Turn The Page

I do apologize for the hiatus. It seems that I was busy with the end of the school year, trying to find a job for next year and my kid brother coming to visit. Sit back, breathe and take this with 3-5 grains of salt: I'm leaving Mexico. Yes, after seven incredible months I have decided to come back to Ann Arbor. Truth be told I don't really want to come back, but the situation calls for desperate measures. As I'm not part of the teachers syndicate yet, when there aren't classes I don't get paid. I was also offered a position in a most-nefarious Art Fair crowd ridden kitchen. So here I am, typing away in the Monterrey International Aeropuerto, reminiscing on the dream that I'm about to wake up from. The good thing is that Mexico isn't going anywhere (at least no further than the US).

One Neat Shot

...A walk into the distance....

Captain's Log: Corpus Cristi

Let's just say its the two days of the year where you get to dress up like old people and dance for fruit and candy in the street. There I said it. Every year around this time comes the greatly anticipated celebration of "Corpus Cristi" or "Dia de Los Viejos" (Day of the Old Folks). It's actually something of importance within the Catholic Church, who really knows what Christ's Body day entails: all I know that it was last Wednesday and Thursday. The tradition is a midday Wednesday mass, everyone in their respected colonia, then assorted dancing and merriment in and around the colonia. Then on Thursday an 8am procession from each of the colonias diverges on the plaza of downtown Temascalcingo. Let me just say that the vibe is crazy. Supposedly the old men and old women are dancing for rain (as it mysteriously rains like clockwork two days after the dancing). Now these old folks aren't just velcro shoes and prune juice, were talking elaborate disguises! Traditionally the men of the village dress in over-sized pillow-stuffed garments and wear wrinkled old-people masks and have over-sized accessories. The masks alone are completely ridiculous. The traditional mask is made from the dried ultra-light root system of the maguey and carved into elaborated wrinkled faces. Once the design is carved, cow dung is spread over the surface to give a leather skin-like completion. Once the features are smeared on, ixtle, or the dried ultra-white maguey root is carefully assembled as hair, mustaches, beards and eyebrows. Finally upholstery sponges are used and bicycle tire inner-tubes are used to secure the mask to the dancers head. Almost everyone wears lucha libre masks underneath their old person facade, as it hides their identity and traps the sweat from getting in their eyes. I unfortunately didn't have the pleasure of a wrestling mask (as I'm still broke) and when the sweat started staining my corneas I suddenly regretted not stealing one. So here I am, Wednesday morning. It's hot as sin and I'm dressed up like an old lady: wrinkled mask, linen dress, sandals, cane, stuffed derrière and two grapefruits as, well, chesticles. I must admit that when buying a bra for my old lady costume caught the girl at the lingerie store by surprise. I went in asking for the largest bra they had. Let's just say that it wasn't even close to the mammoths I've seen passing through Sears in the states. I politely asked her for a larger one, as it was for my grandmother. She looked uncomfortable. I then slipped in that if I was this giant, she should imagine my grandmother. She went to the back of the store and produced an equally medium-sized brassiere. She still had not gotten the point. I then told her that my grandmother's had fallen and were now being tucked into her skirt elastic. The girl looked like she might get sick, and got me yet another equally mediocre example. I grabbed the linen-ware and told her granny would have to squeeze 'em in, paid the $15 ($1.25USD) and was out the door. I looked back over my shoulder as I was leaving to catch her staring at me, all I could do was smile. With my new costume in place, my spiritual advisor, Karlos with a K, gave me a crash course in the old person dance and we were on the way. It was much like dancing reggae on molten lava in slow motion: a quarter jump, quarter hop, quarter groove and a quarter shuffle seemed to be the recipe. Along with the dancing came incoherent wailing from the supposed geezers and to finish - ragtag fiddle/tambor (bass drum) "music". The three-stringed fiddle was being manned by a toothless farmer while his ogre of a son untimely banged the tambor. Yes, this was going to be an experience. Since we were late, the group of old folks had already left to assault the colonia. We followed the yells and tambor for about 15 minutes until we found them. There were about thirty dancers dancing in the yard of a house with about 70 onlookers cheering the group on. We quickly hobbled into the masses and started dancing away. In about three minutes time I was exhausted and salty sweat began to perforate my pupils. The dance must go on. We danced for about three hours in various yards, streets and fields until we were given a break. We had arrived at the house of an actual old person who had prepared charape for all. Charape is a most wonderful concoction: It starts as an ordinary batch of pulque (mmm...) and is spiced up with unrefined sugar and a slurry of fermented corn and extracts to make a most wonderful and intoxicating beverage. I was warned not to drink more than a cup because I would "be on my ass drunk", so I drank about five cups. It was so hot and the charape so delicious that I couldn't stop. The interesting part was that I didn't get drunk, or even tipsy. In fact it only gave me more fuel to dance. Refueled, we assaulted the streets again, asking for candy and fruit in every storefront and house that we danced for. I only lasted about five hours, as I had to cook a fifty person banquet in another city. My mask and stuffed linen garb were soaked from hours of dancing. It also turns out that I had three quarter-sized blisters on my right hand that had been ripped open by my cane. Bleeding, I changed into my cooking uniform. A neighbor came by with a cool bag of tapache. Tapache is a curious pineapple drink, that, when cold can only be described as 'godly'. Somewhere in between nectar and heaven, the yeasty-alcoholic goodness disappeared within seconds, I slapped on a few band-aids and was of to work. Corpus Cristi 2009 had officially been a success!

Further Adventures of Breadline Tuck

With "La Luchadora" in almost working condition, it was time to tackle the weekend. Saturday morning it was up early and on to play rehearsal. Don't get your knickers in a knot, I'll explain. To make a short story even shorter, one of my students who goes to high school in Atlacomulco, asked me to direct a short scene. How could I say no? I had a great stint as an actor in high school and here was my chance to give back. So I went to the high school to talk with the teacher in charge. Maestro Juanito, or so he is called had a striking resemblance to a clean-shaven Gimley and was very cordial in contracting me. He commented that they never had a theater presentation before and he'd love for me to "share my craft". He had chosen a scene from "El Espejo" which involved a husband coming home to find his wife alone, dressed in dinner attire at three in the morning. Her lover is hiding in the bathroom, wrapped in a shower curtain as she tries to keep her hubby from entering. He finally enters and questions the dame. A plumber, her brother and a whole slew of lies come from her mouth, until the man passes out after being deceived by his own wife. Not to tough, even if he was giving me only ten days to rehearse and if the students had never acted before, but I love a good challenge. So Saturday I had the "half-way" rehearsal (five down and five to go). Not to toot their own horn, but the kids were stunning: the boy manly and wacky (as the scene called for) and the girl breathtaking (just the way I like it). We rehearsed for a few hours then it was each on their own way (It was Saturday and they were high school students). A low-key evening ensued as I got ready for my debut as a party photographer. A neighbor had called on me to document her daughter's two-year birthday fiesta. I had my reserves, as I'd never photographed for anything more than for some lousy blog. She waved $400MP under my nose and my camera suddenly had a full battery. Sunday morning she recruited me into helping make tamales and then on to the big photography debut! I snapped some 350 pictures over the course of three hours. How could I not keep snapping away with a specimen tan linda! The little girl, Melissa, was absolutely stunning. From her not wanting to hurt the piñata, to eating cake by the fistful , she was lovin' the party. After some formalish shots I took her on a walk by the canal in her favorite toy car. This is where she shined: fake flowers in hand and grinning ear to ear. I've also left you with a picture of the near-decapitated Minnie Mouse piñata and 180 degrees of the mob that flocked. In Mexico there are a few very distinct types of dress, here we see a great example. The rockero (the rock-and-roller): Judas Priest T-shirt, leather jacket, jeans, biker boots, long hair, and sunglasses. It's funny because just by looking at him you know what kind of music he listens to, what he'll ask to drink and where he was last Friday night. In the background we also see a prime example of an adobe shack, clothesline and gossiping women. What a beautiful moment. After the cake was cut and divvied up, I went to take a leak. Folks, there's no way to put it pleasantly, I peed in the canal. Yes, the family didn't exactly have a bathroom (they did have a sheet partitioning a corner of the cornfield for Number Two), so I had to improvise. It wasn't the classiest thing I'd ever done, but on the way back to the fiesta, I caught Melissa's four year old aunt in a most candid pose. Marian Monserrat (or Monce) as she is called was sitting in the threshold of the shack deep in thought, slowly nibbling her birthday pastel. I stood there for a few minutes snapping away until she saw me and immediately turned beet red. The party was a success and I went home to get ready for another sunny Monday morning.

Captain's Log: Bonito Juarez

I am a firm believer that every man at some point of his life goes through a "gunfighter" stage and needs a picture as proof. That point for me was about ten years ago when I was crazy about Wyatt Earp, Bittercreek Newcomb, Grat Dalton and "Killer" Miller. The thrill of a brace of six-shooters, armadillo skin boots and a duster, gallivanting around the Old West beckoned me from a young age. Traveling much of the Southwest only sharpened my knowledge of the craft. Here in Mexico more than a decade later, I deceided to revisit my gunfighing roots and don my gunfighting garb for a most epic portrait. 1/3 country gentleman, 1/3 bad-ass, and 1/3 mystery is the recipe for the perfect gunfighter pose. Since we are in the year 2009 and I, in fact have no gun, I had to modify, but the formula reamins the same. For the country gentleman, I elude my profession with the painfully elegant Geoffrey Beene fresh-manure-brown polyester suit coat. The bad-ass is captured 1/3 in the jeer, 1/3 in the headwear and 1/3 in the footwear. I chose a deadpan stare, a most threatening bone-colored hat and slick brown calf-skin kickers. For the mystery I chose the sinister "hand in the pocket" and the suspicious all-grey background. Folks, I don't even know what I have in my pocket...I'm that mysterious. As for the ungiving background, I could be in my bathroom, the morgue or in a Michigan cloud. I just need a name...I was thinking Bonito Juarez or 'Tuck the Nasty'.

The Adventures of Breadline Tuck

Monday morning I woke up with $0USD to my name. I didn't even have enough to take the guilero (antiquated commuter bus) to Sta. Rosa to teach my Monday morning class. On a prayer I jumped into my new car and hoped for enough gas to get me there. I got there, and back, I also lied: It's not exactly new. I'll explain: Last Thursday I was driving home from class when I saw a most enticing 1979 VW Microbus. Now I've always wanted a VW bus, mostly because they are amazing (and I don't exactly fit into a Beetle.) I pull over and ask a most craggled man about the price. The man seemed to be on another planet and surely had William McKinley beat on eyebrows. He told me that it was, Mauro, his brother who I wanted to talk to and that he would be back "later". The problem was that I couldn't exactly come back "later" as I had class then play rehearsal, then more class. Hmmm. It would have to wait. Friday rolled around and I found myself face to face with the notorious Mauro. He was one of these guys who had a space in between his teeth and chain smoked Raleigh cigarros. He told me that he wanted $11,000MP for her and if I was interested. I in fact was quite interested, but seeing as I had $37 pesos to my name, it didn't seem very feasible. I thanked him kindly and told him I'd get back to him when I rounded up the remaining $10,063 pesos. Mauro almost laughed and showed me out the door. Before I could say "Emiliano Zapata's ghost" Mauro, as soon as he saw it, was asking about the 1976 Renault 5 I had drove up in. Small talk ensued and finally he offered the bus to me for a good-old-fashioned switcheroo. I couldn't say no. What a beaut! The VW is white with Bond-O blemishes pocking its stressed skin. Spiderweb cracks dance across the windshield, rear window, side window, rear-side window, and side-rear window and the rear-view mirror are also broken. No seats, dashboard, or spare tire to speak of. The driver-side door only opens form the inside, the passenger-side door only opens from the outside: a perfect harmony of ying and yang. The good news is that the windshield wiper (yes, singular) works and that the back is tiled in faded-blue faux-mother-of-pearl linoleum. Mauro doesn't have any paper (except the lining from the Raleigh carton) so we decide to do the business on Mondays, still trading the cars at this moment. No worries. I attend to some business and home. It's about ten at night, and tired, I think to take the shortcut by the haunted dam. Bad decision. The bus shorts out on a most steep 35 degree incline. I pop that bad boy into R and plan to push start the bus down the hill. Just my luck. The bus hits a rock and stops dead in it's tire tracks. No problem: I'll just give it a push over the rock to get some speed and jump in to pop the clutch. Easy enough. I jump out of the bus and position myself in front of the depressingly smashed windshield and 1-2-3 GO! The VW jumps the rock as planned, starts gaining speed as I go to open the driver-side door. As my fingers fumble to open the handle I realize that the door only opens from the inside! Hijo de su pinche madre! I wildly scamper to the other side as the bus races towards an adobe house. I think I hear children praying before bed just audible through the laminate roof. My mind races as I picture their indigenous faces clasping their rosaries as their mother warms up fresh donkey milk, so they can get to sleep. A tear jerks to my eye as the passenger-door catches and I jump inside. I frantically wriggle into the helm and slam on the brakes. I stop millimeters away from the earthen wall as I hear the children squeak "....amen." My heart sighs as I right the bus to the road. Another try and I'm off. This time I take the canal, a much planer, yet scary route. My luck kicks in again, as the VW shorts again. My patience and regulator are fried so I opt to crash on the dingy linoleum. The night was for the least, chilly and dis-concerning, as the canal is haunted. Luckily no llorana gave me trouble. I awoke to push the luchadora to my friends house and we got the mighty beast running, but I needed a second opinion. The only mechanic in town that isn't a total cheat is this guy I met at a first communion bash. I hadn't caught his name, could be the fact that he's a deaf-mute and I don't know Spanish sign language. I spent an hour deciphering his signs (although the only sound he can manage is a rolled rr (incidentally the problem with my transmission)) Anyhow, He fixed my problem and with a new regulator on board, I was on the way. So "El mudito" (the little mute) had saved the day.

...To Be Continued...

Captain' Log: News from the Barrio

Another Wednesday night. It's a rainy one. Soggy really. Rain was the last three nights, to be exact. What to report? Today I walked a lot, a real lot. I got to class in Santa Rosa where I usually have two hour-long classes: one 1st-3rd grades and the second: 4th-6th grade. Of course to be fair to all of the kids we switch which group I work with first and the classroom, so everyone gets equal rights. Just like yesterday, the 3rd-6th graders has a state assessment test and would not be having class today. Great. I just had gotten a text message yesterday telling me that the starter for "El Zapatito" was fixed. Oh, it did also mention that it would cost me $1000MP instead of the quoted $400MP. Tricky: I only have $1300MP to my name. The class goes off without a hitch. We learn the people in the family. it went something like this...

"How old are you Teacher?" ...

"48"

Niños gasp

"Teacher your upping your age!"

"You're right I'm actually 47!"

Niños laugh

dramatic pause

"Teacher how old is your mother"

"97"

Niños gasp

dramatic pause

"What does your dad look like?"

" He's a perfect blend of Al Franken and Al Roker."

Niños groan

Kids say the darnedest things. But the real treat comes from bullshitting with the custodian, Manolo. Now Manolo has bigger teeth on the left side of his mouth: starting with the left front tooth. He invites me to a 650ml Coca. We're one-upping each other on stories when Jerry and Roger come up to me. Roger and Jerry were born in Madison, Wisconsin to Mexican parents. They are whiter than snow and hauntingly resemble freckle-less Alfred E. Neumans. "Teacher have you ever played Spin-T-Bottle?" I take the last swig from the glass bottle and spin it on the ground - You tell me Jerry...if that's your real name!

It may be the lack of English language media or the Lethal Weapon-in-Spanish marathon that I just finished, but I'm getting a little campy. Another great Wednesday night unadulterated blogging session. I have too much to say so I leave you with a few pictures from my last endeavor to Celaya, Guanajuato. The first is yours truly, ready for a night on the town. The second is one of many stores that specialize in Cajeta: a thick, caramelized goat milk spread. Every shape and size, color and flavor can be found in Celaya, which is know for the tasty treat. 10-4.

Captain's Log: Michigan Jones

Where to start?! For starters, I don't have swine flu. The scare is nearly over. I haven't had work in two weeks. Okay, I haven't had work in the schools since the 24th of April. I have been working with a welder, helping fabricate and install windows, doors and tin roofs. Yesterday I cooked a shish-kabob buffet for 50 complete with a rainbow gelatin salad and fruit spread. Then, another most alluring invite: swimming in a freshwater pool. Sounds simple. Not quite. What they failed to tell me: the pool was 20km. away. No biggie. Oh, and we were going to walk it. Not so bad, a nice trail and on to swim. It turns out that the path was actually a 2 ft. wide aqueduct perched some 250ft. on a canyon wall. We got to the entrance of the aqueduct and a most brutal hike to the trail. We reach the trail in no time and are soon seeing cars the size of matchboxes. Let me backtrack. The potable water for the municipality of Temascalcingo is piped in from a very small community called Pastores. The water from Pastores is all fresh ground water that is basically hijacked by the village and travels the 20km. route by a cement channel. This cement channel travels about 250ft. above the canyon floor, as to ensure water pressure and to avoid tampering. The channel is capped by 2ft. square flat rock tiles. So here we are on top of this two foot wide "trail" meandering through the mountains. Actually the hike was quite nice: the aqueduct is level and the sun was shining. We walk for about an hour until the trail stops a three foot high opening in the mountain. A tunnel! Not having a flashlight or Raid, we decide to switchback up the mountain side to find inlet of the labyrinth. Atop the mountain and all is revealed! We see that we are not even a quarter of the way to the pool. We quickly find the trail once again and enter a new canyon. Stunningly picturesque. It's about this point when we find a moulted snake. (note the extremely manly, snake skin-wielding picture of yours truly) After the first snake skin found we come to a portion of the trail where its to all fours. So, here we are crawling on this most narrow ledge when we are overcome by a most rancid smell. Quite curious. Looking over the edge we find the source: a most twisted horse carcass. It seems that the horse was grazing another 150ft. above the ledge and slipped. As you can see by the picture it still had on its reigns. (please note that the horse is zoomed in on and that it was actually 200ft. below us.) Hmm macabre. No time to stare its back to the crawl. About fifteen minutes of crawling and we're past the rock face. Another hour of walking and we start to see the lush trees of the freshwater springs. This is the point where things get adventurous. We come to the trestle where the aqueduct crosses the river. There are two ways to go. One is crossing the 75ft. high trestle (see picture, and yes it is that trestle, and yes it is that high) or adding another kilometro to the agenda and walking to the next bridge. By this point we're famished and ready for a dip. Trestle it is. Now I've never thought of myself as an Indiana Jones type of guy, but cross a 200ft. long trestle some eight stories above a river and you fell pretty damn adventurous. It turns out that there's a ten foot wall blocking the other side of the trestle, so we have to re-cross the river and go the extra mile. I had a nifty video of me crossing the river and almost slipping and swearing in spanish, but it didn't upload. We get to the other bridge, cross, and climb up to the pool. The pools are about waist high, and slippery as Kenickie's hair. The absence of chlorine makes the pool a haven for algae. The water is most refreshing, even if the guy next to me was bleeding. Good ol' hygiene. We spend a buen rato in the pool, then it's on to eat. The rest of the family of my friends have arrived and are grilling steak and longaniza. We gorge ourselves. After the food session, we wander past the pool and stumble across a 60ft. waterfall. The Rio Lerma is terrible polluted. They say that 25 years ago the water was clean enough to drink, not so much now. The waterfall is stunning (see picture), even if the water is a teal-beige color. The sun is setting and we watch it fall behind the mountains. The group has grown to 19 people, we all get into the back of a Dodge and head home. What a day for Michigan Jones!

One Neat Shot

Captain's Log: Viernes Santo

I didn't really understood what they meant by a Catholic country. I mean Christmas was mildly excited with the posadas (the re-creation of Mary and Joseph's search for shelter, if you will), piñatas, atole and visporas (scarily-close proximity fireworks). But Holy Week is another story. Besides masses every day and the daily traffic jam due to saintly processions or the occasional brass band practicing. People are relaxed, school is out and people are traveling, family comes to town, family goes out of town. It is a beautiful time. I didn't give much thought to the Holy week celebrations until the Good Friday shebang was thrown upon me. I woke up Friday morning and went to my adoptive mothers house, everyone was up and getting ready for the big procession. Now I had hear that in the downtown of the town and the centro of the colonia where I live host a Good Friday procession. Great. I thought a bunch of over-righteous zealots with their candles lit condemning the sinners. I was wrong to say the least. I went ahead of the fam to catch a glimpse of the procession, camera ready. I took the 15 minute hike straight up into the foothills intent on intercepting the procession before they left the church. Halfway to the church and I hear a most curious sound: coconuts falling out of a flatbed in the rain. I round the corner and am overcome by a cavalry of Roman soldiers and hundreds of followers (the horses the coconuts and the bare feet on cobblestone the rain). I quickly jump out of the way as to not get run over by the caped riders. I snap a few pictures as I move to the gutter. After the cavalry passes, a most realistic Jesus passes, wielding a giant cross, tunic, barefoot and wearing a crown of thorns. Two "thieves" tied to logs follow with two dozen soldiers whipping them every step of the way. The soldiers become teenagers wielding spears, flanking an army of white robed, barefoot, masked figures wielding equally giant aquamarine crosses. Followers find themselves intermingling the white clad figures, singing, praying and documenting the occasion (see video). The procession lasts about two hours, and ends up at the neighborhood church. At the church we encounter another slew of weeping women, Pontius Pilate, more guards and three crucifixes. When Christ and the thieves reach the "stage" they are tied to the crucifixes and promptly hoisted vertically into the air. The dialogue is then recreated, and Christ speaks from the cross. Pretty darn powerful. At this point I was drenched with sweat and decided to get a tamarind flavored raspado (bagged shaved- ice) and took a perch to watch the people pour out of the courtyard. Much different from the services back home. Now I think I know what they mean by a Catholic country.

Candido and the Money Pit

Another fellow elementary school teacher extended a most alluring invitation: a mountainous hike to have a picnic. How could I say no? So I show up at his humble adobe at eight in the morning and we packed the essentials: one camera, one 3L Coke, 1kg. tortillas, 2kg. ribs, salt, 10 hot peppers, 2 onions, a comal, a machete and we're on the way. I must digress. On the way back from the butchers Maestro Javi (as he is called, second picture down, with yours truly) starts to tell me how he hasn't exactly visited this mountain in some 22 years and how he hopes to remember the trail and whatnot. Now I'm always up for an adventure so why not? Here come the part where he's telling me about when he was a kid and he had to go up the mountain in the wee hours of the morning to get firewood with his trusty burro, when we spot Candido. Candido is one of the village drunks. He is walking on the side of the road in a most sweaty cowboy hat wearing work boots tied shut with wire. Maestro Javi instinctively pulls over and asks what he's doing. Supposedly he's on the way to help someone with some cement pouring or something. Javi looks at me and whispers that Candido knows the way. We lure him into the van with talks of free ribs and pulque, he quickly climbs in. We drive to the foot of a most steep mountain and park outside of a pulquria. Now pulque is a most intoxicating nectar, made from the maguey, a type of agave. The pulque regrettably has the consistency of semen, but a deliciously sour taste. We order 2L to go and are on the way. Damn, it was a long way to the top, the 15 degree climb was filled with boulders, cacti and dried leaves, the perfect combination for slippage. After twenty minutes of hiking we come across a most giant hole (Last picture). Nearly 2m wide and almost 3m deep, there was only one man who could explain: Candido! In between swigs of pulque he explains that two weeks back a rancher saw fire coming from the very spot. Now the Mexican culture is mighty suspicious and seeing plumes of fire in the mountain is certainly not just effect of too much pulque. Thinking it was buried treasure, the rancer hired Candido and a few other drunks to excavate in the middle of the night. Three nights and who knows how much pulque later the rancher quickly realized that the hole was empty. So much for the mony pit, at least we know we know why the giant hole is there. We keep on trudging. after another hour of grueling hiking and who knows how many pulque pit-stops, we arrive at the mesa of the mountain. The fauna has change to a conifer-forest with 200ft. pine trees and mule paths peppering the forest floor. Another fifteen minutes and we're in a clearing, a perfect spot to picnic. We eat ribs (Third picture down), drink pulque and nap in the shade listening to the sound of the wind tickling the pine needles and bathed in the sweet smell of pine tar. After two hours in paradise we decide to make the descent. Only a few gulps of pulque left and we run across a pack of burros, and a few leñeros (firewood gatherers), share some stories and are on the way. Let's just say that the pulque made the hike down the hill a tumble, but we made it (First picture: Candido, dog, liters of pulque) and all in time to grab another few liters before the pulqueria closed. Mission accomplished.

One Neat Shot

"El Zapatitio"
1976 Renault 5
The New Ride

Captain's Log: The Cockfight

I never thought I'd ever go to a cockfight. It's somewhat of a joke in the Northern United States. Here I am, in Northern Mexico state, a gringo who'd never even touched a live chicken, let alone a gamecock. A fellow elementary teacher had been ranting and raving about the wonders of clandestine cockfighting. I just had to give it a gander. Like I said, I'm from Ann Arbor, Michigan what do I know about cockfighting. He invited me to see his house which is also home to some 35 gamecocks in every possible capacity: Mature, young, hens, chicks, wounded, and even a few unhatched eggs. From there he gave me the full crash-course in gamecocks, from how to hold them to how to fight them, the rules of the tournament and the difference in races. Remarkably beautiful animals these gamecocks are! Each race has their own distinct coloration. I helped him choose two pollos (roosters under a year old) who weighed 2 kg. and 1.9kg. respectable to fight. He told me that Saturday there would be a clandestine cockfight in the foothills of a neighboring mountain. I couldn't say no. I get to his house around noon, we crate and load the gamecocks and are on the road by two. After about twenty minutes of braving a most rocky trail, we reach a field. The field is flanked by an array of cowboys, cholos, crooks and I think I saw a pirate somewhere in the crowd. To one side is a small adobe building with some señoritas selling snacks and a most sweaty bandito manning an antiquated scale. They thirty-or-so people are milling about with crates looking for another willing cock-fighter with an equal weight gamecock. When the match is found the betting begins: the stakes are set and off to the amaradores. The amarador (see first picture) has the most dangerous job of the whole operation: he ties the razorblades on the gamecocks. Not only are the razors lethally sharp but the gamecocks are ready to fight. Using a combination of moleskin-like cloth, a small cover and a waxed tread the amarador affixes the navaja (razor, second picture) to the espolón (top-most talon) and its off to the ring. Each amarador has his own box of tricks, about the size of a shoe box, usually intricately carved in gamecock motif. With the rooster tied, the match made and the wager set we were off to the ring. By the time we are ready about sixty people have assembled and are ready for blood. We pass the gamecock to the sueltador (the guy who releases the cocks for the fight) and they're off (see video). This is our gamecock winning the match by a razor slash to the esophagus. Our rooster came out clean, and won us $1500 pesos (most people make less than $1000 pesos weekly). Not to shabby for fifty seconds of battle. By the time we leave the crowd had grown to about 150 people, we had played another gamecock, won $1000 pesos more and were utterly baked by the pounding sun. Another great Saturday afternoon in Mexico.

Captain´s Log: Some crazy weekends

Two weekends ago I had the divine pleasure of visiting El Borbollón, an eco-tourist volcanic hot spring. Besides forgetting my camera, I did get a real nice sunburn. The water is pea-green, apparently due to all of the salt and sulfur in the water. Besides the constant bubble of the volcanic blow hole, the natural oasis provides the finest volcanic mud I´ve ever seen! Black as coal and finer than sand, this mud is said to have skin-healing powers. I think in the United States it´s called exfoliation. So, I took about nine layers of skin off, but had a most wonderful time and even got invited to temazcal (sweat lodge) for the next full moon. Quite a successful Saturday! Monday was Benito Juarez day here in Mexico, there was no school so I went fishing. Now before I finish, let me elaborate. This lady who sells raspados (bagged sno-cones) invited me to go with her husband, one who they call Camello and his brother Calaco (Camel and Bones, respectively, I still don´t know their real names). She told me that we would go to the dam (I assumed it was the haunted one that´s ten minutes from my house) and to bring shorts and old shoes, not too much to ask. I get to Camello´s house about eight in the morning, we loaded up and were on the way. On the way out of town we pick up three of Camello´s cousins and grab three kilos of tortillas and four liters of water. I soon realize that we weren´t going to the haunted dam as it flew passed my right shoulder. An hour later and we were had long passed the Querétaro state line. We were in the middle of nowhere when stop in a cornfield in front of a living room sized pond, with water barely knee deep (Mexican knee deep, mind you). Calaco and one of his cousins unravel a homemade net and attach two poles made of pendicua (an extremely hard wood, but only after being charred), they affix seven empty coke bottles to the top of the net and jump into the puddle. They commence to span the puddle with the net and drag the net the entire length of the charco. I couldn´t believe my eyes. Why hadn´t I thought of this before. In Michigan my brother and I fish for sport; here in Mexico we fish to eat! By some miracle we were able to bag three juicy mojarra, two carp and a handful of charales (sardine sized fishies). Apparently Calaco and Camello were more interested in eating than bringin' home the bacon! We make a fire, toss the fish in and VOILA!... fish stew. Side note: The fish were gutted and quartered by a most rusty utility knife that Calaco produced from under the seat of his Chevy S-10. The fish were cut into four, and with my luck I got halved heads. Now I regularly don't eat fish, let alone fish heads, but with Calaco marveling at how lucky we were to have caught these beauties, I felt obliged. To be honest the fish wasn't the most disgusting thing I've eaten in my life, but trying to slurp down the broth with the carp looking you in the eye with that nasty boiled black eye sure wins a close second! We dawdled around some more charcos for another few hours before returning home. We ended up back in Temas having only caught one slimy toad (which Calaco and Camello nearly killed each other for.) Although we didn't have the most successful day fishing, Calacos wife certainly ate a hearty toad dinner! Phew! What a weekend, oh wait, I almost forgot to tell you about THIS weekend. It turns out that my adopted cousin Deniss turned fifteen on Saturday. You might say "big whoop fifteen years old," as I most certainly did. It's Mexican tradition (if the funds are available) to throw a big fiesta to honor the coveted fifteenth birthday. I've been to three of these parties so far, which were a good time: mole, dancing, drinking, and then to bed. Well this was no exception. The only catch was that it was on the other side of Mexico City. The trip was two hours by bus, two by metro, another hour by micro (Volkswagen bus taxis, with about 20 people packed tight) and another fifteen minutes by bici-taxi (bicycle rickshaws) and we were there. The party was thrown perhaps the most depressing place I have ever been to: Chimalhuacan., Edo. de Mexico. Home to some 500,000 desperate people, the town looks like an urban shantytown, each dusty street looks the same with the same drug-addicts and drunks, thieves and soiled doves. Some of the hired wait staff even opted to stay at the event site during the night, as many are robbed of their tuxedos just going home. So here we are four suited gents and two gowned ladies in the middle of the anus of Mexico. The good thing was that nothing happened to us in this most lawless of cities. We get to the giant circus tent and take a seat among the 500+ guests. Carnitas, rice, cactus salad, beer, tequila, fruit salad and finally a 200lb. birthday cake (that cost $800USD!) to top off the buffet. My cousin danced with dancers amidst fireworks and mariachis. Then the party started. The famous Sonido Pancho and the cumbia hit-makers Sonora Dinamita had been contracted to make the party bump. I don't know if it was the long ride, that the beers had run out, or so much dancing but I called it quits at 4:00am. Sonora Dinamita was still playing and the foam party had yet to commence. We took another bici-taxi to a most dingy hotel (I had to ask for new pillows because of all of the rat-chewed holes,) with no electricity and a room service menu that offered three types of condoms. They charged $12USD for the night. We awoke that morning and went to my aunt's house for breakfast. We ate a most delicious breakfast of sesos (beef brains) quesadillas and fresh-squeezed tangerine juice, and were on our way. Let's just say that Monday I had a hard time getting up for work.

Captain's Log: Now you hear from me...

Sorry about the Houdini act I just pulled. You see, I've been quite busy with the job, travels and the rigors of living without water. I leave you with this crazy carved Mayan head, from the Natural History Museum at Chapultepec in Mexico City. Not to worry (if you even were) I´m fine. Apparently this is a dangerous country to live in?! I saw the first images of the Prophet Obama tonight. Actually, it was the first English language media (besides some terrible techno in a disco in Toluca) that I'd heard in over three months. Can´t quite say that it was the happiest news with all of this border violence. I only caught the tail end of the brief as I was eating some tacos, but it sounds like things remain crazy amd are getting crazier. There definatly one American influence all over Mexico - dollars. Just driving through rural Mexico state, you see two-storied mansions in the middle of nowhere just waiting to be finished. Most of the large businesses around have been open with sent dollars. Since I don´t have a t.v. (nor want one) I really have no idea whats going on in the world. I had the pleasure of going to the most unpleasurable Chimalhuacán over the weekend and the tabloids only spoke of more narco violence. Kids are kidnapped from schools, dudes cut up and left in traffic, to name a few. It gets better, one of the giant houses in front of where I live belongs to some locked up narco, who had some neighborhood family holed up down the block. Not to worry, this was long before I blew into town (three months). Since they found the family, the security has been heightened: More cops with machine guns roaming the valley in pickups. I was stopped and searched the other day when I was walking home alone one night (I don´t think that he liked that I told him that I only had a deck of cards and a kilo of tortillas in my backpack.) He gave me the slightest of a hassle, until he only fount the baraja and the kilo, but didn´t even ask where I was from or for my papers. Although they may have Uzis or tactical shotguns, they´re always last to the scene. . . but they were some damn good tacos!

One Neat Shot

Rey Christo, Cerro El Cubilete

Silao, Gto.

Captain´s Log: On to Cubilete

After a successful mid-morning in the boot managerie that is León, we decided to continue on to the Cerro del Cubilete. Not only is the 9,000ft. Cubilete located in the geographic center of Mexico, but is also home to the massive 75ft. Cristo Rey statue. An hour out of León and we arrived the base of the cerro, thinking we´d be up the mountain in a matter of minutes. An hour later and the back of the giant Christ was getting clearer into view. We were carefully dodging the begging children, the peregrinos and the thousand foot drops on the hairpin turns when his face came into view. Now, I don´t consider myself an overly-religious person, but something: the aura or the sheer magnitude awestruck me. Another ten minutes and we were face to face with the Cristo Rey. Not only does the tip-top of the mountain house the gargantuan Christ, but at his feet a temple whos roof is accentuated by a crown of thorns as thick as an oak and as big as a swimming pool. Even if you can´t personally identify with the Cristo Rey, the sheer magnitude of everything strikes you. The road to the top is absolutly treacherous, and every inch is hand laid. The Christ itself is amazing, then to think it´s on the top of a mountain, miles away from anything. After an hour of reflection we decided to attempt the descent. We picked up a peregrino from the Valle de Santiago who, for the sake of his pint-sized pooch decided to hitchhike down the mountain. He was a very humble lawyer who had prayed for a safe operation for an aunt. If the aunt´s operation went as planed, he had promised to make the four hour trek to thank the Cristo Rey. The operation went off without a hitch and he had ascended as promised. I joked that it was a good thing that he hadn´t promise the walk down; he replied that some might say that he didn´t complete the whole peregrinación, but in his line of work there were no fuzzy lines, and he had promised to walk up to the Cubilete, and had said nothing of the walk down! We reached the base of the mountain with just enough gas to get to the closest Pemex, and we were on our way to Guanajuato.

Captain´s Log: Bonito León Guanajuato...

I finally had the chance to visit a good friend of mine. Eloy, or so he is called, lives about 3.5 hours from Temascalcingo in the city of Celaya, Guanajuato. I left friday night after classes and rolled into Celaya at about 10:30pm. In the darkness I really couldn´t get a good feel for the city (and it is rather large) but Saturday morning we took to the road. My first impression: Tucson, Arizona; except the Mexicans here are legal. Truly a dismal place. Flat, with mountains in the distance, smoggy, and a car dealership on every corner of the main drag, with streets leading to various ventricles of the city. To be honest it felt like an American town, at least how it was laid out, average to say the least. The our tour began: To the left the Universidad de Celaya, to the right the Campbell's soup factory, the Peugeot dealership, can´t miss it Home Depot, and the house at the end of the street where narcos left three men in 20 paper bags (you do the math). I loved it more by the minute. The journey continued through Cortazar, Salamanca, Irapuato, Silao and finally the the heart of the tanner's pride: León. We were only a few minutes into León when we came across the coveted Plaza del Zapato, the plaza greatly under-exaggerated, about six square blocks of pure shoes, boots, sandels, belts, wallets, jackets, and anything else leather. I had my heart set on a nice set of boots, not too picuda but just enough to give me the bad-ass image I´ve never rightfully earned. The first store had a great pair at a great price, but not my size (surprise surprise). The beautiful thing about these vendors is that they work in teams: if they don´t have a specific product, they´ll grab your arm and swiftly guide you to some backroom of some other puesto and have you talk to another of their "friends" who always has exactly what you´re looking for. So this friend asked me what I was looking for and joking I said "unas botas de rana" (frog skin boots) and before I had time to smile at my attempted joke the man was off. Where could he possibly have gone? Frog skin boots were the most ridiculous thing I'd ever joked about. Less than seven minutes later the man was back and very apologetic - "Lo siento señor, solo tenemos de sapo" (sorry sir, we only have toad skin) and before I could laugh, he continued "y te olvidé preguntar si queria con cabeza o solitas..." (and, I forgot to ask you if you wanted those boots with or without the heads) and with that produced two pairs of toad skin boots. The first pair, without the head, a most brilliant vermillion, and the second, a most refreshing green, with the head carefully centered just above the pointy toe. The boss came over and explained to me that he only had toad skin, as toads have more skin to offer and covered the entire top part of the foot without having to split the skin, as with a frog. He quickly changed topics to the other fine exotic leathers that he carried: Snake skin, cobra skin, bull skin, manta ray skin, ostrich skin, ostrich-foot skin, armadillo skin, armadillo-stomach skin, crocodile skin, shark skin and then the types of cuts, with the types of toes. He then proceeded to pick out a pair that would fit me nice; a pair of white picuda croc skin boots (see top picture) aside from being incredibly comfortable, they laughably added four inches to my already size 12 feet! The only way I could pull them off would be to join Montez as a percussionist! No, as good as the price was ($1,400 pesos ($100 USD)), I couldn't do it... I settled on a more conventional, still pointed toe, brown cowhide boot. And damn (see above), they look good!

Captain´s Log: Who´s the GIMP now?!

Well, I took the plunge today. I´ve briefly flirted with technology in the past, but today we tangoed. You see, I got out of class early today (due to some sort of almost standardized test). Permiteme tantito - Everytime I think of tests I can´t help but remember my last semester at the esteemed Washtenaw Community College, it was P. Patillo´s English 220 seminar, if I recall correctly. He posed a most troubling question; if quizzes are quizzical, then what are tests? Logically thinking I blurted out testical, right? Sorry, I get distracted by all of this Barry White in my ear - Back to the triumph. So my dear mother bought (yes, she´s not always THAT stingy) me a most technical manual having to do with GIMP 2.6 (an open source image editing program). To be honest, I haven´t really had the time or patience (remember I have some 200 students that are under the age of 10) to really bite into this graphic novel (sorry, really bad pun.) Today I got to thinking: So, I have this blog, I have this book and I have this extra time on my hands, I might as well try to learn a little. It was not quite a battle (maybe a skirmish?), but I held my ground, dug in and gave it hell. The fight was worth the ground gained; after about an hour of figuring out what picture to use, what font to use and what I wanted for lunch (a very important decision) I was able to functionally produce an almost noteworthy edited titlebar (see above, not at me dummy, at the titlebar, like I said). Yay me! So I can successfully say that I have conquered GIMP 2.6 (and I didn´t even need the suit, or gag for that matter!) As ever ungrateful as you may be, please take at least a split-second to bask in (or at least acknowledge) my glory.

The above picture of me is taken in front of the fuente outside of the Governor´s residence in Toluca, Edo. de Mexico. I know that the down coat is a little unnecessary in the scalding sunlight, but my backpack was full, and in the words of Dr. Evil - "throw me a frickin´ bone here..."

Captain´s Log: An even stranger, smaller world...

I had a great little number picked out. This time a tragedy. A chilling story about a boy who was dragged some 300 feet by the oil pan of a F-150, whose brakes had given gave out. Really terrible. It was all typed up and ready to upload... until I got to the cyber. I walked through the door with the gruesome, gritty yarn about a tragic death in the heart of a Mexican pueblo. Then it started...I couldn´t stop laughing. No, I´m not some heartless psycho hosebeast, but I heard it. The Dun Dun Dun Dun Dun of the strings and then that deepest of grumbles "My first, my last, my everything...", even stranger yet was when I looked over at the computer where the sound was coming from; the acne faced, glasses wearing, hair slicker than Danny Zuko, eyes closed, teenager belting Barry White with all of his might. It gets better, the boy was in tune (only about nine octaves higher!) When he finally came to, I told him that the last place I expected to hear Barry White was in this dingiest of internet cafe. This kid told me that Barry White was god and proceeded to name his favorite song (Yust de whey joo aren) and that "...aqui en Mexico amamos Beh-Ree Why!"

The kid was nine. The funeral was most beautiful, I let my students out early to join the hundreds of mourners follow the casket to the panteon. There were so many flowers that day; the procession looked like an endless thread of cempasúchil.

Captain´s Log: Small world, even smaller town

I thought the world was small when I was in Ann Arbor. Things just got a whole lot smaller, and crazier. I remember it like it was yesterday; I was in Mr. Fuehrer's gym class late 2004, we were "practicing" push-ups when the sweaty gymnasium door swung open. There stood a secretary with a most menecing looking Hispanic male. "Okay class, this is Juan..." announced the secretary and without further instruction shoved the boy through the doors and left. Juan stood there not saying a word. The exact details of how we came to conversing has passed me now (something about how to say 'push-up' in Spanish.) To make a really short story even shorter, we got to talking and it turns out that Juan wasn´t really that menicing and more incredibly he is from about 10 miles where I was born! So from San Bernadino County, California to Ann Arbor, Michigan, the two of us...unreal. Fast foreward to last week, the place: The plaza in the centro of Temascalcingo. I´m on my way to work, minding my own business, when my hat gets knocked off from behind. I reel around, half expecting it to be the playful wind, when I see the goofiest Mexican smile I´d ever seen, and, you guessed it...Juan. To make a short conversation even shorter, we both question what the other was doing here and where the other one is living and good to see you and what not, and went on our merriest of ways. I've seen him twice in the calle since then, and every time I can´t help to think of what a small world it is. San Bernadino to Ann Arbor to Temascalcigo...inconcievable!

The above picture was taken from atop a giant boulder in Cruz Blanca, Colonia La Magdalena. I live somewhere in the extreme right, just before the body of water (which happens to be the haunted dam) and just over the outcropping of rocks in the not-so-foreground.

Captain´s Log: Mmm.....

Truth be told, I´d never eaten panza or atole before coming to Mexico. Now that I´m here there´s nothing like a piping hot bowl of panza (this particular recipe: panza (beef stomach), green squash, potatoes all in a spicy caldo) and a mug of minutes-old, piping-hot atole (a porridge like slurry of corn meal, piloncillo -basically just brick unrefined sugar, water, and vanilla) as part of this balanced breakfast. The wonders of the Mexican meal much depends on the occasion and more often, the economic situation. Those who have the luxery of a steady income may eat meat for every meal, while others simply eat beans (which are painfully cheap) and nopales (edible cactus grows on nearly every corner, just grab your knife and careful for the prickers!) One thing is certain, pesos in the pocket or not, no matter where you go, you will be served food. Good old Mexican hospitality!

Captain´s Log: Fishteeth

They were right...When it rains, it pours, and quite literally. I can´t get enough of people telling me how terrible the rains are in June and July here in good old Temascalcingo. I, on the other hand was talking more along the idiom. I have the great fortune of a well-connected adoptive aunt who secured me a classroom in the adult education building here in downtown Temascalcingo. Oh, did I mention that this classroom is rent-free? Yes, I had another offer from a con-artist gringa who wanted to charge me $1,000 (pesos) to teach in the morning: she forgot to mention that nobody wants classes in the morning and that even she didn´t give morning classes. So I decided to go with the first option, eventhough it didn´t have a chalkboard (the remedy is white cardstock, covered in plastic-wrap and a dry-erase marker.) Four hundred flyers later and I opened the doors to my school. The first week I had two students: a three year old who could speak or write in Spanish, and a ADHD+ seven year-old with bladder control problems. Since that first dismal day I´ve gone from fishteeth (fifteen), fart (fork) and ¨I hump in the park¨ (remember, the j in jump is h in Spanish) and way too many bathroom breaks the first week, to three weeks later and over 220 students. From the 37 year old mother who is still trying to finish high school, to my 65 year old neighbor who pays me with lessons in Otomi (the indigenous dialect in the colonia where I live) as she turns her tortillas (she also forces me to eat the ones that don´t pass quality control...rough I know) to the six 45 minute back-to-back classes that I teach in another community - I am drenched in this pouring rain. All corny jokes aside, things are going swimmingly, I can´t complain justifiably. Mondays through Wednesdays it´s to the primaria in Solís and Santa Rosa 8am-2pm. Thursdays it´s Cruz Blanca 2pm-3pm at the telesecundaria (an odd middle school taught over the televison, but with real teachers who only answer questions.) Thats only the morning, everyday 4pm-6pm I´m in my school and then on the th house-calls 6pm-8:30pm. Saturday more house calls, and Sunday no classes given (in fear that I might miss one of my soccer games, of course!) The best news is that I´m almost making $150USD a week! And they say that teaching doesn´t pay.

One Neat Shot

Cruz Blanca, La Magdalena

Temascalcingo, Edo. De Mexico

Captain´s Log: Return to the Haunted Dam

As if the bell at midnight wasn't believable enough . . . I had the esteemed honor to revisit the haunted dam, this time not to bath (although it might prove easier than the barrel method), but to investigate certain rumors of prehistoria. Many people claim that the cerros that straddle the West end of the dam are actually pyramids long covered by earth, rocks and juicy cactus, others will tell you that the hills were actually islands back when the valley was submerged under sixty feet of water, yet others simply steer clear as the occasional skeleton, corpse and cadaver are sometimes “discovered” - prehistoric and not. Yes, it is a mysterious parcel of land, where La Llorona is known to appear and leave drunken men strewn by the wayside, trembling, scratched and in the buff... who knows what really goes on in those hills, but one thing I am sure of is that there certainly are prehistoric rock carvings. The Mexican sun beat like Bobby Brown as we crossed the milpas leading to Mogote, as the area is sometimes called. A few minutes from ground level and we encounter the first carving: a ovular flat-topped rock with two circles and two sets of perpendicular lines etched into the surface in a series of inch-diameter dimples. To be completely honest, we had our doubts...On to the larger of the two hills, and after two very close encounters with a most prickly cactus we arrive at the flat prairie-like bald spot of the hill. We make haste searching around every boulder and pebble, scouring for the supposed second carving. Two litros of water later and we're still scouring the hillside for the persnickety pictograph. I jump a gully and nearly bite it on the remnants of a half-covered rock wall. I turn to give it a piece of my mind and VOILA! It appeared! A most perfect caracol carved into a small boulder. The sunshine casting shadows in the gouged spiral it looked me in the eye. Like Indiana Jones with the holy grail I take off my hat, take a knee and caress the rock, being sure not to miss any striation...I'm sorry... damn editor was supposed to keep things family oriented (I get carried away sometimes.) Needless to say, I had a most wonderful time and stumbled (literally) across a true tesoro. Thank you haunted dam and vicinity!

Captain´s Log: Esqueeky Cleen

So, a bunch of avid readers have been hounding me for more fotos. Patience. Here´s the thing - the internet here in Mexico isn´t exactly up-to-date. Besides the speed of the antiquated connections, my camera takes such damn good pictures with such high resolution, that I can´t post as many as I would like (I also would like to mention that I have no idea how to post slideshows, and the fine people of Temascalcingo aren´t exactly that qualified in blogmaking.) So poco a poco I will get the pictures to you. My dear mother herself commented that she loved the pictures but wanted more grit, more grime, more real life (how I live) if you will. This put me in quite a position as I can really only post one picture at a time...what shot would be gritty, grimy, and yet painfully honesty while demonstration life here in Temas. After taking hundreds of pictures of the dead dogs that the masses throw in the canals, freshly discapitated chickens, burning trash piles and countless adobe shacks, I decided to keep things simple; a sole picture of the bathroom; to demonstrate lack of the amenity that I once thought I would never lack...running water. Yes folks I said it. I live in a house with no running water. When I want to shave...to the 55 gallon barrel out back, when we want to flush the seatless-toilet...to the barrel, when I want to shower after playing futbol for two hours in the burning Meican sun on Sunday (yes, we won, thanks for asking)...to the barrel. From then on the shower process begins: First one must strain the water as there are many sticks, bugs, plants, and the occasional peso that have found their way into the ballel. Next the transfer: move the water from the ¨backyard¨ to the stove and into the giant pot using the 5 gallon bucket (as pictured above.) Then comes the ceremonial heating of the bath water. 15 minutes later we have a warm pot of almost potable water. Once again a transfer into the 5 gallon bucket and onto the bathroom. Here comes the fun part. Squat on the frigid concrete and gently douse yourself with the water (using the small red cubeta pictured above.) CAREFUL DON´T USE TOO MUCH WATER you still need to rinse. All soaped up, next comes the shampoo. Again not too much you only have 3.5 gallons left (it´s tricky when you have as much surface area as I do) and you don´t really want to make the mad naked-saopy dash to the barrel to repeat the water preperation process again! Time to rinse. The water goes fast so make every drop count. Then the drying process. Towels, and my personal favorite, sunning in front the window as you brush your teeth. Phew...who knew that bathing could be so fun, and imagine I get to do it every day!

One Neat Shot

Sunset from Tepeyac

Ciudad De Mexico, Mexico

Captain´s Log: Already!

Ya logré! One month already. A seasoned veteran of the wild Mexican expanses... Well kinda. True, I still have no running water in the homestead, but I haven´t exactly been home much. I finally decided to look for a ¨real¨ job (yea mom, I said it). The last week has consisted of meetings with principals, directors and teachers of various local schools trying to secure a job. So far no such luck, but I won´t know until next week. Not to worry fretting friends and foes, not all has been work. I made time to buy a motorcycle (125cc nothing too crazy), go clubbing in Toluca, bargain hunting in Tepito, and picnicing at a haunted dam. Yes, you read correctly... a haunted dam! Apparently the expanse of water that lies ten minute from my house isn´t a giant charco of raw sewage, but in fact a eerie huanted inland lake. To be completely honest, I wasn´t there when the haunting took place or even there to see the pueblo that once stood in the valley. So the story goes that there was once a small town in a quaint valley close to where I live. In this village there was a church with a beautiful brilliant solid-gold bell that rang every day at noon and every night at midnight. The campana was so loud that it could be heard some 25km away throughout the entire valley. Well it came to pass that there was a flood (really) and the entire village sank. As it goes, nobody was hurt, they had time to get our as the flood waters rose. The entire village is consumed, mind you, the church was rather tall. Today no trace is seen of this mysterious village. Even more incredible is that the farmers in the surrounding milpas built a series of tunnels to siphon water from the lake, forming a dam. Well some years later a group of archeologists tried to raise the famed golden bell and with all of their might couldn´t surface the beast; in fact the bell only sank deeper into the frigid waters. Even more suspicious were the eerie phantom figures the divers saw under the surface of the water. The bell can still be heard some nights at midnight. This is what was told to me as I was about to take a dip into the intense blue water...needless to say i opted out of the swim, I did stick a finger in the water...suspiciously cold for a body of water that small and in the Mexican sun. I do know that I ate dam well that day. It was Domingo and a family invited me to la presa to picnic. When I say picnic I don´t mean PB&Js and a two-liter of Faygo Moon Mist, I´m talking steaks (steaks), longaniza (spicy pork sausage), nopales (cactus), caña (fresh sugar cane) and jamaica (Hibiscus flavored water). We´re not talking Tupperwares either, a grill, comal and about 25 people (of course all piled into one F-150) all helping prepare the feast. Swim that day I did not, but eat a feast next to a haunted dam - another check on the list of things I´ve done in this lifetime. If you hear a bell at midnight. . .