No problema. The mostly male audience didn’t choose to wait in line to pee. They just went outside and peed in the parking lot. The parking lot is made of dirt. The parking lot became muddy.
Women did attend the fight. Those who worked the aisles to seat the high rollers would stand out in any crowd. Those who escorted the fighters into the ring drew whistles, cat calls, and drooling and deserved it. In the States when a woman holds up the number signifying the next round, she dresses scantily, exhibits bodacious curves, and smiles seductively. In Mexico all of the above holds true as well, but at the middle of each of the four corners of the ropes, her strut stops to put on a pelvic thrusting, butt wiggling display that is inspiring. One of these young ladies inspired one of Decote’s buddies to yell out, “Vas a mi casa.”* This drew laughs and cheers from all who heard except for the lady with the card. She winked. We had to help Decote’s friend off the dirt floor.
The fights too inspired the audience. The quality of the fighting and the officiating sincerely impressed me. The introduction of the main event included fireworks as did its conclusion. You can do this in an outdoor arena. A night at the fights was glitzy, crass, and so much fun.
*Translation….”Go home with me.”
Back in the Saddle Again
November 2009
It started innocently enough. Rafaela, who runs the orfanato, told me that her son played basketball for his high school. A couple weeks later she introduced me to Alex and his friend Aron. While Sharon and Nicole worked with the kids, I took the boys to an outside court with a view of the ocean, and seriously wondered what I was doing. They are both in the last of a three year secondary program. Comparatively, they might make the freshmen team on potential and athleticism.
They then asked me to watch a practice. What a revelation. Their gym has overlapping roof lines that allow the sun and wind and birds in. On one wall the school classrooms on two floors have windows that open up to the court. Practice starts at 12:30 and ends at 2:00 as one session of school ends and another begins. Students wander across the court during practice and others sit at tables chatting. Girls hang out of the windows to talk to the guys during practice.
The coach wanders the campus seeking out truant students and disruptive ones in the classrooms. He asked me if I wanted to show the team anything. I told him I just wanted to watch. They ran two laps to warm up, stretched on their on, and ran a lay-in drill. If they missed, they had to do five push ups. They did a lot of push ups. If they had to do push ups for every bad pass or lazy effort, they would have impressive biceps.
They then scrimmaged for the rest of the practice. To determine sides, the players shot free throws. The first two to make on became the captains. This took over ten minutes of clanging. The scrimmage was the most brutal display of basketball I have ever seen. They walked the ball up the court, shot horrendous shots, ran a sagging 2-3 zone, and giggled. Fricking giggled. No one giggles in basketball!!!!!!
Afterwards the coach rounded the team around me and asked if I would help. Helped they needed. I’m not sure they needed me though. I told them that in Norte America, basketball es muy importante. In Mexico futbol is muy importante. Beisbol es muy importante. The rest had to be translated. As in they would have to work harder, make their mistakes at full speed, and listen and learn. AND NO MORE FRICKING GIGGLING. They giggled.
They practice two days a week. Their season, I was told, begins in January. I showed up at 12:00, watched students wander in and around the gym, and waited for the coach and players to show. At 12:45, I asked Alex to round up the guys. Lay-in drill….full speed, the ball is rebounded with two hands, the ball never hits the floor, rapido, rapido, rapido. Dos Manos. Every drill had to be translated. Eyes had to be on my eyes. They worked hard. They didn’t giggle.
Defense…….take away their right hand. Make them dribble. Pressure…Prescion. My first good basketball word. Girls tried to talk to them. They kept their eyes on me. Their coach showed up fifteen minutes before the end. They still didn’t giggle. We huddled up after practice, and they applauded. After a bird shit on the coaches’ head, they giggled. They shook my hand and went to class holding hands with girls. Latin men. The coach shook my hand, and said, “We have a game tomorrow night at 6. It’s a friendly, but it’s not that friendly.” We call friendlies non league games. They’re not friendly either.
* * *
Tonight Sharon and I had a drink with Jaime at 5. We left for the game at 5:30, but encountered so much traffic that we arrived after 6. I told Sharon I just wanted to watch the game. When I walked into the gym, the opponents warmed up at one end. My team shared the balls with fellow students still in their school uniforms. It was chaos. Where was their coach? Fifteen minutes of Sharon giggling while she watched players sit with their girl friends, Alex walked up and asked me to gather up the boys. We started the lay-in drill much to the dissatisfaction of the girls and classmates.
Eight boys had on red jerseys. Seven of them had names and numbers on the back and a Ford motor company insignia on the front. The other had on a Michael Jordan Chicago Bulls jersey…..red though. The score keeper kept the fouls, individual scoring and game score in a school wire notebook. The official looked unofficial.
Our opponents won the tip off handily. They were huge. We are not, but we are quick. The first quarter favored huge. At the quarter I asked them to deny the right hand aggressively. To run the ball quickly down the court before their defense set up. The second quarter favored quick. We led my a lot. I never saw the score, but we led by a lot.
The third quarter and the fourth quarter looked a lot like the second. A student followed me around during the entire game taking pictures of this mad gringo man. The girls started a cheering section, but I didn’t understand a word they cheered. But cheer they did. When the game ended, we shook hands with everyone, but the two tallest players who were in disbelief. I walked over and shook their hands anyways. Then the weirdest thing happened. We gathered. The boys clapped. The students and parents demanded team photos. There had to be twenty people with cameras snapping the team photo. This was a friendly. I wonder what would happen if they won a city championship? Do they have a city championship?
Sharon and I celebrated at Casa Lucina, a boutique hotel with a view of the water. The owner shared with us pictures of the before look. She proudly announced that their hotel had been selected by Travel and Leisure magazine as one of the best 100 hotels in the world. I ordered my first Mexican martini and they had Bombay Sapphire, but the olives had seeds, but no limes. It’s a start.
* * *
I read the following today in a terrific book about Mexico, God’s Middle Finger. How’s that for a title?
“Hey gringo! How can one donkey have nine names?”
“I don’t know.”
“Bastard, whore, son of a bitch, cuckold, son of a whore, faggot, cocksucker, son of a grand fornicated bitch, son of a fornication between a whore and a black do. It’s a good one, no?”
“It’s fantastic.”
I think this works well if you substitute a basketball official for one donkey.
It started innocently enough. Rafaela, who runs the orfanato, told me that her son played basketball for his high school. A couple weeks later she introduced me to Alex and his friend Aron. While Sharon and Nicole worked with the kids, I took the boys to an outside court with a view of the ocean, and seriously wondered what I was doing. They are both in the last of a three year secondary program. Comparatively, they might make the freshmen team on potential and athleticism.
They then asked me to watch a practice. What a revelation. Their gym has overlapping roof lines that allow the sun and wind and birds in. On one wall the school classrooms on two floors have windows that open up to the court. Practice starts at 12:30 and ends at 2:00 as one session of school ends and another begins. Students wander across the court during practice and others sit at tables chatting. Girls hang out of the windows to talk to the guys during practice.
The coach wanders the campus seeking out truant students and disruptive ones in the classrooms. He asked me if I wanted to show the team anything. I told him I just wanted to watch. They ran two laps to warm up, stretched on their on, and ran a lay-in drill. If they missed, they had to do five push ups. They did a lot of push ups. If they had to do push ups for every bad pass or lazy effort, they would have impressive biceps.
They then scrimmaged for the rest of the practice. To determine sides, the players shot free throws. The first two to make on became the captains. This took over ten minutes of clanging. The scrimmage was the most brutal display of basketball I have ever seen. They walked the ball up the court, shot horrendous shots, ran a sagging 2-3 zone, and giggled. Fricking giggled. No one giggles in basketball!!!!!!
Afterwards the coach rounded the team around me and asked if I would help. Helped they needed. I’m not sure they needed me though. I told them that in Norte America, basketball es muy importante. In Mexico futbol is muy importante. Beisbol es muy importante. The rest had to be translated. As in they would have to work harder, make their mistakes at full speed, and listen and learn. AND NO MORE FRICKING GIGGLING. They giggled.
They practice two days a week. Their season, I was told, begins in January. I showed up at 12:00, watched students wander in and around the gym, and waited for the coach and players to show. At 12:45, I asked Alex to round up the guys. Lay-in drill….full speed, the ball is rebounded with two hands, the ball never hits the floor, rapido, rapido, rapido. Dos Manos. Every drill had to be translated. Eyes had to be on my eyes. They worked hard. They didn’t giggle.
Defense…….take away their right hand. Make them dribble. Pressure…Prescion. My first good basketball word. Girls tried to talk to them. They kept their eyes on me. Their coach showed up fifteen minutes before the end. They still didn’t giggle. We huddled up after practice, and they applauded. After a bird shit on the coaches’ head, they giggled. They shook my hand and went to class holding hands with girls. Latin men. The coach shook my hand, and said, “We have a game tomorrow night at 6. It’s a friendly, but it’s not that friendly.” We call friendlies non league games. They’re not friendly either.
* * *
Tonight Sharon and I had a drink with Jaime at 5. We left for the game at 5:30, but encountered so much traffic that we arrived after 6. I told Sharon I just wanted to watch the game. When I walked into the gym, the opponents warmed up at one end. My team shared the balls with fellow students still in their school uniforms. It was chaos. Where was their coach? Fifteen minutes of Sharon giggling while she watched players sit with their girl friends, Alex walked up and asked me to gather up the boys. We started the lay-in drill much to the dissatisfaction of the girls and classmates.
Eight boys had on red jerseys. Seven of them had names and numbers on the back and a Ford motor company insignia on the front. The other had on a Michael Jordan Chicago Bulls jersey…..red though. The score keeper kept the fouls, individual scoring and game score in a school wire notebook. The official looked unofficial.
Our opponents won the tip off handily. They were huge. We are not, but we are quick. The first quarter favored huge. At the quarter I asked them to deny the right hand aggressively. To run the ball quickly down the court before their defense set up. The second quarter favored quick. We led my a lot. I never saw the score, but we led by a lot.
The third quarter and the fourth quarter looked a lot like the second. A student followed me around during the entire game taking pictures of this mad gringo man. The girls started a cheering section, but I didn’t understand a word they cheered. But cheer they did. When the game ended, we shook hands with everyone, but the two tallest players who were in disbelief. I walked over and shook their hands anyways. Then the weirdest thing happened. We gathered. The boys clapped. The students and parents demanded team photos. There had to be twenty people with cameras snapping the team photo. This was a friendly. I wonder what would happen if they won a city championship? Do they have a city championship?
Sharon and I celebrated at Casa Lucina, a boutique hotel with a view of the water. The owner shared with us pictures of the before look. She proudly announced that their hotel had been selected by Travel and Leisure magazine as one of the best 100 hotels in the world. I ordered my first Mexican martini and they had Bombay Sapphire, but the olives had seeds, but no limes. It’s a start.
* * *
I read the following today in a terrific book about Mexico, God’s Middle Finger. How’s that for a title?
“Hey gringo! How can one donkey have nine names?”
“I don’t know.”
“Bastard, whore, son of a bitch, cuckold, son of a whore, faggot, cocksucker, son of a grand fornicated bitch, son of a fornication between a whore and a black do. It’s a good one, no?”
“It’s fantastic.”
I think this works well if you substitute a basketball official for one donkey.
Beating the Doldrums in Paradise
December 2009
Yes, even on the beach with the sun shining and the ocean waves crushing the sand to smithereens, the doldrums can hit. Maybe it was the come down of the Beaver loss to the dreaded Ducks the evening before. So much anticipation, so much disappointment. Nunez and I did behave ridiculously at the sports bar. Every time the Beavs scored a touchdown we jumped up and screamed out OOOOOO SSSSSSS UUUUU, OREGON STATE FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT. Yes we did the hand signals, the whole asinine bit. Shocked some sedate snowbirds I’ll tell you. One woman wanting to watch the Jets game walked out shaking her head at our behavior. The next day at the palapa word was out that the Reid’s are whacko. Si. If the Giants ever won a World Series, they would define whacko differently.
So Friday early evening we had little to look forward to. TGIF means so much less when you don’t work. We wondered down to the palapa and Jaime asked us if we had eaten dinner. We hadn’t.
“No problema, I’ll take you to my favorite restaurant.”
If Jaime wants to take you to his favorite anything, you don’t ask, you just go. But I did ask the name of the restaurant.
“It doesn’t have a name.”
David Walker, my favorite liberal Canuck, and his son Craig, Nunez and I followed Jaime through several neighborhoods until we parked in an unassuming residential area. Residential areas in Mazatlan usually have many in home businesses. The city codes here are what you might say loosely regulated or nonexistent.
Jaime led us into a house that has a large room open to the street. Nothing adorns any of the walls. Two rows of three plastic tables pushed together with plastic chairs constitute the dining area. A thirteen inch TV plays a Mexican soap opera. A family at one end of a row of tables and a couple at the other end make room for us to sit in the middle. Everyone there knows Jaime. He orders for us. Three carne enchiladas covered with lettuce, radishes, and cucumbers for each of us soon appears. We each receive a four ounce brownish liquid to pour over our enchiladas. We follow Jaime’s lead. Our one eating utensil is a long neck spoon. We dive in. Jaime smiles. “This is my favorite place to eat todo del mundo.” Who’s to argue? Empanadas, a sugary pastry filled with fruit, are passed around. No mas doldrums.
* * *
Sunday rolled around. Nicole and Sharon had told the orphanage that they would like to take some of the kids to a movie Sunday afternoon. I can’t tell you to the degree that I wasn’t looking forward to this. Movies in Mexico can be Mexican films with no English subtitles. They can be English speaking movies that are dubbed into Spanish; all animated movies fall into this category. Or they can be English with Spanish subtitles. So I was looking at attending a G rated animated movie, Plant 51, with three 7-8 year old girls, Nicole and my wife while the 49’ers were on my TV. Can you imagine my enthusiasm?
Nicole and I buzz are way into the orfanato while Nunez waits in the car because she doesn’t want to see the disappointed faces of those who can’t attend. The women who run the place anticipate this and no other kids are to be seen in the courtyard while Paola, Marta, and Alejandra bound up to Nicole and me with their Sunday best on, hair styled, and beaming smiles. We each receive hugs and then watch them dance up and down until they can be escorted out the door. This wouldn’t have been all that remarkable unless you knew that I have called Alejandra, the morose child, because I have never seen her smile or show enthusiasm or anger or anything. Her face looked broken she smiled so much, and except for fear walking in the dark to el bano, she smiled the entire afternoon.
I had to child proof the locks on the car. They were beside themselves. None of them had ever been to a movie theater. We danced into the lobby after purchasing tickets and spent twenty minutes at the concession stand. Each had to buy the exact same items. One of them, a Mexican lolly pop like treat that requires the top to be pulled off before finding a mouth, needed the manager to help take the top off. It took easily fifteen minutes for all three to come off. By then, we had missed the previews, and we had to bring these dancers into a pitch black theater. I held a plastic tray with two mongo sized diet cokes, and two mongo sized popcorns. Sharon held Paola, and Nicole held Marta. Alejandra was too excited to be held.
In an hour and a half movie, they consumed everything in their midst. They each made one trip to el bano. And when the movie ended they danced to the credits. They skipped to the car. On the way home we saw an elaborate playground and pulled over. They raced in and around and through and every other preposition I can think off for an hour. Now this playground is new and must have twenty stations of varying age appropriateness. I counted over twenty-five children and almost as many parents. Sunday nights are family nights, and Mexicans are all about families. We three chaperones definitely received some stares, but not because the kids weren’t having the time of their lives. And, more importantly, not because our kids misbehaved. They took turns. They helped younger children onto slides. They have been sharing all of their lives and know how to do it and do it well.
After we dropped these bubbling girls off at their home, we headed off for a drink at an ocean side cantina with another sunset splashed grinning at us. Except for the waiters, everyone else in the place was a tourist. Whatever gleefulness they had experienced this day could not match how the three of us felt. We made a pledge that we had a new way to spend a Sunday.
Yes, even on the beach with the sun shining and the ocean waves crushing the sand to smithereens, the doldrums can hit. Maybe it was the come down of the Beaver loss to the dreaded Ducks the evening before. So much anticipation, so much disappointment. Nunez and I did behave ridiculously at the sports bar. Every time the Beavs scored a touchdown we jumped up and screamed out OOOOOO SSSSSSS UUUUU, OREGON STATE FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT. Yes we did the hand signals, the whole asinine bit. Shocked some sedate snowbirds I’ll tell you. One woman wanting to watch the Jets game walked out shaking her head at our behavior. The next day at the palapa word was out that the Reid’s are whacko. Si. If the Giants ever won a World Series, they would define whacko differently.
So Friday early evening we had little to look forward to. TGIF means so much less when you don’t work. We wondered down to the palapa and Jaime asked us if we had eaten dinner. We hadn’t.
“No problema, I’ll take you to my favorite restaurant.”
If Jaime wants to take you to his favorite anything, you don’t ask, you just go. But I did ask the name of the restaurant.
“It doesn’t have a name.”
David Walker, my favorite liberal Canuck, and his son Craig, Nunez and I followed Jaime through several neighborhoods until we parked in an unassuming residential area. Residential areas in Mazatlan usually have many in home businesses. The city codes here are what you might say loosely regulated or nonexistent.
Jaime led us into a house that has a large room open to the street. Nothing adorns any of the walls. Two rows of three plastic tables pushed together with plastic chairs constitute the dining area. A thirteen inch TV plays a Mexican soap opera. A family at one end of a row of tables and a couple at the other end make room for us to sit in the middle. Everyone there knows Jaime. He orders for us. Three carne enchiladas covered with lettuce, radishes, and cucumbers for each of us soon appears. We each receive a four ounce brownish liquid to pour over our enchiladas. We follow Jaime’s lead. Our one eating utensil is a long neck spoon. We dive in. Jaime smiles. “This is my favorite place to eat todo del mundo.” Who’s to argue? Empanadas, a sugary pastry filled with fruit, are passed around. No mas doldrums.
* * *
Sunday rolled around. Nicole and Sharon had told the orphanage that they would like to take some of the kids to a movie Sunday afternoon. I can’t tell you to the degree that I wasn’t looking forward to this. Movies in Mexico can be Mexican films with no English subtitles. They can be English speaking movies that are dubbed into Spanish; all animated movies fall into this category. Or they can be English with Spanish subtitles. So I was looking at attending a G rated animated movie, Plant 51, with three 7-8 year old girls, Nicole and my wife while the 49’ers were on my TV. Can you imagine my enthusiasm?
Nicole and I buzz are way into the orfanato while Nunez waits in the car because she doesn’t want to see the disappointed faces of those who can’t attend. The women who run the place anticipate this and no other kids are to be seen in the courtyard while Paola, Marta, and Alejandra bound up to Nicole and me with their Sunday best on, hair styled, and beaming smiles. We each receive hugs and then watch them dance up and down until they can be escorted out the door. This wouldn’t have been all that remarkable unless you knew that I have called Alejandra, the morose child, because I have never seen her smile or show enthusiasm or anger or anything. Her face looked broken she smiled so much, and except for fear walking in the dark to el bano, she smiled the entire afternoon.
I had to child proof the locks on the car. They were beside themselves. None of them had ever been to a movie theater. We danced into the lobby after purchasing tickets and spent twenty minutes at the concession stand. Each had to buy the exact same items. One of them, a Mexican lolly pop like treat that requires the top to be pulled off before finding a mouth, needed the manager to help take the top off. It took easily fifteen minutes for all three to come off. By then, we had missed the previews, and we had to bring these dancers into a pitch black theater. I held a plastic tray with two mongo sized diet cokes, and two mongo sized popcorns. Sharon held Paola, and Nicole held Marta. Alejandra was too excited to be held.
In an hour and a half movie, they consumed everything in their midst. They each made one trip to el bano. And when the movie ended they danced to the credits. They skipped to the car. On the way home we saw an elaborate playground and pulled over. They raced in and around and through and every other preposition I can think off for an hour. Now this playground is new and must have twenty stations of varying age appropriateness. I counted over twenty-five children and almost as many parents. Sunday nights are family nights, and Mexicans are all about families. We three chaperones definitely received some stares, but not because the kids weren’t having the time of their lives. And, more importantly, not because our kids misbehaved. They took turns. They helped younger children onto slides. They have been sharing all of their lives and know how to do it and do it well.
After we dropped these bubbling girls off at their home, we headed off for a drink at an ocean side cantina with another sunset splashed grinning at us. Except for the waiters, everyone else in the place was a tourist. Whatever gleefulness they had experienced this day could not match how the three of us felt. We made a pledge that we had a new way to spend a Sunday.
The Orphanage
October 2009
White Oprah shamed me into this volunteering commitment. I have liked my morning swims, leisurely breakfasts, gym workouts, Spanish tapes, writing periodically, reading books poolside, dips in the ocean, walks on the beach, happy hours, impromptu parties and dinners. You need to make yourself available for opportunities, and commitments thwart spontaneity. But one day Nunez met Nicole, a twenty something New Zealander who volunteers at an orphanage in the center of the city. Nicole invited us to meet her one Saturday so that she could introduce us to Rafiela, who is in charge during the day.
Finding the orphanage on Zaragoza Avenue which is a one way street slicing diagonally across the thumb nail of the city center took an extra thirty minutes to negotiate. Maps don’t work. Trial by error does, and I made multiple errors. Not enough to find it seamlessly the next two occasions, but I do get there. I just have to leave early.
The orphans live in a freshly painted bright red and white trimmed building. The only daunting aspect is their coiled barbed wire on top of the walls that represent the outer age. The black entrance possesses a door bell but not a door handle. A middle school aged girl opens the door and looks helplessly when she realizes that these gringos hesitate to speak halting Spanish. She shows us in. Rafiela, a fortyish woman, patiently responds to the chaos in her office as five young girls whirl about her wanting one thing or another. Eventually, she shows us into a massive court yard with students huddled up with volunteers or teachers in groups of four or five. Rafiela tells us one rule to abide by. If you bring something for one student, you must bring it for every student.
Rafiela asks us about our background. She invites us to spend an hour on Wednesday mornings with young students who are too young to attend school or are too handicapped to be mainstreamed. She additionally asks us to spend Tuesday afternoons at 4 to work with the older kids after they have returned from classes outside the orphanage. White Oprah keeps nodding her head yes without consultation from her number one fan. Then Rafiela wonders if we would be able to help with Saturday’s field trip to the water park two miles from our condo. You can guess Nunez’s response.
After my spontaneous life has been shredded, Rafiela gives us the grand tour. The orphanage has about twenty elementary aged students. All of them sleep in the same room with the exact same wildly colored bedspreads. The school has only three boys. The oldest is Kevin who is five. Another room hosts six or seven middle school aged to high school aged girls. Boys are farmed out to another orphanage when they are a bit older.
Mexican laws concerning orphans differ from ours. If a child is taken away from a family to reside in an orphanage and the parents sign this child away, the family may never be able to reconnect. If a parent asks the state to care for their child, they may reconnect at a later date. In this particular orphanage most of the children are orphans and will be so until they are adults. Some of the children have been removed from their homes due to physical or substance abuse issues. A few of the children come from such poverty stricken families parents have asked the orphanage to care for them. In one case a father, whose wife deserted him with four children, comes to see his three year old son on his only day off every week.
Tuesday arrives, and a young girl escorts us into the office. Rafiela informs me I have Kevin to play ball with, and that the other boy I should be working with Tino is ill. Kevin greets me, takes my hand, and leads me outside. The court yard has several trees down courtesy of Hurricane Rick and I spy a small basketball court. This I can do. Kevin begins to dribble a small, rubber ball and waits for me to defend him. I feint at him and steal the ball. I put up a shot that wildly bounds away. Kevin snags it and attacks the basket. He can’t shoot well, so I rebound it. I try to show him the mechanics of a shot. He wants no part of that. He just wants to play. What am I to say? I don’t speak enough Spanish to convince him otherwise.
So we played until the ball bounded off into some bushes. Kevin knew immediately that this ball had died. A sticker punctured it. He held it and squeezed it for five minutes until every vestige of air evaporated. What next? I looked around for another ball. A dead basketball lay in one corner of the yard. I did find a smaller rubber ball that would function better as a softball. No bat….no problem, Kevin found a stick. I showed him a batter’s stance. He ignored that and climbed up a plastic playground house with a slide. He straddled the slide, I pitched him the ball, he hit it, and I chased after it. I knew the Spanish word for ready (listo) and could get his focus when I returned from retrieving the ball. I would say it deep throated until he screamed it at me and then I pitched. Wham and off I went again and again and again.
The noise we created inspired a curious Poblano, a seven year old bright eyed pistol of a girl, who joined us. I even knew that lista was appropriate for feminine creatures. They hit, I chased. Forty-five minutes into my hour, Nunez popped her head into the courtyard. I was drenched in sweat. We were both exhausted. My appreciation for Sharon’s thirty years in elementary schools skyrocketed.
The next morning I drove Nicole and Sharon to the school, dropped them off, and took off for an hour and a half. Kevin was in school and Tino was still sick. I wandered around to gawk at the tourists (two cruise ships had arrived in the night). The Pacifico Brewery was a few blocks away, so I checked out all of these gringos walking in and out with their guides. I asked for information and discovered that they have three free tours a day at 9, 11, and 2. But you have to wear long pants and covered shoes. So these pasty white gringos wear an outfit completely and utterly inappropriate for Mexico in late October so they can drink one free beer. Then the rest of their day they will sweat, incur athlete’s foot, and be miserable. It’s an eighty cent beer for Crimenee sakes.
I slip into watch the last fifteen minutes of Nicole’s and Sharon’s work. I am impressed. They have the girls engaged, but they are still relieved to see to escort them home. When we slide into the car and I compliment them, they howl. I caught the only redeeming moment of their efforts. The girls had been utterly chaotic until I had wandered in. We chatted about each of the children and their individual needs and characteristics. We would all learn a great deal more on Saturday.
* * *
No one can prepare a person for eight hours with twenty orphans at a water park. Seven adults (one adult is a 47 year old deaf mute and has lived her entire life in this orphanage), and the children boarded three red trucks that are Toyota trucks with long benches, wood slats for back support and safety, and an open roof. The half hour ride along the malecon elicited shrieks of joy and pointed fingers, ”Playa!!!” (Spanish for Beach) I sat next to Kevin who yelled incessantly at the girls in the other trucks. Just seeing the girls riding in other trucks excited him. The drivers played their music loudly. Now I have ridden in these trucks before and the music has always suited gringo tastes. The music selections now were mixed between Michael Jackson and the Mambo Kings. The older girls danced and rocked in their truck. Kevin pointed at them and every sight that caught his fancy. This experience put a whole new meaning to bouncing off the walls. I did not know that this trip was an annual one, and the only one the orphanage takes each year.
The trucks ran right past our condominium complex, but not Nicole, Sharon or I would bring to their attention that we reside there as the distinction between life styles was either too embarrassing to admit or too surreal to comprehend. We trucked on bouncing and singing. The adults and older children helped put the wrist bands on. Rafiela set up camp at a shaded central location and issued directions for the day. I took Kevin off to the little kids slide area where the water was too deep for him and way too shallow for me. Since he hesitated to ride down any slides, I put a reluctant wide eyed lad on my lap and shot down the chutes to a wet conclusion. Since Kevin sat in front, he took the brunt of the splash. I just continued to bruise my ass and heels. Early in the morning I had a revelation to let him ride all the slides on his own. His trepidation was acute, but he loved to chase the girls, walk up the slides backwards, but he wouldn’t go down any slides. He finally found a couple wuzzy slides that he could negotiate without splashing too much upon landing.
Lunch arrived none too soon for the adults. Massive amounts of cerviche, macaroni salad, and a tuna cake (tuna spread on thick, white bread) constituted what served as our lunch and dinner meals. A variety of sugary soda pop options provided an attractive venue for what proved to be by late afternoon massive amounts of yellow jackets.
Nicole and Sharon took their somewhat older girls to my same section of the park. Their girls raced about and terrorized every slide and kept looking for more adventure. This adventure turned out to be a mad dash to a pool some significant distance away where the teenagers held court. Nicole and Sharon took off after them and had to go into the water to retrieve two extremely unhappy girls. Rafiela put them in a time out, and they sobbed in Nicole’s and Sharon’s arms. In the mean time Kevin started to take greater risks in his slide selection. He started to enjoy the water more and many of the children acted as alligators as the water level encouraged it. Nicole must have spent two or three hours doing the same. Sharon and I refrained.
Kevin finally lost steam and sought out the refuge of the eating area. Rafiela told me not to let him back in the water as he was fighting a cough. This suited me as I now could hang out in the shade and sit. The one distraction for me proved to be Kevin’s next source of entertainment. Yellow jackets fought each other off on every discarded plastic cup that had contained sugary soda. Kevin grabbed fresh plastic cups and imprisoned yellow jackets. He must have put over fifty cups over single yellow jackets. Being allergic to bee stings, watching this activity created a creepy trepidation for me. I tried not to be a scaredy-cat.
At some point I wandered over to talk to Sharon at the pool. On the way a bee flew into my eye and my eye lid pressed it against my eye. I freaked. I swatted away. I whisked a bottle of water from Sharon’s hand and washed my eye out feverishly. I did not have my epheneferine with me to inject so I sped over to Rafiela and told her we were going home to get the medicine from our condo. I gave Nicole my car key so she could drive home. Sharon and I walked out into the street seeking a cab that we waved down. On the elevator ride I looked into the mirror and told Sharon that I wasn’t sure if I had been stung because I no longer could feel any swelling or pain. I iced it. I was fine. Visions of an exploding eye started to slowly disappear. What do we do now?
So I got on the internet to see how Oregon State fared against UCLA, and like most of Beaver Nation I exhaled a sense of relief that they had prevailed 26-19. The Oregon-USC game would begin in thirty minutes. A cocktail party invite rested on the kitchen table. A Halloween party beckoned. We had escaped. So how come I felt so crummy? After ten minutes we walked back down to the street, hailed a red truck, and walked back into the water park.
At closing time everyone gathered up the gear, put away the trash through a maze of bees, and boarded three red trucks. These kids should be exhausted. But no. They dance around just as much on the way back to the orphanage as they did on the way to the park. We carried the gear back inside, said our goodbyes, and revved up the Toyota. On the way home we talked about our experiences. We were impressed how the older children do such a great job of taking care of the younger ones. We laughed at how spoiled our children were at this age, as these kids don’t ask people to take care of them. They just take care of themselves, no questions asked. Rafiela handles all disputes with a calming presence that is saint like. Some of the volunteers for this trip were former students who brought their own children. Rafiela says that most of the former students check in to visit. Rafiela told us the first day that she thought it was important for us to model a husband and wife. That it would be good for the kids. What Rafiela didn’t tell us was how much the way the kids acted would be good for us as well. I remembered the embrace and kiss each child received and shared with the woman in charge of their evenings upon their return. This is a unique family, but it is a family. These kids are loved and love each other.
White Oprah shamed me into this volunteering commitment. I have liked my morning swims, leisurely breakfasts, gym workouts, Spanish tapes, writing periodically, reading books poolside, dips in the ocean, walks on the beach, happy hours, impromptu parties and dinners. You need to make yourself available for opportunities, and commitments thwart spontaneity. But one day Nunez met Nicole, a twenty something New Zealander who volunteers at an orphanage in the center of the city. Nicole invited us to meet her one Saturday so that she could introduce us to Rafiela, who is in charge during the day.
Finding the orphanage on Zaragoza Avenue which is a one way street slicing diagonally across the thumb nail of the city center took an extra thirty minutes to negotiate. Maps don’t work. Trial by error does, and I made multiple errors. Not enough to find it seamlessly the next two occasions, but I do get there. I just have to leave early.
The orphans live in a freshly painted bright red and white trimmed building. The only daunting aspect is their coiled barbed wire on top of the walls that represent the outer age. The black entrance possesses a door bell but not a door handle. A middle school aged girl opens the door and looks helplessly when she realizes that these gringos hesitate to speak halting Spanish. She shows us in. Rafiela, a fortyish woman, patiently responds to the chaos in her office as five young girls whirl about her wanting one thing or another. Eventually, she shows us into a massive court yard with students huddled up with volunteers or teachers in groups of four or five. Rafiela tells us one rule to abide by. If you bring something for one student, you must bring it for every student.
Rafiela asks us about our background. She invites us to spend an hour on Wednesday mornings with young students who are too young to attend school or are too handicapped to be mainstreamed. She additionally asks us to spend Tuesday afternoons at 4 to work with the older kids after they have returned from classes outside the orphanage. White Oprah keeps nodding her head yes without consultation from her number one fan. Then Rafiela wonders if we would be able to help with Saturday’s field trip to the water park two miles from our condo. You can guess Nunez’s response.
After my spontaneous life has been shredded, Rafiela gives us the grand tour. The orphanage has about twenty elementary aged students. All of them sleep in the same room with the exact same wildly colored bedspreads. The school has only three boys. The oldest is Kevin who is five. Another room hosts six or seven middle school aged to high school aged girls. Boys are farmed out to another orphanage when they are a bit older.
Mexican laws concerning orphans differ from ours. If a child is taken away from a family to reside in an orphanage and the parents sign this child away, the family may never be able to reconnect. If a parent asks the state to care for their child, they may reconnect at a later date. In this particular orphanage most of the children are orphans and will be so until they are adults. Some of the children have been removed from their homes due to physical or substance abuse issues. A few of the children come from such poverty stricken families parents have asked the orphanage to care for them. In one case a father, whose wife deserted him with four children, comes to see his three year old son on his only day off every week.
Tuesday arrives, and a young girl escorts us into the office. Rafiela informs me I have Kevin to play ball with, and that the other boy I should be working with Tino is ill. Kevin greets me, takes my hand, and leads me outside. The court yard has several trees down courtesy of Hurricane Rick and I spy a small basketball court. This I can do. Kevin begins to dribble a small, rubber ball and waits for me to defend him. I feint at him and steal the ball. I put up a shot that wildly bounds away. Kevin snags it and attacks the basket. He can’t shoot well, so I rebound it. I try to show him the mechanics of a shot. He wants no part of that. He just wants to play. What am I to say? I don’t speak enough Spanish to convince him otherwise.
So we played until the ball bounded off into some bushes. Kevin knew immediately that this ball had died. A sticker punctured it. He held it and squeezed it for five minutes until every vestige of air evaporated. What next? I looked around for another ball. A dead basketball lay in one corner of the yard. I did find a smaller rubber ball that would function better as a softball. No bat….no problem, Kevin found a stick. I showed him a batter’s stance. He ignored that and climbed up a plastic playground house with a slide. He straddled the slide, I pitched him the ball, he hit it, and I chased after it. I knew the Spanish word for ready (listo) and could get his focus when I returned from retrieving the ball. I would say it deep throated until he screamed it at me and then I pitched. Wham and off I went again and again and again.
The noise we created inspired a curious Poblano, a seven year old bright eyed pistol of a girl, who joined us. I even knew that lista was appropriate for feminine creatures. They hit, I chased. Forty-five minutes into my hour, Nunez popped her head into the courtyard. I was drenched in sweat. We were both exhausted. My appreciation for Sharon’s thirty years in elementary schools skyrocketed.
The next morning I drove Nicole and Sharon to the school, dropped them off, and took off for an hour and a half. Kevin was in school and Tino was still sick. I wandered around to gawk at the tourists (two cruise ships had arrived in the night). The Pacifico Brewery was a few blocks away, so I checked out all of these gringos walking in and out with their guides. I asked for information and discovered that they have three free tours a day at 9, 11, and 2. But you have to wear long pants and covered shoes. So these pasty white gringos wear an outfit completely and utterly inappropriate for Mexico in late October so they can drink one free beer. Then the rest of their day they will sweat, incur athlete’s foot, and be miserable. It’s an eighty cent beer for Crimenee sakes.
I slip into watch the last fifteen minutes of Nicole’s and Sharon’s work. I am impressed. They have the girls engaged, but they are still relieved to see to escort them home. When we slide into the car and I compliment them, they howl. I caught the only redeeming moment of their efforts. The girls had been utterly chaotic until I had wandered in. We chatted about each of the children and their individual needs and characteristics. We would all learn a great deal more on Saturday.
* * *
No one can prepare a person for eight hours with twenty orphans at a water park. Seven adults (one adult is a 47 year old deaf mute and has lived her entire life in this orphanage), and the children boarded three red trucks that are Toyota trucks with long benches, wood slats for back support and safety, and an open roof. The half hour ride along the malecon elicited shrieks of joy and pointed fingers, ”Playa!!!” (Spanish for Beach) I sat next to Kevin who yelled incessantly at the girls in the other trucks. Just seeing the girls riding in other trucks excited him. The drivers played their music loudly. Now I have ridden in these trucks before and the music has always suited gringo tastes. The music selections now were mixed between Michael Jackson and the Mambo Kings. The older girls danced and rocked in their truck. Kevin pointed at them and every sight that caught his fancy. This experience put a whole new meaning to bouncing off the walls. I did not know that this trip was an annual one, and the only one the orphanage takes each year.
The trucks ran right past our condominium complex, but not Nicole, Sharon or I would bring to their attention that we reside there as the distinction between life styles was either too embarrassing to admit or too surreal to comprehend. We trucked on bouncing and singing. The adults and older children helped put the wrist bands on. Rafiela set up camp at a shaded central location and issued directions for the day. I took Kevin off to the little kids slide area where the water was too deep for him and way too shallow for me. Since he hesitated to ride down any slides, I put a reluctant wide eyed lad on my lap and shot down the chutes to a wet conclusion. Since Kevin sat in front, he took the brunt of the splash. I just continued to bruise my ass and heels. Early in the morning I had a revelation to let him ride all the slides on his own. His trepidation was acute, but he loved to chase the girls, walk up the slides backwards, but he wouldn’t go down any slides. He finally found a couple wuzzy slides that he could negotiate without splashing too much upon landing.
Lunch arrived none too soon for the adults. Massive amounts of cerviche, macaroni salad, and a tuna cake (tuna spread on thick, white bread) constituted what served as our lunch and dinner meals. A variety of sugary soda pop options provided an attractive venue for what proved to be by late afternoon massive amounts of yellow jackets.
Nicole and Sharon took their somewhat older girls to my same section of the park. Their girls raced about and terrorized every slide and kept looking for more adventure. This adventure turned out to be a mad dash to a pool some significant distance away where the teenagers held court. Nicole and Sharon took off after them and had to go into the water to retrieve two extremely unhappy girls. Rafiela put them in a time out, and they sobbed in Nicole’s and Sharon’s arms. In the mean time Kevin started to take greater risks in his slide selection. He started to enjoy the water more and many of the children acted as alligators as the water level encouraged it. Nicole must have spent two or three hours doing the same. Sharon and I refrained.
Kevin finally lost steam and sought out the refuge of the eating area. Rafiela told me not to let him back in the water as he was fighting a cough. This suited me as I now could hang out in the shade and sit. The one distraction for me proved to be Kevin’s next source of entertainment. Yellow jackets fought each other off on every discarded plastic cup that had contained sugary soda. Kevin grabbed fresh plastic cups and imprisoned yellow jackets. He must have put over fifty cups over single yellow jackets. Being allergic to bee stings, watching this activity created a creepy trepidation for me. I tried not to be a scaredy-cat.
At some point I wandered over to talk to Sharon at the pool. On the way a bee flew into my eye and my eye lid pressed it against my eye. I freaked. I swatted away. I whisked a bottle of water from Sharon’s hand and washed my eye out feverishly. I did not have my epheneferine with me to inject so I sped over to Rafiela and told her we were going home to get the medicine from our condo. I gave Nicole my car key so she could drive home. Sharon and I walked out into the street seeking a cab that we waved down. On the elevator ride I looked into the mirror and told Sharon that I wasn’t sure if I had been stung because I no longer could feel any swelling or pain. I iced it. I was fine. Visions of an exploding eye started to slowly disappear. What do we do now?
So I got on the internet to see how Oregon State fared against UCLA, and like most of Beaver Nation I exhaled a sense of relief that they had prevailed 26-19. The Oregon-USC game would begin in thirty minutes. A cocktail party invite rested on the kitchen table. A Halloween party beckoned. We had escaped. So how come I felt so crummy? After ten minutes we walked back down to the street, hailed a red truck, and walked back into the water park.
At closing time everyone gathered up the gear, put away the trash through a maze of bees, and boarded three red trucks. These kids should be exhausted. But no. They dance around just as much on the way back to the orphanage as they did on the way to the park. We carried the gear back inside, said our goodbyes, and revved up the Toyota. On the way home we talked about our experiences. We were impressed how the older children do such a great job of taking care of the younger ones. We laughed at how spoiled our children were at this age, as these kids don’t ask people to take care of them. They just take care of themselves, no questions asked. Rafiela handles all disputes with a calming presence that is saint like. Some of the volunteers for this trip were former students who brought their own children. Rafiela says that most of the former students check in to visit. Rafiela told us the first day that she thought it was important for us to model a husband and wife. That it would be good for the kids. What Rafiela didn’t tell us was how much the way the kids acted would be good for us as well. I remembered the embrace and kiss each child received and shared with the woman in charge of their evenings upon their return. This is a unique family, but it is a family. These kids are loved and love each other.
Why Men Should Dance
December 2009
One of the great benefits of living in a warm weather climate in a resort like atmosphere is that women friends like to bond by pools during the day and by dance floors during the evening. They rent a larger condo; leave the frigid weather and their families to connect with their childhood/working place/SUV driving sisters. I get it. Most men don’t.
A man’s idea of bonding includes hunting, fishing, golf, ball games, card games and beer. I NEVER see a group of guys hanging out at the pool. We always have more women at our pool than men. My sunglasses like the variety.
Four Canadian women arrived at Paraiso a couple of weeks ago. They worked together in Vancouver years ago, but the years scattered them to new jobs and cities, but they stayed connected with skiing trips to Whistler. This year they ventured to Mazatlan. My sun glasses saluted this decision. Jaime concurred.
As another green flash less sunset painted the sky with Mexican oranges and reds, someone at the palapa innocently asked me if my birthday was tomorrow. This provided Linda, Annikka, Barbie, and Jane all the ammunition to turn a relaxed evening into a tequila shooting romp. After Jaime closed the palapa at eight, Nunez started to transition into Sophia to compete with our four new amigas. We opted to dress up for The Mambo Café (where the hot and restless go for live salsa music and dancing) for Thursday night’s no cover charge for women. Whoooppeeeee. Five women and me……happy birthday to me….happy birthday to me…. The girls even paid my cover charge.
In my previous life someone always could score on a five on one break. But the fumbled pass manifested itself in Annikka’s rag doll like stupor. I took her outside to encourage some semblance of sobriety. After forty-five fruitless minutes we poured her into the car and drove home. My top highlight of the evening focused on the parade of young Mexican women in high heels, tight pants, and scanty camisas. Annikka not puking in my car came in a distant second.
* * *
Three of the Canadian girls left, but Linda stayed for another week and Margaret flew in from northern Calgary to join her. They married brothers some years ago, yet both had divorced them. The sister-in-laws stayed friends. Ya gotta love women. Men can be dispensable, but women friendships, not so much.
My long time friend Jerry arrived the same day as Margaret. Margaret is single. Jerry is still single. Match maker, Match maker…. Who should play a bigger role? Linda or White Oprah. Oh why don’t we go downtown in a red truck (a Toyota small truck with a canopy top and cushioned benches in the back that can sit ten adults)? So Sharon, Larry, Margaret, Linda, Bruce, and another couple who had made a return trip to Mazatlan, Shelley and Philip. We asked our driver to crank up the rock n roll and take us to Puerto Viejo, a bar on the Malecon a couple of blocks from Plaza Machada. We had so much fun rocking on the ride that several suggested that we just pay to be driven around all night with stops for beer and los banos. In stead, we stopped for garlic shrimp and cocktails. We boarded another red truck and rocked to Gus Gus (pronounced goose goose in Mexico) where an outdoor band plays rock n roll and old gringos dance badly. And dance we did except Jerry who professes never to dance.
* * *
This matchmaking thing hadn’t quite lived up to any of our expectations. So Sharon, Linda, and I joined our project for another evening out. This time we ventured to Mazatlan’s oldest sports bar. Unlike the sports bars that many may conjure up, this one has no TV’s, but it does have a combination basketball/tennis court. Sometimes it is open for games, but usually it isn’t. This night the court doors were chained. A three piece band plays Mexican ballads until the crowd demands the music that drives them to the dance floor. When the elderly gentlemen belt out the ballads, most folks at the tables stop talking and sing along. We nursed a couple of Pacificos and headed down the street to Plaza Machada to eat at the Hotel Machada where they serve Mediterranean meals.
Plaza Machada on a Friday night is a people watching, music listening, and food eating trifecta. Families wander through and shop at the tables teeming with an array of crafts. Margaret found a sculpture of elephants that made her evening. In every corner of the plaza live music competes with each other. These aren’t wandering minstrels. They play on stages with mongo speakers. This doesn’t mean wandering minstrels are unwelcome. They play in a steady competition for any peso handouts possible. The restaurants all have tables outside, so this plaza is mystical and magical. A woman looks naked without a long stemmed rose here.
After dinner and a few laps around the square, Sharon and I decided to take a risk and introduce this group to Son Sin, a truly Mexican experience. From the plaza it’s one block north, three blocks west on narrow streets built for horse carriages and sidewalks not built for spiked heels (Linda wore them, not Jerry). I consider Son Sin a Mexican interpretation of a karaoke bar. A singer hosts a piano with sheet music with lyrics. Patrons step up to the mike and belt out the ballads. Everyone else dances, sings along, or smokes. The woman who bar tends, sings, and owns the joint is part snake and part nightingale. A cigarette dangles from her mouth except when she sings. Then she holds it with her left hand while the right holds the mike. When she tends bar, she carries a riding crop that she wields with considerable enthusiasm. If a patron crosses the line, WHACK she hits the bar and everything stops. Eyes seek out who had had the audacity to bend one of her rules. They aren’t written down mind you. But you live in fear of her riding crop.
This particular evening we made quick friends with a table of six who are part of a political organization that meets every Friday evening at Son Sin. Five are men and Sara is a doctor of chemistry. Sara can sing. She trills like a song bird, but she is no match for the owner.
Since none of our table could sing and we didn’t smoke, we danced except for Jerry. The Mexican men loved our table and the women danced each and every song when they realized that neither Jerry nor I would be offended. The two of us did tower over the others. We bought beers for our new friends, laughed, told lies, and danced. I wasn’t sure if the girls would ever want to leave given the hot blooded attention of these Latin men. That is until Margaret said, “it’s time to leave. Felipe rubbed his woody on my leg. Let’s go.” We paid our bill, said our goodbyes, and walked out into the night. I couldn’t help but think as I walked towards our car that Jerry’s experiences with Margaret may have been enhanced if he had danced with her, and it had been his woody rubbing up against her.
One of the great benefits of living in a warm weather climate in a resort like atmosphere is that women friends like to bond by pools during the day and by dance floors during the evening. They rent a larger condo; leave the frigid weather and their families to connect with their childhood/working place/SUV driving sisters. I get it. Most men don’t.
A man’s idea of bonding includes hunting, fishing, golf, ball games, card games and beer. I NEVER see a group of guys hanging out at the pool. We always have more women at our pool than men. My sunglasses like the variety.
Four Canadian women arrived at Paraiso a couple of weeks ago. They worked together in Vancouver years ago, but the years scattered them to new jobs and cities, but they stayed connected with skiing trips to Whistler. This year they ventured to Mazatlan. My sun glasses saluted this decision. Jaime concurred.
As another green flash less sunset painted the sky with Mexican oranges and reds, someone at the palapa innocently asked me if my birthday was tomorrow. This provided Linda, Annikka, Barbie, and Jane all the ammunition to turn a relaxed evening into a tequila shooting romp. After Jaime closed the palapa at eight, Nunez started to transition into Sophia to compete with our four new amigas. We opted to dress up for The Mambo Café (where the hot and restless go for live salsa music and dancing) for Thursday night’s no cover charge for women. Whoooppeeeee. Five women and me……happy birthday to me….happy birthday to me…. The girls even paid my cover charge.
In my previous life someone always could score on a five on one break. But the fumbled pass manifested itself in Annikka’s rag doll like stupor. I took her outside to encourage some semblance of sobriety. After forty-five fruitless minutes we poured her into the car and drove home. My top highlight of the evening focused on the parade of young Mexican women in high heels, tight pants, and scanty camisas. Annikka not puking in my car came in a distant second.
* * *
Three of the Canadian girls left, but Linda stayed for another week and Margaret flew in from northern Calgary to join her. They married brothers some years ago, yet both had divorced them. The sister-in-laws stayed friends. Ya gotta love women. Men can be dispensable, but women friendships, not so much.
My long time friend Jerry arrived the same day as Margaret. Margaret is single. Jerry is still single. Match maker, Match maker…. Who should play a bigger role? Linda or White Oprah. Oh why don’t we go downtown in a red truck (a Toyota small truck with a canopy top and cushioned benches in the back that can sit ten adults)? So Sharon, Larry, Margaret, Linda, Bruce, and another couple who had made a return trip to Mazatlan, Shelley and Philip. We asked our driver to crank up the rock n roll and take us to Puerto Viejo, a bar on the Malecon a couple of blocks from Plaza Machada. We had so much fun rocking on the ride that several suggested that we just pay to be driven around all night with stops for beer and los banos. In stead, we stopped for garlic shrimp and cocktails. We boarded another red truck and rocked to Gus Gus (pronounced goose goose in Mexico) where an outdoor band plays rock n roll and old gringos dance badly. And dance we did except Jerry who professes never to dance.
* * *
This matchmaking thing hadn’t quite lived up to any of our expectations. So Sharon, Linda, and I joined our project for another evening out. This time we ventured to Mazatlan’s oldest sports bar. Unlike the sports bars that many may conjure up, this one has no TV’s, but it does have a combination basketball/tennis court. Sometimes it is open for games, but usually it isn’t. This night the court doors were chained. A three piece band plays Mexican ballads until the crowd demands the music that drives them to the dance floor. When the elderly gentlemen belt out the ballads, most folks at the tables stop talking and sing along. We nursed a couple of Pacificos and headed down the street to Plaza Machada to eat at the Hotel Machada where they serve Mediterranean meals.
Plaza Machada on a Friday night is a people watching, music listening, and food eating trifecta. Families wander through and shop at the tables teeming with an array of crafts. Margaret found a sculpture of elephants that made her evening. In every corner of the plaza live music competes with each other. These aren’t wandering minstrels. They play on stages with mongo speakers. This doesn’t mean wandering minstrels are unwelcome. They play in a steady competition for any peso handouts possible. The restaurants all have tables outside, so this plaza is mystical and magical. A woman looks naked without a long stemmed rose here.
After dinner and a few laps around the square, Sharon and I decided to take a risk and introduce this group to Son Sin, a truly Mexican experience. From the plaza it’s one block north, three blocks west on narrow streets built for horse carriages and sidewalks not built for spiked heels (Linda wore them, not Jerry). I consider Son Sin a Mexican interpretation of a karaoke bar. A singer hosts a piano with sheet music with lyrics. Patrons step up to the mike and belt out the ballads. Everyone else dances, sings along, or smokes. The woman who bar tends, sings, and owns the joint is part snake and part nightingale. A cigarette dangles from her mouth except when she sings. Then she holds it with her left hand while the right holds the mike. When she tends bar, she carries a riding crop that she wields with considerable enthusiasm. If a patron crosses the line, WHACK she hits the bar and everything stops. Eyes seek out who had had the audacity to bend one of her rules. They aren’t written down mind you. But you live in fear of her riding crop.
This particular evening we made quick friends with a table of six who are part of a political organization that meets every Friday evening at Son Sin. Five are men and Sara is a doctor of chemistry. Sara can sing. She trills like a song bird, but she is no match for the owner.
Since none of our table could sing and we didn’t smoke, we danced except for Jerry. The Mexican men loved our table and the women danced each and every song when they realized that neither Jerry nor I would be offended. The two of us did tower over the others. We bought beers for our new friends, laughed, told lies, and danced. I wasn’t sure if the girls would ever want to leave given the hot blooded attention of these Latin men. That is until Margaret said, “it’s time to leave. Felipe rubbed his woody on my leg. Let’s go.” We paid our bill, said our goodbyes, and walked out into the night. I couldn’t help but think as I walked towards our car that Jerry’s experiences with Margaret may have been enhanced if he had danced with her, and it had been his woody rubbing up against her.
Where Blood Is Thicker Than Water
November 2009
Jaime invited Sharon and me to visit his parents which he does every Friday morning. We met in Soriana’s, a major Mexican grocery store chain, parking lot at 8 after he had dropped off his children to their respective schools. He ambled over with two large bags of groceries to take to his parents. Neither of his folks has ever driven a car. Since they live six kilometers past the turn off to the airport, their trek for groceries entails toting bags onto buses or a lengthy taxi trip. So Jaime bringing groceries to his folks is a nice touch.
Jaime’s parents live on the grounds of a monolithic water park that few gringos will ever see since it is so far away from the touristy areas of Mazatlan. It is set far off the road and secured by an unlocked drunken gate that Jaime dragged away so we could pass. I drove up the gravel spewing road to the front entrance. The sign read 50 pesos Ninos and 60 pesos Grande. All day passes cost less than $4 for kids and less than $5 for adults. The season runs from April 1 – September 30, and every Sunday over 2,000 people roam the cavernous facility. Some days over 3,000 people spend the day there.
Jaime introduced us to two gentlemen at the entrance. He spent some time with them as old amigos are wont to do. We marched on. The first family member, a scruffy looking curly haired mutt with unbridled enthusiasm, sprinted to us. It reminded me of so many fresh from the airport gringos with tongues out and tails wagging, and how they run up to Jaime jumping up and down at the palapa.
We followed Jaime as he pointed out one pool complex after another (14 all told). He showed us the owner’s home that he drooled over as the house of his dreams. Its hacienda styled veranda opened up with a view of a grove of trees and another of the pool sections with slides and huge statues of cartoonish animals. Beyond it in the northwest corner of the park he took us to his parent’s home. It benefitted from the numerous shade trees. The house itself had two small bedrooms, a small kitchen, bathroom and an entrance where the pictures of the family’s happier moments greeted us.
Jaime’s dad could be walking down the middle of the Golden Zone far from his home and Jaime’s job, but a owner at Paraiso could see Carlos, stop him, and ask with confidence, “Are you Jaime’s dad?” They look that much alike. Our inability to speak Spanish is shared by his inability to speak English, so we relied on Jaime’s translation skills. We had questions, but they would wait until after breakfast.
So Jaime took us on a tour of the grounds. This place could easily swallow up 3,000 people. It had large palapa areas that provided shade. Set into the cement flooring aluminum tables and benches provided family gathering spots. Barbeque pits surrounded each of the palapas. Shade trees abounded, but many hadn’t survived last month’s storm. The winter preparations for spring may require more employees this year. One tree in particular did major damage to the roof of one of the palapas.
Jaime, Sharon, Carlos, and I sat a rickety table in plastic chairs in the yard awaiting Mama Morales’ huevo rancheros. This is a Friday morning staple. My favorite Jaime cliché for describing anything that he likes is “It is sooooooo good.” I agreed. Her refried beans and eggs smothered in her tomato and chile sauce tasted soooooo good. No Nunez doesn’t eat eggs so beans, ranchero sauce, and home made tortillas had to do. And she confessed they did well.
Then we snapped pictures. We asked questions. “When did you two meet?”
“We grew up in the same village and are the same age,” Mama said.
“When did you know that you were right for each other?” Guess who asked that question.
“We were 15,” Mama smiled and looked at Carlos. He smiled too.
“What are you proudest of Jaime for?”
“He loves his family,” both nodded their heads.
About that time Jaime’s sister Rocio and her 10 month old daughter arrived. We took more pictures. White Oprah abducted the baby. Rocio works during the season as the ticket taker at the park and has for many years. Her husband is a middle school math teacher. She too comes to breakfast each Friday. The only person not in attendance for these breakfasts is Carlos junior, Jaime’s younger brother, who in a motorcycle accident when he was 21. He had also worked and lived at the park. He died riding home on a Sunday morning. We didn’t ask about him until we rode home.
Before we could leave, White Oprah had to give up the baby. Rocio grabbed her child who wept uncontrollably and reached for Sharon. The child screeched and sobbed and held her hands out as we walked away. Even babies feel White Oprah’s power.
* * *
After we dropped Jaime off at his car, we talked about the depth of Jaime’s love for his family. We have watched him with his wife and his children. To watch the joy he brings to his parents, his sister, and her child impressed us. To listen to his parents describe him did not surprise us. But when Jaime talked about his brother, we were truly moved. He said his family has never been the same. His death ten days before Christmas changed the nature of that important Catholic holiday forever. When his brother died, Jaime quit his job to do Carlos’ job. He moved in with his parents for a year when their grief was at its darkest. Seeing Jaime’s mother looked adoringly at her son answered all of my questions about his relationship with his parents.
Jaime invited Sharon and me to visit his parents which he does every Friday morning. We met in Soriana’s, a major Mexican grocery store chain, parking lot at 8 after he had dropped off his children to their respective schools. He ambled over with two large bags of groceries to take to his parents. Neither of his folks has ever driven a car. Since they live six kilometers past the turn off to the airport, their trek for groceries entails toting bags onto buses or a lengthy taxi trip. So Jaime bringing groceries to his folks is a nice touch.
Jaime’s parents live on the grounds of a monolithic water park that few gringos will ever see since it is so far away from the touristy areas of Mazatlan. It is set far off the road and secured by an unlocked drunken gate that Jaime dragged away so we could pass. I drove up the gravel spewing road to the front entrance. The sign read 50 pesos Ninos and 60 pesos Grande. All day passes cost less than $4 for kids and less than $5 for adults. The season runs from April 1 – September 30, and every Sunday over 2,000 people roam the cavernous facility. Some days over 3,000 people spend the day there.
Jaime introduced us to two gentlemen at the entrance. He spent some time with them as old amigos are wont to do. We marched on. The first family member, a scruffy looking curly haired mutt with unbridled enthusiasm, sprinted to us. It reminded me of so many fresh from the airport gringos with tongues out and tails wagging, and how they run up to Jaime jumping up and down at the palapa.
We followed Jaime as he pointed out one pool complex after another (14 all told). He showed us the owner’s home that he drooled over as the house of his dreams. Its hacienda styled veranda opened up with a view of a grove of trees and another of the pool sections with slides and huge statues of cartoonish animals. Beyond it in the northwest corner of the park he took us to his parent’s home. It benefitted from the numerous shade trees. The house itself had two small bedrooms, a small kitchen, bathroom and an entrance where the pictures of the family’s happier moments greeted us.
Jaime’s dad could be walking down the middle of the Golden Zone far from his home and Jaime’s job, but a owner at Paraiso could see Carlos, stop him, and ask with confidence, “Are you Jaime’s dad?” They look that much alike. Our inability to speak Spanish is shared by his inability to speak English, so we relied on Jaime’s translation skills. We had questions, but they would wait until after breakfast.
So Jaime took us on a tour of the grounds. This place could easily swallow up 3,000 people. It had large palapa areas that provided shade. Set into the cement flooring aluminum tables and benches provided family gathering spots. Barbeque pits surrounded each of the palapas. Shade trees abounded, but many hadn’t survived last month’s storm. The winter preparations for spring may require more employees this year. One tree in particular did major damage to the roof of one of the palapas.
Jaime, Sharon, Carlos, and I sat a rickety table in plastic chairs in the yard awaiting Mama Morales’ huevo rancheros. This is a Friday morning staple. My favorite Jaime cliché for describing anything that he likes is “It is sooooooo good.” I agreed. Her refried beans and eggs smothered in her tomato and chile sauce tasted soooooo good. No Nunez doesn’t eat eggs so beans, ranchero sauce, and home made tortillas had to do. And she confessed they did well.
Then we snapped pictures. We asked questions. “When did you two meet?”
“We grew up in the same village and are the same age,” Mama said.
“When did you know that you were right for each other?” Guess who asked that question.
“We were 15,” Mama smiled and looked at Carlos. He smiled too.
“What are you proudest of Jaime for?”
“He loves his family,” both nodded their heads.
About that time Jaime’s sister Rocio and her 10 month old daughter arrived. We took more pictures. White Oprah abducted the baby. Rocio works during the season as the ticket taker at the park and has for many years. Her husband is a middle school math teacher. She too comes to breakfast each Friday. The only person not in attendance for these breakfasts is Carlos junior, Jaime’s younger brother, who in a motorcycle accident when he was 21. He had also worked and lived at the park. He died riding home on a Sunday morning. We didn’t ask about him until we rode home.
Before we could leave, White Oprah had to give up the baby. Rocio grabbed her child who wept uncontrollably and reached for Sharon. The child screeched and sobbed and held her hands out as we walked away. Even babies feel White Oprah’s power.
* * *
After we dropped Jaime off at his car, we talked about the depth of Jaime’s love for his family. We have watched him with his wife and his children. To watch the joy he brings to his parents, his sister, and her child impressed us. To listen to his parents describe him did not surprise us. But when Jaime talked about his brother, we were truly moved. He said his family has never been the same. His death ten days before Christmas changed the nature of that important Catholic holiday forever. When his brother died, Jaime quit his job to do Carlos’ job. He moved in with his parents for a year when their grief was at its darkest. Seeing Jaime’s mother looked adoringly at her son answered all of my questions about his relationship with his parents.
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