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Mexican Back Power

September 17, 2020

A few days ago, my friend, who is not Mexican, was carrying a chair upstairs, and strained her back. This made me reflect on the backs of Mexicans, who will often carry what strike me as agonisingly heavy loads.

That same day my friend hurt herself, I was helping two other friends move a short distance from a small apartment in one house to a larger apartment in another. One item they were bringing was a circular washing machine. It was about 45 inches high, and half that in diameter, with the usual motor, tub and stabilising weights.

They’d recruited a neighbour to trundle it in a wheelbarrow over a rough, broken track that rose up, then descended for fifty yards. He managed to get it to the rise in the track, but then found it tended to tip or roll out of the wheelbarrow on the downslope. He could have called for us to help steady it in the barrow, but instead he decided to hoist it up on his back, and carry it the fifty yards.

How much did it weigh? Perhaps sixty or seventy pounds. It had casters, and I helped push it into the new apartment on these, but I would never have tried lifting it. If I had, I’d be laid up till November.

When my house was being built, eight years ago, I wondered as the labourers carried building materials up another, much shorter slope and piled them in a stack. Once the walls were done, and the wooden roofing formwork was in place, a gang of men hired for the day carried up full bucketloads of cement on their shoulders, and poured them onto the boards of the formwork. 

These guys had carried up all the blocks they’re shaping and
cementing for the walls around my house.

I didn’t even try to help. I just marvelled they could do it without visibly wincing.

Later, when we moved in, my neighbour Estela needed her large TV to be brought up a slope (we had no proper outside stairs yet) into her new living room. Aurelio, who was seventy-one, hoisted it on his back and carried it, his arms out like wings to stabilise it. I held my breath for nearly a minute as he force-marched himself up the muddy trackway. He needed help getting it down, but it was impressive.

Sure, there’s a macho attitude in Mexico that makes men proud to demonstrate their strength. If you can’t carry a bucket full of wet cement up a stairway, or push a truck out of a ditch, you’re not in the club. But the human body has limits, and I often wonder how labourers survive their working lives without early and serious injuries. I often see men in their early fifties carrying heavy loads, and I can only marvel at the sight.

I think similarly when I visit archeological sites. There were no horses, oxen nor elephants to move those stone blocks into place: it was done by brute human force. 

The most famous example is the Aztec Sun Stone, commissioned by the last-but-one Emperor, Moctezuma II, between 1502 and 1520.

The Sun Stone, moved to Mexico City’s Museum of Anthropology by diesel power, not muscles.

It weighs 25 tons, and was probably moved 22 kilometres for its original installation. Since mesoAmerica never discovered the use of the wheel, that must have been a very slow, exhausting journey. But they did it, they carved it, and they set it in its proper ceremonial place. 

I can only look on in wonder, whether at the monolithic monuments or at guys who carry washing machines and TVs on their backs. Every time I see such a thing, I reflect on the arduous task of making those ancient monuments, and wonder whether there is something in Mexican spinal structures that can take punishment that would give me permanently dislocated joints and disks. But maybe there is just an insensitivity to pain that pampered gringos like me will never understand.

Whatever the explanation, I’m impressed.

Foal Season

September 11, 2020

Not much is happening round here. The rainy season has been lighter than other years that I remember, but we’re getting enough water for the corn and other crops. The pandemic continues, but our corner of Mexico has a relatively light caseload.

The rains this month have brought forth a new batch of foals. They’re both cute and a little comical, being slightly unsteady on their new legs and very shy of strange humans who approach them.

This little filly (above) was old enough to to have the confidence to wander a few yards on her own, away from parental protection. Others that I came across near the village today (below) were much more skittish, and stayed close to their mothers.

And the chestnut colt below took one look at me and my camera, and made a run for it, following his mother up the road. No way was he staying around for a close-up.

My concern always with the animals roaming loose here is the traffic. Local people know they need to watch out for horses and cows, but some visitors see a clear stretch of road and step on the gas. Accidents are rare, but when they happen, they’re ugly.

As always, perspectives on life and death in Mexio are different to elsewhere. That said, I wouldn’t like to confront an angry farmer who saw me knock down one of his livestock.

San Miguelification

September 4, 2020

For several months, I’ve often pondered when might be a good time to make a visit to Toronto, where a bunch of small but essential tasks await me. And my answer each time has been “Not yet.” I’d have to travel on an intercity bus, go through an airport, onto a plane … You know where this goes.

The same reticence doesn’t seem to apply to a small coterie of people coming here to Mexico. Confident in their knowledge that Covid-19 is overrated and unlikely to kill them, they show up scouting for a place that would be better than where they live currently. 

A week or so back, I helped a Californian couple who couldn’t order their coffee in Spanish. The husband was using his Italian, which is not that different to Spanish, but still different enough. They made their requests, I made mine, and I went and sat at a table near them, explaining that the local regulations required distancing, and that non-compliant places have been closed by the authorities.

We chatted a bit, and they explained how they felt their home state was becoming unlivable, even before the fires and the pandemic. They planned to make their new home in Mexico, and while they’d first headed to San Miguel de Allende, they’d heard of Tepoztlan and had come to check it out. And they liked it.

San Miguel, if you don’t know it, is full of millionaires, and million-dollar homes. It’s about as Mexican as Rosedale is typical of Ontario, or Westmount is typical of rural Quebec. I went there once, to visit a well-off Canadian friend, and I’ve never been back. 

San Miguel de Allende, with its distinctive church.

Recently I read an article about wealthy people decamping to New Zealand. They couldn’t seem to grasp, the article’s author pointed out, that the country is how it is because the people there have a respect for certain things, including preserving the natural environment, or acknowledging the Maori people’s contributions. The country didn’t become what it is through having the uber-rich build bunkers on private estates.

The California couple, who in person were pleasant if prone to certain conspiracy theories, had the same problem, I felt. They thought they could leave behind the problems that they themselves no doubt helped create. The relatively small expat community here has some wealthier members, but most of us are not much richer than our Mexican neighbours. We live cheap, and we appreciate it.

We’re also aware that the more people with money come here, the more housing and food will cost for everyone. Local rents have doubled in the past five years, and gone up more than that in the preferred areas. All this affects local working people who themselves need homes, and have families to feed. 

In writing this blog, I do try to point out the downsides to life here. It’s no sub-tropical paradise, and I’m not writing an ongoing advertisement. My corner of Mexico can be challenging in several ways. The locals help, more than you might expect, but they owe us nothing. It’s their village, and their town, and they’re usually happier when visitors … visit. Then go away again.

I hope, then, that we don’t become the next San Miguel de Allende, or Lake Chapala, which has a gringo community of 30,000 retirees along its shores. My cost of living is fine for me now, but I wouldn’t appreciate a big hike in it. Nor do I want every conversation I hear or share to be in English. I didn’t come here for that. You never learn the secrets if you don’t listen in Spanish.

A friend of mine suggested that if San Miguel looks too expensive for people, and they want to see if Tepoztlan would be a better fit, they need the following advice: Drive south from Mexico City, and don’t stop till you see a sign saying “Guatemala, 5 km.” Tepoztlan will be a half hour’s drive past what looks deceptively like a border post.

Yes, that’s mean, and no, I wouldn’t do it. But if your country is starting to suck big-time, please consider that maybe it’s because people there consider they have an inalienable to ‘develop’ anything they can buy. And that trying that here will just replicate the problems you think you’re escaping.

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The Quest for Home

August 25, 2020

Sometimes, on a grey, rainy day like today, I wonder why I’m here, and if I want to stay here. Amatlan is an outlying community, and insular in many ways. People aren’t unfriendly, but only a few welcome outsiders through their doors.

I’m a city person by nature, and when I was young and still living in the UK, I expected to spend most of my life in London, which was less than an hour away by train from my hometown. I ended up living in or around Toronto with its millions for forty years, and I still think of that as my home city.

Toronto

My long-term concept of home – Toronto’s waterfront, seen from Centre Island.

How I arrived there is an unusual tale, and for years I’ve tried writing a book about it. There are three incomplete drafts on my computer, none of which come close to satisfying me. Partly, it’s to do with shyness, or at least an internal debate over privacy; partly it’s to do with perfectionism; and partly because while what I went through back then still fascinates me, I don’t feel my personal story is particularly interesting. I was an observer of my small tribe of iconoclasts, not a major participant.

Now, not having finished a book puts me outside of a particular local club. My buddy Don Karp was first, writing his own memoir called The Bumpy Road a few years ago, detailing his various ups and downs before settling contentedly in nearby Tepoztlan. Shelley (Ixchel) Tucker, my frequent hiking partner, last year published Forever 25, about how she’s dealt with the death on military service of her son Gabriel, which happened while she was living in this village. And a few weeks ago, my neighbour Robin Rainbow Gate published Calling Myself Home, about how she finally found a sense of that mysterious entity called “home” in Amatlan.

Ixchel’s book strikes a powerful chord, since she and I bonded over finding we’d each lost a child. In my case, it was a three-year-old daughter with an undiagnosed condition: I was there with her on that terrible morning my Amanda went. In Ixchel’s case, her son died in Afghanistan, just at the end of his tour of duty, and thousands of miles from home. After publishing the book, she’s found a new community among survivors of war, and the families who’ve lost a child in war, while still living in Mexico, a forty-minute walk from my own home.

I finished Robin’s book three nights ago, and I found it tough going. She and I share certain attitudes to life and to our own selves, and various people crop up in her narrative that I know, or that have been part of my own experience. I can therefore fill in a few details she tactfully chose to omit from her narrative.

But she and I took opposite routes once we came here, a decade ago for me and 14 years for Robin. For her, it’s been a gradual journey into the community, where she has made a broad swath of friends and acquaintances. She’s studied and embraced some of the traditional ways, studying the herbs used in healing, and many of the old customs that linger among the local people.

I had some intentions to do the same thing when I arrived in 2010, but my core inclinations didn’t agree with the conscious intentions at all. I’d made a decent start on the language at The Spanish Centre in Toronto, and I figured I might achieve fluency when I’d been here long enough. But I made the mistake of going to a school here run by a woman who’d try to pack too much information into her students. She didn’t grasp that covering three tenses in one day wasn’t teaching, but a means of producing utter confusion. I left there with my confidence shattered, and spent months climbing back up to rudimentary proficiency. I finally figured out how to communicate with people, but I’ve always had to battle with local expressions, contractions and oddities of dialect.

Maybe if I’d come here earlier, I’d have had a more flexible attitude; Robin was two decades younger than I was at the point each of us found Amatlan. But I’ve always been frustrated by the language, even if at times I’ve felt “I was almost there today!” Going back to Canada for three years didn’t help, even if I did take more Spanish Centre lessons while I was in the city.

Reading Robin’s book, I’ve had to face that I’ve always needed to straddle two worlds. I chose living here because I didn’t have enough money to retire comfortably in Toronto. My long-term job disappeared after the 2008 financial crisis, and I arrived a couple of years before I’d planned to, with less preparation and less cash than I’d wanted. My plans to explore the country bit by bit didn’t get too far when cash became tight, I couldn’t work here legally, and my iffy language skills meant even illegal work would be limited.

And so on, and so on. But at root, I made a different choice.

Working through Robin’s book, I had to look at a number of things about me. I have only a qualified affinity for Mexican folk practices, or the messier aspects of rural life. I still flinch from the way animals here are treated, or how litter is tossed into ditches, eventually to make its way to the sea. I see popular Catholicism as a limiting thing, not an expression of emotionally moving traditions, and I’m not sure how deeply the non-Catholic practices are rooted in antiquity. Further, my spiritual perspectives come out of the “big” esoteric traditions, both Asian and European, not the ones field anthropologists come to study.

I want, in sum, my old lifestyle with its deep-rooted philosophical attitudes, but in a congenial climate that doesn’t feature five months of wind-chill each year. I want to wander hillside trails with vistas stretching miles, but also to know there are okay restaurants at the end of the walk. (There are).  And I want both local Mexican foods and food of a style closer to what I’ve always eaten. The quarantine makes everything harder, naturally, but I have to accept that I might live here with a permanent dissatisfaction.

Down past Xilo copy.jpg

The view from a hillside trail with a vista stretching for miles, down over the town of Tepoztlan.

Robin describes times when it was difficult, but she’s pushed hard to make a multi-aspected life for herself. She’s fought to improve her understanding and reach, as the book shows, while I’ve often (not always) tended to think “Nah, not my thing.” And I’m going to continue feeling that way.

Maybe one day, I’ll go back to these three book drafts and try to convince myself I can lick that story into shape, and join the Amatlan Memoir Club. I sometime wonder, in fact, if for me “home” isn’t in a place, in Mexico, the UK or in Canada, but in being honestly rooted in shaping life-events, and the always forward thrust of life. Robin’s book, for example, traces her own history in some detail as she fought with what she’d been told or taught, and looked for what she truly wanted. Home isn’t necessarily found, so much as attained.

That’s a theme for another post, though.

 

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A Nose for the Facts

August 24, 2020

The dog detective used to be a staple of kids’ TV programs. Usually, it was a photogenic German shepherd, or maybe a collie, that sniffed out the truth of a mystery, woofing the results of its investigations in the last two minutes, then enjoying well-deserved pats from its appreciative owners as the credits rolled.

Victoria isn’t in quite that investigative category, but she’s always been a good security guard. In my early times here, she used to spend her days in the corral here with two other dogs, both now departed, then I’d bring her into my small house for the night. She’d always check around, and if I saw her staring at the wall, it meant she’d detected an intrusive scorpion. I considered it her way of showing appreciation for the dry accommodation, even if I never had that many scorpions coming in.

Vicki, May:19 copy
Vicki starting at … something or other.

She’s a little arthritic and slow these days, and recently had to have a few bad teeth extracted under anesthetic. She still has keen hearing, however and, I realised this week, a reliable sense of smell.

I don’t own a car, but my friend Lucero is living elsewhere for a time, and has left her old Ford Explorer for me to use. The emphasis here is on the word ‘old,’ since it’s a model year 1993, and shows, shall we say, a few signs of its age. However, the motor is still sound, and since I don’t want to ride on public transportation right now, it’s a useful alternative.

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The Ford Explorer, showing just a few signs of its age.

I take Vicki out twice a day, essentially for mental stimulus, since the arthritis means she’s not into long walks, or running about in the field outside my home. She sniffs what she considers needs to be sniffed, then begins hinting she wants to go back.

Recently, she began stopping on the way back in to sniff a back wheel of the Ford. I assumed another dog had peed against I when it was out, and I couldn’t understand her determined fascination with it.

Saturday, I went shopping with a friend into town, and noticed coming back that the brakes were very soft and slow to react. We’d planned to go to a village with interesting trails for an afternoon hike, but my friend was nervous about that. The drive would have been entirely uphill and, more critical, the drive back is non-stop downhill. For four kilometres or more. With iffy brakes. We watched a movie at her place instead.

I took the car in for servicing today, having found an honest and reliable mechanic in July. Since I’ve mostly driven front-wheel drive cars, it never occurred to me that the main braking system for the rear-wheel drive Explorer was at the back (duh), but right away the mechanic showed me the dripping brake fluid that Vicki had been sniffing.

It wasn’t expensive to put in a new brake cylinder, and a couple of hours later the Explorer was fine again; or at least, as fine as an aging, 27-year-old SUV is going to be. But heading back home from the mechanic’s, it occurred to me Vicki had been my early warning system for the pungent (to a dog) brake fluid, and that she only gets obsessive about dangerous things.

Okay kid, there’s some chicken for your dinner tonight. You tried to help, even if I was too slow to pick up on the hint you were providing.

The noble canine detective tradition lives on!

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Mask Wars

August 17, 2020

Most people I know are trying to keep things polite, but friction does emerge from time to time. Even the modest level of quarantine we have here produces a sense of being crammed into a tight space, psychologically speaking, and irritation is never far from the surface. This is being multipled by anxiety over political problems in the broader world.

The masks, or their absence – cubrebocas in local lingo – are my own constant trigger. Officially, anyone riding a combi microbus is required to wear one, but often it’s just the driver and two or three passengers who comply with that. There’s no enforcement.

Tlanguis.jpg

Sunday market in Ixcatepec: staff at the stalls are policed on their use of masks, but not the customers.

The anti-mask factions seem to fall into three broad tribes, the biggest of them being people who are indifferent. They have no symptoms of the virus, so they don’t worry about it. The concept of being an asymptomatic carrier is unreal to them, and they believe if they or people round them get sick, it’ll be God’s will: end of story.

Then, there’s the militant Clan of the Ideologues. They’ve seen forty-seven Youtube videos saying it’s all a conspiracy, or caused by 5G (which we don’t have in Mexico), or (boo, hiss) Bill Gates. From such unimpeachable sources, Plandemic being merely the most infamous, they’ve determined that masks are useless, or they make you sick, or they’re a plot to take away your freedom. Or all three.

Thirdly, there are the hippie kids, some of whom are pushing forty. They’re not that numerous, but by dress and lifestyle, they stand out. Many of them came here to live amid the physical beauty and the vibes of ancient Toltec spirituality, while flouting conventional local rules of conduct. They refuse to consider any form of social distancing, and since many of them appear to come from wealthy families, they carry that secure sense that they’re superior creatures (while fervently denying any such thing), as well as knowing they can always go back home or call for cash if they need to.

Like anyone, I dislike masks. They make my face feel hot, loose fibres become itchy, and overall they’re a nuisance. They’re far from infallible as systems of mutual protection, but they’re a key option for keeping infections to a minimum.

Officially, our municipality has only a dozen or so currently active cases of Covid-19. However, from anecdotal evidence, the numbers are far higher than that. A close friend of mine told me two days ago of a conversation with a local healer who treats the sick with a mix of modern and traditional methods, and who has handled several suspeected cases in just our village. People are reluctant to get formally tested, because of a fear of being placed in isolation, away from family. As a result, the official numbers across Mexico – today they’re at well over a half-million cases, with 57,000 dead – are wholly unreliable, and way below a true total.

I try to contain my frustration with the maskless tribes, but I don’t do well around demonstrated stupidity. I simply avoid the ideologues as much as possible these days, mostly by avoiding the town. But I occasionally want to choke some of the hippie kids. Last week I was riding the combi after shopping, and a young woman without a mask got on, immediately embracing a couple of guys she knew, who also had no masks. Soon, she was launched quite loudly into a discussion about her “camino spiritual,” making me wonder how any spiritual path could include callous indifference to the well-being of other people. But then, the sort of vacuous New Age nostrums many people here espouse tend to exist in co-dependency with an underlying passive aggression. Question their positive, Light-emanating and “non-judgemental” philosophy with any serious questions, and watch the hackles go up. “Negative” skeptical attitudes like mine aren’t tolerated.

At least that gives me an excuse to avoid these folks. For yes, such people are my bugbear. And since I’ve chosen to live in place with a high concentration of them, my bear is bugged frequently. Be it so: I am Boomer, hear me bitch.

At some point, the pandemic will ebb, and we’ll all try to make up again. I’ll even stop being ticked off as much as I am right now, which would be nice. But currently, I’m disappointed and fed up with people who refuse to perform a simple act of good citizenship in a dangerous time. What their attitudes have to do with any meaningful concept of freedom, I’ll never understand; nor do I want to.

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Unlovable Trees

August 12, 2020

Plum trees are my topic this time. Specifically, the ciruelo, which bears sour, tannic fruit, and is quite widely planted round here. And mostly, I hate it.

When my friends and I came to this property to build our houses, the ayudante, the village administrator, was not an accommodating person. He insisted that, unlike our neighbours, we had to put a wall around our property. And on my side, right in front of where I was building my house, there was a ciruelo that I was told was not to be cut down nor harmed. The species is valued here, and protected by law. So he said, anyway.

A lot of people round here like the fruit when it’s in season. I never have, being used to a fleshier, juicier type of plum. But the taste of the things isn’t one of the things that bother me about it.

First off, it produces fruit with a large stone, especially in proportion to the small size of the plums. The tree is prolific, so that every year a large number of stones fall to the ground, and they don’t go away. They just hang around being round and wrinkly, for years.

Then, once my house was finished, I realised the tree in front of it was prolific with its branches. It blocked the light, and it kept on blocking ever more. Soon, I transgressed the ayudante’s injunctions, and began cutting off individual branches, so that on a morning after a rainstorm, I wouldn’t have to walk out into a bunch of wet leaves. The branches come out at quite low levels, and since the tree emerges from ground a couple of feet below the front entrance, I always had to duck. Eventually, my surgical removal of small branches became a cutting of larger limbs and, a times, a frustrated tearing away of new twigs.

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The offending tree, with the house behind it trying to peek through its branches.

The tree wasn’t bothered. Every year, it replaced what I’d chopped or torn off, then spread a little more. The house became gloomier as it expanded its limbs over the full front. I never wanted to attract the ayudante’s wrath or that of his successors, but I’ve often wondered if anyone would really have noticed if it met with (say) an unfortunate ‘lightning strike’ that necessitated its removal by bow-saw one weekend. Or, had succumbed to gradual poisoning by other methods.

But I returned to Toronto for a period in 2015, and didn’t follow through. Since late 2018, I’ve lived in the second house on the property, 25 feet away, where I thought the ciruelo couldn’t annoy me. However, I noticed last week that with the rains, it was starting to obstruct the stairs down to the gate with its latest foliage. I’ve tugged off a few branches, but they seem to grow back in days.

Somebody planted ciruelo orchards round here years ago, though most don’t seem to be tended any more. Our local flora is mostly sub-tropical or (we’re quite high up) temperate, so they add an element that doesn’t belong in the traditional landscape; and standing in spaced groups, they create a strange, un-Mexican atmosphere. Walking through such an orchard, I expect a hobbit or some similar Tolkienian being to emerge from behind a tree, and start a conversation about orcs, or having cucumber sandwiches for tea. Their trunks are nearly black, and their twisting limbs seem like something out of a fairy story. They’re atmospheric, for sure, and in that way, attractive.

Trees

A black trunk with twisting limbs: a ciruelo near to my house.

But in having to deal with one this close to where I live, I easily find the attraction dissipates. One of these days, in a black enough mood, I might just resort to full-on arbicide. (Yes, that is a word). The plumstones will no doubt take years to disappear, since there’s always another one ready to roll in and replace any I remove. But mine enemy shall be slain, and only the relentless indigenous vegetation will remain to overrun the paths and stairs on the property.

The hour cometh, I tell you.

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Maybe I’ll Open a Tortilla Stand – or Not

August 4, 2020

Her friends saw her waving, and called out to the combi driver to stop for her. She clambered onto the van that’s the standard form of bus here, no facemask in sight, smiled at everyone and went to hug and cheek-kiss the guys who’d done the calling. Who also had no masks, despite them supposedly being mandatory on public transport.

Soon, she was explaining the latest changes in her camino spiritual to the young men, while I fumed silently that one way of manifesting such a camino would be to give a hoot about other people’s wellbeing via a mask. But the hippie kids who move here from the cities almost all seem to come from comfortably off families, and carry that sense of divine exemption from the everyday rules that the wealthy can assume.

One of the problems with this quarantine is irritation. I used to be determinedly patient with everybody’s naive theories and wacko explanations for how things are; after all, I have my own set of beliefs that don’t coincide with 21st Century materialism. But I’ve finally reached a level of impatience such that I sat on the bus pondering what might happen if I hit the hippie girl over the head with the roll of paper towels I’d bought in town. For certain, most of the other passengers were glaring at her over their masks. In the end, I just grumbled silently to myself until she finally got off.

Tres Combis.jpgCombis in town, waiting for passengers. Each holds about sixteen people, or twenty-two, if people jam in and stand.

Quarantine here isn’t like that of a big city. Mexico City, I understand, is much more uptight, and some people there have not been farther than their street corner in months. This morning, though, as Ioften do I went for a two-mile walk along a mountainside trail, and (with mask on) bought some bananas at the Thursday open-air market in the village. Such amenities are partly why I chose to stay here instead of going back to Canada.

Most restaurants in town have reopened (with spaced tables), but sales of alcohol are banned, in case drunk people start to forget the distancing requirements. And we’re supposed to eat and leave within an hour – no lingering. At least one major restaurant doesn’t seem to be coming back, and a hotel in the centre of our village has also taken down its signage and locked its gates. Boredom is miserable, but losing the business you poured your heart and your savings into for years has to be far worse.

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Luna Mextli (the names mean ‘Moon’ in both Spanish and Nahuatl) was one of the first places I ever ate at in town, well before I moved here from Toronto. It’s shown no signs of reopening.

But boredom is bad enough. I need new shoes, but I’d have to go on two buses to a nearby city to get a decent pair. I can’t any longer head into town and have a 90-minute conversation over a cappuccino with whoever’s around. I can’t make a day-trip to an archeological site and wander about, pondering what it was like in its heyday fifteen centuries ago.  I’m having to remind myself that the pandemic is still expanding in Mexico, even according to the utterly unreliable official numbers.

And writing blog posts about being bored (beyond this one, obviously) isn’t much of an option. I wouldn’t read them myself, so why post them?

I’ve been trying to gauge how the pandemic is changing Mexican society. Normally, everyone assumes the President is corrupt and ineffectual. This one’s unhelpful remarks, however, have polarised the society, with many of those who voted for Lopez-Obrador still holding him out as a paragon of equality, and the rest of the country increasingly mistrusting him. He’s thus emulated his northern neighbour in sharply splitting public opinion, and in conceding nothing to his critics.

And while round here families have so far been able to hold up each other, I’m seeing some indicators of economic stress beyond restaurants that have not reopened. For example, my next door neighbour’s wife, who usually does a little caretaker work for absentee homeowners but is mostly a homemaker, has just opened a little store selling tortillas. The price is six cents Canadian, or four cents US, per tortilla. I tried guesstimating the math, but I can’t be certain of my results. Maybe she’s making six dollars a day, but possibly she’s operating at a loss. I hope that’s too pessimistic, but I’ve decided against opening my own competing operation on the other side of the village.

Either way, I doubt that boredom is her primary concern. Though I’d understand if, like me, she was getting irritated. Or worse.

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Sounds of Unsilence

July 29, 2020

My dog Rem noticed the sound first last night, and once he shut up whimpering and growling for a few seconds, I could hear it too. I tried to calm and reassure him.

“Rem, it’s a cat in heat. And it’s behind our back wall, so you can’t chase it – or them –away.”

He wasn’t convinced, and kept whimpering for ten minutes. But eventually had to abandon his desire to hunt down this intrusion into our shared space, and went back to sleep. Dogs are super alert to sounds, but they can also shut them out very efficiently.

Any human who comes to a place like Amatlan has their senses awakened in ways that aren’t possible in an urban setting. My next-door neighbour keeps a pig, which makes the most extraordinary noises as well as, at times, producing an astoundingly pungent smell in its sty. Another neighbour has set up a poultry coop, and anyone who walks by it gets a whiff that certainly jolts the brain awake.

But sounds are perhaps the things I notice most here. Because we’re on one side of a valley, I can hear the rain failing on the opposite side, 400 yards away, before it falls here. Thunder, which we had with this afternoon’s rainstorm, likewise echoes off the hillsides, and can sound like the very knell of Doomsday.

This morning, I needed to listen hard for two artificial sounds. It was Wednesday, which is when the garbage truck comes around. And, our propane cylinder had given out, and needed replacement.

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The loaded garbage truck heads back into town through the nearby community of Huilotepec.

My house is about 180 yards from the street, and bends in both the lane and the street itself complicates any sense of direction. It used to be that the garbage trucks here were equipped with tinny sound systems, and they’d play the Mexican hit tunes from decades ago as they came by. You could hear them three or four blocks away. Now, the awful music is gone, and the drivers simply honk as they pass on the street. But determining, from 180 yards away, where the truck is, or will be, isn’t easy.

Also, people here honk because they’re outside Uncle Pedro’s house, and have come to pick him up. Or because someone else’s vehicle is blocking their way. Or to say hi to another driver. Honkish is a tough language to interpret, although the garbage guys do beep to a slower rhythm than agitated car drivers.

The gas trucks, two or three in number, come to the village in the morning, and occasionally later in the day. People here have employed propane for cooking and heating water for a couple of generations, and because thunderstorms easily cut our electrical power, we all still need and use it. The trucks are equipped with something resembling a car alarm to alert their customers, and while few people have car alarms here, some do, so again there’s the chance of confusion.

Anyway, here I was at 8.30, down on the street so as not to miss either truck. I was in time for the garbage guys, but the noise they make (their trucks don’t run quietly) made it hard to hear the propane vendors’ not-so-dulcet tones, as they passed by on the other side of the village. And I realised how I was straining to use my ears in ways I never used to do when I lived in a city.

The road from town ends near my house, with only footpaths going beyond through the hills. This is one reason there’s extensive birdlife here, and a lot of birdsong. There are always dogs barking at each other, or at passing cows or horses, and around 4.00 am the roosters start up. Humans, too, yell at their kids a lot. Someone is always building or fixing a house, so there’s the sound of power tools for much of the day, as well as banging and thumping of various kinds. And because my house is above the level of the main village, all these noises easily reach here.

I’m grateful that I still have good hearing, even if that means I can’t exclude much of this noise. This village is rarely a silent place, because it lacks the background noises of larger communities, which people living in them naturally learn to ignore. But I’m far more aware of all sensory inputs here than I ever was in Toronto.

The village symphony places significant demands on the ears of both dog and human. It also makes me wish that both the garbage vendors and the propane people had chosen something less unlovely to alert their clientele that they’ve arrived.

But that’s Mexico for you. It’s never likely to hold back on the noise. We live with it, or we at least learn to hold our peace on the topic.

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A Non-Festive Fiesta

July 21, 2020

The first rockets went off as anticipated at 6.00 am. But apart from that, the festival of Santa Maria Magdalena isn’t happening the way it always does

Mary Magdalene was made matron saint of this village, I understand, because it was previously dedicated to the mother of Quetzalcoatl, the Plumed Serpent. There are several different versions of his legend and of his specific parentage, but it was deemed necessary to place this small community under the tutelage of a famously penitent woman to expunge the memory of the pagan goddess. I can’t say how long this has been the state of things, and Amatlan has only recently grown beyond a population of a couple of hundred people, but every year the place would go crazy around July 22. Simply driving in or out of the village could take ten minutes longer than usual, with all the visitors’ cars blocking the streets and laneways.

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The main street during the fiesta, in a more usual year.

The fiesta always starts the day before the feast day, with a salvo of cohetes, the explosive rockets beloved by the faithful here, and loathed by many other people and all dogs. But where in other years the main street would be lined with stalls selling trinkets, kids’ toys, t-shirts, pizza and beer, this year there are only four or five such puestos in place. And I doubt they’re getting customers. The small midway that is usually set up behind the church is completely absent.

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The stalls set up for the fiesta this year – all four of them

People here have become resigned to their church being closed, though this evening there is a prayer service being held there. Apart from the occasional funeral, it’s scarcely had its doors open since March. I assume baptisms are done in people’s homes, and weddings are simply on hold.

I can’t pretend I’m personally upset at this, and the lack of rockets and bells before dawn on a Sunday morning isn’t unwelcome. I’ve always preferred more subdued forms of worship. But I’m wondering what the long-term effect will be.

Public Catholicism still has a firm grip on local people, even if evangelical groups, Jehovah’s Witnesses and Mormons have made significant inroads here in recent decades. It’s so embedded in the lifestyle, and so significant as a means of generating a revenue stream through sales of flowers and cohetes, hiring of musicians for funerals and all the peripheral consumerism around the rituals of worship, that its absence is at least extremely odd, as well as financially painful for many people.

I doubt though, that closed churches will produce a decline in the cult of the Virgin of Guadalupe or the many lesser saints with their parish churches. In the absence of workplace insurance for workmen, a wooden cross on a construction site is seen as a standard way of warding off harm, just as images of the Virgin are found on dashboards, in stores, or set into the walls of houses.

But this year, Santa Maria Magdalena, our local protectress, will have to be content with reduced festivities to honour her. Not that this has stopped the woman who leads the singing at the church from broadcasting her devotions from the speaker system atop the church tower this evening. She’s a nice lady, but “singing” is not what anyone could seriously call the noise she’s making.

I think I might almost prefer a few more cohetes instead.