El Circo y El Acuario
At some point during our orphanage volunteering we asked Rafaela what it was that she felt we could do that would have the biggest impact. It wasn’t like she didn’t appreciate what we were doing with the English lessons for the younger students. Nor was it like we felt inadequate in our performances although we did at times wonder if we were making a difference. She responded that taking the children out into the community on Sundays would give them real life experiences that they are deprived of within the walls of their group environment as loving as they have made it to be.
Sharon, Nicole, and I had over the months made the trip to the water park. We had taken three girls to the movies. We had taken three kids shopping and to the beach. We had chaperoned a trip to Burger King with the motorcycle club. In each occasion we walked away from the experience on a high. Afterwards the three of us invariably stopped for lunch somewhere and downed a beer or two and reminisced about how some of the kids had lit up in ways that we hadn’t seen in our trips to the orphanage.
The past two Sundays we decided to take children somewhere. Since none of us has young children, we had to conjure up ideas that might be appealing to 5 – 9 year olds. Night time activities failed to make the cut, so the Venados games disappeared from our options. At the corner of a main intersection that we drove by during each trip to the orphanage, a circus had set up their tents and displayed their stars on garish signs that depicted scantily clad women with whips to train tigers. A buff Tarzan whirling through the air offered a counter enticement to attend.
I have attended cheese ball circuses in Corvallis. I hated them. But when you are dealing with children who think that the playground at Burger King is special, a circus with animals and whirling through the air trapeze artists and clowns, it has the possibility to blow parentless children away. It did.
Since we attended the circus during the Christmas holidays, we had a bevy of chaperones. Our daughter Lauren and her boyfriend Bobby, and Aly, a 15 year old daughter of our friends Bruce and Leslie, Nicole, Sharon and I brought four girls to the circus. Now this is not a Barnum and Bailey’s extravaganza. It is a tent with a possible 100 seats or so. If you looked at it through the eyes of these girls, it impressed you. Trapeze artists started the show and performed flawlessly. Clowns came out and drew laughs from the audience as the crew tore down the trapeze apparatus and replaced it with the tigers’ stands and cage.
The tigers scared the children. Those animals are humongous. But this eighteen year old young lady ran them through their routine. She was also the only woman that performed on the trapeze. She proceeded to dazzle us throughout the afternoon. The subsequent fillers as the crew tore down the sets and put up new ones focused on dance routines. Each dance troupe had three guys and multiple girls. In each of the routines the girls’ outfits lost fabric. By the end of the afternoon even I was embarrassed for them. OK, not really, but I did have some concern about how the girls felt about their sex. It may have provided me with some insight as to why the women at Venados games conduct themselves as they do.
Trained Clysdales horses with performers jumping onto them provided some thrills. When the master of ceremonies solicitited volunteers from the audience to run and jump onto the horses, we became entranced. The volunteers each had harnesses to prevent injuries. As it turns out, they really wore them so that the circus could use them for comic relief. Whenever a volunteer would run to jump onto a moving horse, someone would jerk them off into the air and twirl them around. Frankly, it was funny. I am glad that I didn’t volunteer though.
I’m not sure if I can do justice describing Tarzan’s act. A sheet hung down from the top…..not a big top, but taller than I want to hang from a sheet. A crew would pull him up and down as he performed sensual and graceful acrobatic maneuvers. The adult women were embarrassed. It was a bit much. But a circus is a bit much. Through the eyes of our orphans, it was spectacular.
* * *
The following Sunday we took all but one of the same girls to the aquarium. Finally, we found entertainment without a blatantly sexual theme. Making sharks sexy is not going to happen. My expectations for attending an aquarium exceeded nonexistent. But when a little girl sits in your lap as she watches spellbound at an enormous fish bowl as sharks glide around with a snorkeled swimmer teasing him, now that is entertainment.
The trained seal lions and seals impressed all of us the most. Lacking Spanish did not detract from the enjoyment of watching these silly animals perform. Nicole, Sharon and I agreed that of all of the things we have witnessed with the children, we would love to repeat this trip with more other children.
Our most comical moment occurred when Nicole purchased some potato chips for the girls. One of the four selected very spicy Doritos. Nicole, who speaks much better Spanish than Sharon or I, expressed some concern that the child may not realize how spicy her selection was. After she convinced Nicole that she knew what she ordered, she proceeded to pour hot hot sauce over her chips. Each of the girls did the same. This hot sauce reddened each of their faces and fingers. None of them winced. We are such gringos to think that Mexican children can’t eat spicy food. No problema.
Sundays are tricky at the orphanage. Some of them have parents or relatives that visit. Sundays are the only days that they can visit. When we have entered to pick up whomever Rafaela has selected for us to take on these excursions, other children are in the foyer to meet with relatives. It is obvious that they are disappointed that they are not allowed to go out. They have visitors who can’t afford to take them to these places that have admission charges. We are working with Rafaela to have more of the children involved with our future trips.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Manana and Mexico
Jaime tells us constantly that, “Mexicans don’t care about the weather, time, and the green flash.” Gringos often struggle with this concept when moving south of the border. Getting beyond weather doesn’t create much stress…..it’s always warm and sunny. Adjustment difficulty rates a .3 on a 10 scale. It takes mucho sunsets to be convinced that the green flash isn’t an illusion. Google it. It’s real, but stressing over it? Get real. The only conversations about the green flash occur during happy hour while watching a sunset over the ocean. You have a buzz going, you are on vacation, and the night has just begun. Adjustment difficulty rates a .1 on a 10 scale. Anyone who argues about this should be kicked in the shins. “Mexican time” on the other hand drives gringos crazy.
No more nebulous word in the lexicon of the Americas creates more stress for gringos than manana. Literally, it is Spanish for tomorrow. If a Mexican says it will happen manana, the odds of that really happening are … well…greater than .1 on a 10 scale, but …. What’s the worst thing that can happen if it doesn’t happen manana? The sun will still shine. Pina Coladas will still taste great. The waves will still break. Girls will still wear bikinis. No problema.
So last month Sharon and I recommended a small company to install curtains for a couple who had just purchased a condo in our complex. They were thrilled when the bid was $5,000 less expensive than the quote they had previously chosen. Christopher, the owner of the shop, had treated us like royalty and installed our blinds well. Of course, we met him during Spring Break, and Christopher installed the blinds some time between April and December when we next visited Mazatlan. No problema.
Yesterday, the moving van showed up with over $100,000 worth of furniture from the States. Christopher had promised that the curtains would be completed five days ago. Each day when pressed for delivery and installation, he would say, “manana”. The couple actually dealt relatively well with this as they had numerous other issues to overcome. Nunez on the other hand took umbrage to his performance. We had recommended Christopher. Being late was OK. Not communicating was not. Nunez dropped by the shop. Probema.
When I asked Sharon about her conversation with Christopher, she just shrugged her shoulders and said that not communicating why he couldn’t deliver and install the curtains was not OK. If they hadn’t been delivered or he was behind on previously ordered materials, just say so. On the other hand don’t keep saying “manana” when “manana” wasn’t going to be tomorrow. This seems reasonable to a gringo, but the following was the message Christopher left for the couple awaiting their curtains:
“Hola Lesley? This is Christopher. I was to call you about the blinds. I do not know what is happening with the blinds. It was a sale and they are busy. Your angry friend (Sharon) was here. She said I was to call you. I was going to call you yesterday five days ago and now I am calling you. I am sorry I was going to call you yesterday five days ago but I am calling you. I will call you manana.”
Now I have seen Sharon AKA Nunez AKA White Oprah AKA angry friend. What Christopher doesn’t comprende is that he ain’t seen nothing yet. One night Sharon and I attended a dinner party. Jake slept over with a buddy; a friend across town babysat Lauren. I evidently said something at dinner that offended Sharon, angry woman. As we drove across town in our seven passenger van, she let me know just how much my remarks bothered her. Her relentless harangue rattled me, but I was driving so I didn’t have to look at angry woman until I came to my first red light. Now I had to not only hear her anger, but I also experienced the visual intensity of it. Out of the corner of my eye the light turned green, so I sped through the intersection. Unfortunately, I am so tall that I didn’t see the light of the street I had crossed. I saw the green light of the next street a block away. A litany of “YOU JUST RAN A GREEN LIGHT! YOU JUST RAN A GREEN LIGHT!” rang out as the blue and red flashing lights of the police car directly behind me rattled me some more. Since this street had no shoulder, I turned right at the next street only to hear a new litany, “YOU’RE DRIVING THE WRONG WAY ON A ONE WAY STREET! YOU’RE DRIVING THE WRONG WAY ON A ONE WAY STREET!” So I pulled into the first driveway and made room for the police car.
Sharon pulled the registration out as I grabbed my driver’s license from my wallet. The woman police officer smiled and chuckled, “I’ve never had someone run a red light right in front of me; let alone go the wrong way on a one way street in front of me.” She checked my criminal record for an interminable amount of time as angry woman had her way with me. Finally, the police officer walked back with our registration and my license. She smiled and said, “Mr. Reid, I am not going to give you a ticket tonight. There is nothing that I could do that is worse than what is happening to you right now.”
Jaime contends that this small business is owned by drug runners from Culican, the largest city in Sinaloa, and they use it for money laundering purposes. Jaime will have to coach her on her next conversation with Christopher. I wish Jaime well. Angry woman’s uncoachable.
No more nebulous word in the lexicon of the Americas creates more stress for gringos than manana. Literally, it is Spanish for tomorrow. If a Mexican says it will happen manana, the odds of that really happening are … well…greater than .1 on a 10 scale, but …. What’s the worst thing that can happen if it doesn’t happen manana? The sun will still shine. Pina Coladas will still taste great. The waves will still break. Girls will still wear bikinis. No problema.
So last month Sharon and I recommended a small company to install curtains for a couple who had just purchased a condo in our complex. They were thrilled when the bid was $5,000 less expensive than the quote they had previously chosen. Christopher, the owner of the shop, had treated us like royalty and installed our blinds well. Of course, we met him during Spring Break, and Christopher installed the blinds some time between April and December when we next visited Mazatlan. No problema.
Yesterday, the moving van showed up with over $100,000 worth of furniture from the States. Christopher had promised that the curtains would be completed five days ago. Each day when pressed for delivery and installation, he would say, “manana”. The couple actually dealt relatively well with this as they had numerous other issues to overcome. Nunez on the other hand took umbrage to his performance. We had recommended Christopher. Being late was OK. Not communicating was not. Nunez dropped by the shop. Probema.
When I asked Sharon about her conversation with Christopher, she just shrugged her shoulders and said that not communicating why he couldn’t deliver and install the curtains was not OK. If they hadn’t been delivered or he was behind on previously ordered materials, just say so. On the other hand don’t keep saying “manana” when “manana” wasn’t going to be tomorrow. This seems reasonable to a gringo, but the following was the message Christopher left for the couple awaiting their curtains:
“Hola Lesley? This is Christopher. I was to call you about the blinds. I do not know what is happening with the blinds. It was a sale and they are busy. Your angry friend (Sharon) was here. She said I was to call you. I was going to call you yesterday five days ago and now I am calling you. I am sorry I was going to call you yesterday five days ago but I am calling you. I will call you manana.”
Now I have seen Sharon AKA Nunez AKA White Oprah AKA angry friend. What Christopher doesn’t comprende is that he ain’t seen nothing yet. One night Sharon and I attended a dinner party. Jake slept over with a buddy; a friend across town babysat Lauren. I evidently said something at dinner that offended Sharon, angry woman. As we drove across town in our seven passenger van, she let me know just how much my remarks bothered her. Her relentless harangue rattled me, but I was driving so I didn’t have to look at angry woman until I came to my first red light. Now I had to not only hear her anger, but I also experienced the visual intensity of it. Out of the corner of my eye the light turned green, so I sped through the intersection. Unfortunately, I am so tall that I didn’t see the light of the street I had crossed. I saw the green light of the next street a block away. A litany of “YOU JUST RAN A GREEN LIGHT! YOU JUST RAN A GREEN LIGHT!” rang out as the blue and red flashing lights of the police car directly behind me rattled me some more. Since this street had no shoulder, I turned right at the next street only to hear a new litany, “YOU’RE DRIVING THE WRONG WAY ON A ONE WAY STREET! YOU’RE DRIVING THE WRONG WAY ON A ONE WAY STREET!” So I pulled into the first driveway and made room for the police car.
Sharon pulled the registration out as I grabbed my driver’s license from my wallet. The woman police officer smiled and chuckled, “I’ve never had someone run a red light right in front of me; let alone go the wrong way on a one way street in front of me.” She checked my criminal record for an interminable amount of time as angry woman had her way with me. Finally, the police officer walked back with our registration and my license. She smiled and said, “Mr. Reid, I am not going to give you a ticket tonight. There is nothing that I could do that is worse than what is happening to you right now.”
Jaime contends that this small business is owned by drug runners from Culican, the largest city in Sinaloa, and they use it for money laundering purposes. Jaime will have to coach her on her next conversation with Christopher. I wish Jaime well. Angry woman’s uncoachable.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Q Tips and Sophia
November 2009
If you ever wonder what is there to do on a Monday night in Mazatlan that would be fun, don’t worry the options are unlimited when you have a wife like mine. Sharon and I had spent the better part of ten days helping Leslie move into her new condo in Paraiso II. Leslie brought her friend Linda and left her husband Bruce in Arizona to help with the moving van departure. After enjoying Bruce and Leslie’s exploits on a previous visit, this working ten days and some medical issues of Leslies seemed tame by comparison. But on Monday we drove over to Don Chuy’s who never fails us. On the way home Nunez screamed for me to stop. Too late. I drove past her spontaneous desire.
I hung a u turn at a torno. That would be a legal move even in Mexico. I parked. We bounded across the street despite an angry dog stationed between us and an open aired restaurant with only one favorable quality, a jute box. Not any jute box, but the loudest jute box in Mazatlan. Linda walked up to a table of three twentysomething Mexican men and asked for help in playing musica. Not that the Mexican music was bad. It kicked ass rock and roll style. But when Credence Clearwater arrived, so did Sophia, my favorite alter ego of Sharon’s. It surfaces when she is tired of the matronly elementary school woman who has NOT forgotten what it is like to have FUN. I watched her turn a boring bar in Playa del Carmen into a dirty dancing festival. When we left to go to the next bar, part of the staff took the rest of the evening off to join us.
So once “Rolling on a River” blared, Sophia stood up, no partner in mind and danced towards the jute box. What’s a guy to do? Two women are looking at me, and before they started to kick me, I’m up. This violates my seven and seven rule (7 cocktails and 7 couples before I’ll dance). But I sucked it up and dealt with it. Mexican men wasted no time pursuing Linda and Leslie and the evening took off from there.
We started to dance. This is a bar that is so far off the gringo tourist map that we could be the first to take it over with our enthusiasm. We drank long neck Pacificos and danced. The Mexican men couldn’t get enough of our table. But we did have the only table of women.
* * *
Linda’s and Leslie’s last night in town needed a less active and intense performance. We decided on dinner at Playa Bruja, another open aired restaurant on the best surfing beach for dozens of miles. The four of us walked in…..I like this three date act. A waiter seated us and Leslie whispers all too loudly, “Look at all the Q Tips.” With my perplexed look from this foreign phrase, she enlightened me. “In November in both Scottsdale, Arizona (where she lives) and Mazatlan all the white haired people arrive in droves.” I looked up and had to admit that every man with hair had white hair. After a night with hot blooded Mexican men, these girls had walked into a perfect environment to unwind before their flight out.
Sharon and I spent the next night with twenty people from Paraiso at another restaurant that bordered a trailer park. We walked in to discover more Q Tips than the night before. Shopping the next day I started to notice that every gringo in sight sported white hair. With the warm weather, the Snowbirds (Q Tips) had definitely arrived. The tourist season has begun. In previous trips to Mazatlan we have traveled during Christmas or Spring breaks. Christmas caters to families, hence children and young adults. Spring break brings in another crowd entirely. Sophia can burst onto the scene during these times of the year, but will she surface in Snowbird season? Stay tuned.
If you ever wonder what is there to do on a Monday night in Mazatlan that would be fun, don’t worry the options are unlimited when you have a wife like mine. Sharon and I had spent the better part of ten days helping Leslie move into her new condo in Paraiso II. Leslie brought her friend Linda and left her husband Bruce in Arizona to help with the moving van departure. After enjoying Bruce and Leslie’s exploits on a previous visit, this working ten days and some medical issues of Leslies seemed tame by comparison. But on Monday we drove over to Don Chuy’s who never fails us. On the way home Nunez screamed for me to stop. Too late. I drove past her spontaneous desire.
I hung a u turn at a torno. That would be a legal move even in Mexico. I parked. We bounded across the street despite an angry dog stationed between us and an open aired restaurant with only one favorable quality, a jute box. Not any jute box, but the loudest jute box in Mazatlan. Linda walked up to a table of three twentysomething Mexican men and asked for help in playing musica. Not that the Mexican music was bad. It kicked ass rock and roll style. But when Credence Clearwater arrived, so did Sophia, my favorite alter ego of Sharon’s. It surfaces when she is tired of the matronly elementary school woman who has NOT forgotten what it is like to have FUN. I watched her turn a boring bar in Playa del Carmen into a dirty dancing festival. When we left to go to the next bar, part of the staff took the rest of the evening off to join us.
So once “Rolling on a River” blared, Sophia stood up, no partner in mind and danced towards the jute box. What’s a guy to do? Two women are looking at me, and before they started to kick me, I’m up. This violates my seven and seven rule (7 cocktails and 7 couples before I’ll dance). But I sucked it up and dealt with it. Mexican men wasted no time pursuing Linda and Leslie and the evening took off from there.
We started to dance. This is a bar that is so far off the gringo tourist map that we could be the first to take it over with our enthusiasm. We drank long neck Pacificos and danced. The Mexican men couldn’t get enough of our table. But we did have the only table of women.
* * *
Linda’s and Leslie’s last night in town needed a less active and intense performance. We decided on dinner at Playa Bruja, another open aired restaurant on the best surfing beach for dozens of miles. The four of us walked in…..I like this three date act. A waiter seated us and Leslie whispers all too loudly, “Look at all the Q Tips.” With my perplexed look from this foreign phrase, she enlightened me. “In November in both Scottsdale, Arizona (where she lives) and Mazatlan all the white haired people arrive in droves.” I looked up and had to admit that every man with hair had white hair. After a night with hot blooded Mexican men, these girls had walked into a perfect environment to unwind before their flight out.
Sharon and I spent the next night with twenty people from Paraiso at another restaurant that bordered a trailer park. We walked in to discover more Q Tips than the night before. Shopping the next day I started to notice that every gringo in sight sported white hair. With the warm weather, the Snowbirds (Q Tips) had definitely arrived. The tourist season has begun. In previous trips to Mazatlan we have traveled during Christmas or Spring breaks. Christmas caters to families, hence children and young adults. Spring break brings in another crowd entirely. Sophia can burst onto the scene during these times of the year, but will she surface in Snowbird season? Stay tuned.
Christmas in Mexico
Mexicans celebrate the holidays heartily. Christmas decorations come up in October. Blow up Santa’s and other wintery displays adorn roof tops all over Mazatlan as well as any store that financial can capitalize on the giving season. Nativity scenes appear ubiquitously throughout the city and in some of the most peculiar places like in center dividers on major thoroughfares. Orphanages are inundated with seasonal givers who lavishly dazzle the children and then unfortunately disappear on the 26th. Christmas Eve is bigger than Christmas day because the gifts are opened. Christmas day is for showing off the new attire at church, for breakfast with extended family, and for playing with the newest gizmos.
Gringos in Mazatlan celebrate Christmas much differently. Many of the snow birds head home for the holidays. Those who stay may have family visit such as we had. Others gather at restaurants that prepare meals especially for the American and Canadian palates. After spending Thanksgiving at Twisted Mama’s (actual name of the restaurant), Sharon and I were delighted to receive an invitation to the orphanage for Christmas Eve.
Earlier in the month Sharon asked Rafaela, who runs the orphanage, what the children needed. They needed pajamas, socks, and shower shoes. We put up signs around our condo complex, and Philip and Shelley, two of our most enjoyable friends here, purchased all of the pajamas. Sharon and I purchased the socks and shoes. Selecting attire for 28 kids, mostly girls proved amusing. Watching the girls, particularly the middle school aged girls, view the selection with dubiously forced smiles so as not to appear disappointed could not suppress our joy of watching the younger ones beam at Cinderella and Batman pajamas.
The weekend before Christmas Sharon, Nicole, and I took Tino, Kevin, and Paloma shopping for their Christmas Eve outfit. Going to a mall with three wild 5 – 7 year olds amongst the zaniness that occurs in all malls during this season presented some issues. Kevin and Tino wanted to purchase Batman tennis shoes. Rafaela asked us to buy them dress pants and long sleeve button down shirts. At one point I had both boys in a dressing room gallantly attempting to dress two extremely reluctant individuals who spoke no English. Paloma dressed next room over. Tino climbed under our door and under her door. As I pursued Tino, Kevin disappeared into the store to play hide and go seek. Paloma walked out with an outfit. We purchased the boy’s outfits on another day without them.
* * *
During the weeks that led up to Christmas Eve we watched the orphans receive gifts and attention galore. The most unusual being the motorcycle club that hired a party vehicle from Senor Frogs, put a professional clown in it for the ride downtown, and drove a ten motorcycle escort to Burger King where they presented each kid with two or three gifts apiece. The highlight for me was Tino eating his first hamburger. He put catch-up on top of the bun, and he ate the burger around and around from the outside on in. Perfecto. But Nicole, Sharon, Jake (yep our son was in town), and I were honored to attend the Christmas Eve dinner.
The kids gathered in the foyer where the Christmas tree resided with stockings with each child’s name taped to the wall. They each received a wrapped toy that they tore through. While they played, the adults put the food to the serving area or played games with the kids. Jake and I played jungle gym. We were the jungle gyms. Jake has more stamina at this than I.
The older girls set the tables, served the food, and cleaned up the mess. Jake sat at the best table. Edgar Gonzales, who almost hit a homerun to break up Jonathon Sanchez’s no hitter last season, has played for the Mazatlan Venados each of the last five winters. His wife attended as she has volunteered each of those winters. She is bilingual and beautiful. We have eaten better food. The children ate it like it was gourmet.
After dessert we returned to the tree where the children received the rest of their gifts. Rafaela called out each name and off they went into the plaza to open a new prize. By evening’s end initial disappointments disappeared as somewhere in each child’s hands was a gift that meant something special to each of them. I love watching kids at Christmas.
* * *
We have always started our Christmas day off with Pillsbury cinnamon rolls in the morning. Tough to buy here. So off I went to a couple of bakeries. The largest in town was open so I searched for anything that resembled a pastry. I suspiciously snagged three pastries that looked like something delicious resided in the middle. When we broke them open, we discovered ham and cheese. Nunez was not impressed. She then cooked cinnamon sugared pancakes that all of us loved. Later she dazzled us with turkey, stuffing, mash potatoes etc. Jake phoned his girl friend’s grandmother for her recipe for her traditional cranberry sauce. Our gifts consisted of the time we spent with each other. What could be better?
* * *
The week after Christmas Sharon and I bought a mongo boom box to replace the broken one that provided the only music for the children. This gift was my brother, Larry’s gift. When he left after visiting the orphanage in November, he gave us the money to give them something. Rafaela told us that it was what they needed.
This is a gift that keeps on giving. Music once again graces the orphanage's interior court yard. And as I have learned, girls like to dance.
Gringos in Mazatlan celebrate Christmas much differently. Many of the snow birds head home for the holidays. Those who stay may have family visit such as we had. Others gather at restaurants that prepare meals especially for the American and Canadian palates. After spending Thanksgiving at Twisted Mama’s (actual name of the restaurant), Sharon and I were delighted to receive an invitation to the orphanage for Christmas Eve.
Earlier in the month Sharon asked Rafaela, who runs the orphanage, what the children needed. They needed pajamas, socks, and shower shoes. We put up signs around our condo complex, and Philip and Shelley, two of our most enjoyable friends here, purchased all of the pajamas. Sharon and I purchased the socks and shoes. Selecting attire for 28 kids, mostly girls proved amusing. Watching the girls, particularly the middle school aged girls, view the selection with dubiously forced smiles so as not to appear disappointed could not suppress our joy of watching the younger ones beam at Cinderella and Batman pajamas.
The weekend before Christmas Sharon, Nicole, and I took Tino, Kevin, and Paloma shopping for their Christmas Eve outfit. Going to a mall with three wild 5 – 7 year olds amongst the zaniness that occurs in all malls during this season presented some issues. Kevin and Tino wanted to purchase Batman tennis shoes. Rafaela asked us to buy them dress pants and long sleeve button down shirts. At one point I had both boys in a dressing room gallantly attempting to dress two extremely reluctant individuals who spoke no English. Paloma dressed next room over. Tino climbed under our door and under her door. As I pursued Tino, Kevin disappeared into the store to play hide and go seek. Paloma walked out with an outfit. We purchased the boy’s outfits on another day without them.
* * *
During the weeks that led up to Christmas Eve we watched the orphans receive gifts and attention galore. The most unusual being the motorcycle club that hired a party vehicle from Senor Frogs, put a professional clown in it for the ride downtown, and drove a ten motorcycle escort to Burger King where they presented each kid with two or three gifts apiece. The highlight for me was Tino eating his first hamburger. He put catch-up on top of the bun, and he ate the burger around and around from the outside on in. Perfecto. But Nicole, Sharon, Jake (yep our son was in town), and I were honored to attend the Christmas Eve dinner.
The kids gathered in the foyer where the Christmas tree resided with stockings with each child’s name taped to the wall. They each received a wrapped toy that they tore through. While they played, the adults put the food to the serving area or played games with the kids. Jake and I played jungle gym. We were the jungle gyms. Jake has more stamina at this than I.
The older girls set the tables, served the food, and cleaned up the mess. Jake sat at the best table. Edgar Gonzales, who almost hit a homerun to break up Jonathon Sanchez’s no hitter last season, has played for the Mazatlan Venados each of the last five winters. His wife attended as she has volunteered each of those winters. She is bilingual and beautiful. We have eaten better food. The children ate it like it was gourmet.
After dessert we returned to the tree where the children received the rest of their gifts. Rafaela called out each name and off they went into the plaza to open a new prize. By evening’s end initial disappointments disappeared as somewhere in each child’s hands was a gift that meant something special to each of them. I love watching kids at Christmas.
* * *
We have always started our Christmas day off with Pillsbury cinnamon rolls in the morning. Tough to buy here. So off I went to a couple of bakeries. The largest in town was open so I searched for anything that resembled a pastry. I suspiciously snagged three pastries that looked like something delicious resided in the middle. When we broke them open, we discovered ham and cheese. Nunez was not impressed. She then cooked cinnamon sugared pancakes that all of us loved. Later she dazzled us with turkey, stuffing, mash potatoes etc. Jake phoned his girl friend’s grandmother for her recipe for her traditional cranberry sauce. Our gifts consisted of the time we spent with each other. What could be better?
* * *
The week after Christmas Sharon and I bought a mongo boom box to replace the broken one that provided the only music for the children. This gift was my brother, Larry’s gift. When he left after visiting the orphanage in November, he gave us the money to give them something. Rafaela told us that it was what they needed.
This is a gift that keeps on giving. Music once again graces the orphanage's interior court yard. And as I have learned, girls like to dance.
Mexican Family Fun Part one
At the old ballpark
January 2010
Mazatlan is an indigenous Indian name for “Land of the Deer”. Although a deer is not the most ferocious critter to ban an athletic team’s mascot, Venados (Spanish for deer) works for the Triple AAA and most popular professional team in this city. Every Venados baseball game is televised, yet the locals fill the stadium for most games because the experience of attending has so little to do with baseball. It is a happening place to be and to be seen.
Although the entertainment value of attending a Venados game transcends baseball, don’t be fooled into thinking that this isn’t baseball at a lofty level. Since the regular season takes place from October to late December, many major league players come down to Mexico to work on their game. Mexicans take pride in playing in front of their people, so this league attracts the best players Mexico has to offer. Adrian Gonzales who is a super star for the San Diego Padres has played for the Venados in past seasons. His brother has played for the past five years here. It is not uncommon for the biggest stars to all of a sudden appear on a roster during the playoffs.
Mazatlan’s Venados sets records for attendance each year. The popularity of the games isn’t solely due to the level of play. Sure many men attend the games with their compadres. Others bring their sons to their passion. So why do so many women and men who could care less about baseball buy tickets? For the women it is to be seen. The men in charge of the jumbotron mostly show outrageously attractive and well endowed women. There is some narration going on, but unfortunately, my espanol is not strong enough to share in the audience’s laughter. I want you to know that once a woman is on screen though, all coy, demure, and shy behavior disappears. They beam, often stand up, and sometimes move in ways a father doesn’t want to see his daughter move. I know friends of mine who raved about going to the game, yet couldn’t recollect one decisive moment of the game itself.
My first game this season I attended without my wife. David, my Canadian cohort, and his adult son, Craig joined me along the left field bleachers at the top of the stadium where we stood with our elbows on the wall and the only cool breeze to be found. Our cost of admission was $55 pesos or less than four dollars. Our beer man never wandered more than twenty feet from us. Cost of a beer $20 pesos or a dollar fifty. Has anyone been to a ballgame in the States lately to compare with those prices? I believe that a beer in AT&T Park goes for at least $8 gringo. Given the bargains we were enjoying left us a bit giddy. Watching the jumbotron without wives left us in a most jocular mood. Our banter would have impressed no woman I know. This was so much fun.
The fun wasn’t being had just by the men though. The Venados mascot is hilarious. He would be banned for some of his antics in the States, but this is Mexico. He attacked good looking women of film. In a game my son and wife attended the mascot ran in a full sprint when one woman on the complete other side of the stadium stood up and started to shake, rattle, and roll. The music became seductive. The mascot, deer antlers and all dove in for a kiss. He scores. The crowd went wild. He made a few more really inappropriate physical gyrations as the game descended into the evening’s trivia. Who won that game? Oh yeah that was the night we thought the game started at 8 instead of when it did start at 6. We caught an inning and a half, but that’s another story. Jake’s highlight of the night wasn’t the mascot, but that the beer man didn’t leave until the lights of the stadium went out. None of this capping the sells after the seventh inning takes place here.
Speaking of the seventh inning, Jaime, the kindest human being I have ever met, but a Mexican male, has a tradition that bears repeating. After the seventh inning, those in the cheapest seats like ours, can travel down to the center of the concession stands where the good food is sold. It is outside the stadium, but it has two mongo sized screens so you miss none of the game. Jaime doesn’t go there for the food though. If a man stands in the correct location, he can see jumbo screens and more importantly, all of the women as they make their way to the restrooms behind you. When I mentioned that women come to be seen, I meant that they wear clothes that beg a camera to zoom in on. When a Mexican woman decides to dress to impress, we are talking about tight pants, high heels (higher than I have ever seen any where), and a top that …well … a nice top.
January 2010
Mazatlan is an indigenous Indian name for “Land of the Deer”. Although a deer is not the most ferocious critter to ban an athletic team’s mascot, Venados (Spanish for deer) works for the Triple AAA and most popular professional team in this city. Every Venados baseball game is televised, yet the locals fill the stadium for most games because the experience of attending has so little to do with baseball. It is a happening place to be and to be seen.
Although the entertainment value of attending a Venados game transcends baseball, don’t be fooled into thinking that this isn’t baseball at a lofty level. Since the regular season takes place from October to late December, many major league players come down to Mexico to work on their game. Mexicans take pride in playing in front of their people, so this league attracts the best players Mexico has to offer. Adrian Gonzales who is a super star for the San Diego Padres has played for the Venados in past seasons. His brother has played for the past five years here. It is not uncommon for the biggest stars to all of a sudden appear on a roster during the playoffs.
Mazatlan’s Venados sets records for attendance each year. The popularity of the games isn’t solely due to the level of play. Sure many men attend the games with their compadres. Others bring their sons to their passion. So why do so many women and men who could care less about baseball buy tickets? For the women it is to be seen. The men in charge of the jumbotron mostly show outrageously attractive and well endowed women. There is some narration going on, but unfortunately, my espanol is not strong enough to share in the audience’s laughter. I want you to know that once a woman is on screen though, all coy, demure, and shy behavior disappears. They beam, often stand up, and sometimes move in ways a father doesn’t want to see his daughter move. I know friends of mine who raved about going to the game, yet couldn’t recollect one decisive moment of the game itself.
My first game this season I attended without my wife. David, my Canadian cohort, and his adult son, Craig joined me along the left field bleachers at the top of the stadium where we stood with our elbows on the wall and the only cool breeze to be found. Our cost of admission was $55 pesos or less than four dollars. Our beer man never wandered more than twenty feet from us. Cost of a beer $20 pesos or a dollar fifty. Has anyone been to a ballgame in the States lately to compare with those prices? I believe that a beer in AT&T Park goes for at least $8 gringo. Given the bargains we were enjoying left us a bit giddy. Watching the jumbotron without wives left us in a most jocular mood. Our banter would have impressed no woman I know. This was so much fun.
The fun wasn’t being had just by the men though. The Venados mascot is hilarious. He would be banned for some of his antics in the States, but this is Mexico. He attacked good looking women of film. In a game my son and wife attended the mascot ran in a full sprint when one woman on the complete other side of the stadium stood up and started to shake, rattle, and roll. The music became seductive. The mascot, deer antlers and all dove in for a kiss. He scores. The crowd went wild. He made a few more really inappropriate physical gyrations as the game descended into the evening’s trivia. Who won that game? Oh yeah that was the night we thought the game started at 8 instead of when it did start at 6. We caught an inning and a half, but that’s another story. Jake’s highlight of the night wasn’t the mascot, but that the beer man didn’t leave until the lights of the stadium went out. None of this capping the sells after the seventh inning takes place here.
Speaking of the seventh inning, Jaime, the kindest human being I have ever met, but a Mexican male, has a tradition that bears repeating. After the seventh inning, those in the cheapest seats like ours, can travel down to the center of the concession stands where the good food is sold. It is outside the stadium, but it has two mongo sized screens so you miss none of the game. Jaime doesn’t go there for the food though. If a man stands in the correct location, he can see jumbo screens and more importantly, all of the women as they make their way to the restrooms behind you. When I mentioned that women come to be seen, I meant that they wear clothes that beg a camera to zoom in on. When a Mexican woman decides to dress to impress, we are talking about tight pants, high heels (higher than I have ever seen any where), and a top that …well … a nice top.
"Monday, Monday, can't trust that day..."
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.
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.
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.”
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