January, 2009
When I think of the agony and the suffering that we all had to endure throughout the many years of Gerald's painful journey, I know he would want us to let go of the suffering.
My dream is to walk the path in a new direction, bit by bit, a little
further each day, but always remembering, as Gerald would say, the
magic and the joy that was us....the blissful times we had together.
He once wrote me that letter, long before his illness, saying,
“Always Remember Never to Forget”, “Never Forget To
Remember”, “Always Remember the Big Stuff”...
So, in his honour, I think back to the blissful times we shared
together a couple of years ago in Mexico..... The year we drove to
Mexico in our RV, our little ‘casita’...
The following are some emails sent to our friends at that time...
UN DÍA MÁS
So hop in our 'casita' ...we are on the road again ... soon to leave the torpid temperatures of the Pacific where the locals are lovely and ever so helpful ...the music is infectious ...the colours are magnificent nature tones, with houses splashed in tones of oranges and tangerines and bananas and lemons and mangos and papaya with a dash of lime ...the food is fresh ...the landscape is wild ... jungle and rainforest with groves of coconut and pineapple meeting the white sandy beaches of the crashing Pacific ...
and going further south with the Sierra Madres always woven into
the landscape....us and our van feeling like we are part of the
tapestry.....arriving in a quaint coastal village with its abandoned
salt mines, famous for its salt mining in the early 1900's. The beach
extends as far as the eye can see, both to the north and to the
south....with its gentle waves so unlike the pounding waves of the
north coast...it has the feel of a turn of the century French Riviera,
with its hundreds of large faded cotton beach umbrellas all in rows
along the beach .... and lazily flapping in the ocean breeze along
with the many palms. I sometimes think that Picasso or Monsieur
Hulot will appear from around the next umbrella.
So poetic in its faded glory... faded like its beach umbrellas.
Yesterday we went to the mercado by local bus filled with
townspeople and their wares (which include their chickens...live, of
course). It was Saturday, market day. The streets were heavy with
people and animals.....it was so hot, my eyeballs were dripping
sweat and the soles of my feet were so wet they kept slipping out of
my flip flops.....
After the bad rep our country has been giving Mexico in the past
few years, I feel compelled to comment on the many Mexicans we
have met ...all along the coast. They have been nothing but kind
and helpful and ever so patient.....they put us first in line at the
clinica...when we insisted on waiting our turn, all the Mexicans ...
young moms with their newborns....old farmers with their various
ailments...grandmas with toddlers waiting for vaccinations...all
motioned for us to go first....and then the doctor refused
payment...so we thanked them and left a donation for the clinic.
And the time Gerald mindlessly left his bank card in the bank
machine....a young Mexican came running over to us waving the
card in his hand....so thankful, we tried to give him a
reward...which he would not take, until I actually had to 'gently'
force it into his hand.
And now in this touristy more southerly coastal town where all the
books say...beware of being robbed...we took a cab ride into town
to try to find a piece for our computer...the cab driver quoted $2 for the ten minute ride....the cab driver escorting us from shop to shop
...coming in and translating the electronic talk for us....when, forty
minutes later, he finally found us what we were looking for, we asked
for a new quote in our halting Spanish...he replied in his halting
English...well don't know...maybe $3...we gave him a big tip....
And then today on the beach...Sunday...family beach day for the
locals... a young father sitting beside us with his young ten year old
daughter Alanis....innocent and beautiful with her youthful smile...he
kept urging her to come and talk to us in English...she knew a few
words...she would say something and giggle...he would try to translate,
getting further into conversation with our basic Spanish and his less
than basic English. They finally moved their beach chairs beside ours
...and relayed the story of the night before.... how he and his wife and
two teenagers had partied and discoed until six in the morning and how
he had promised Alanis that he would take her to the beach early on
Sunday. Surely enough, at nine in the morning she awoke him ....after
he had only three hours sleep....and after he and his wife had consumed
two bottles of tequila the night before....he, not so reluctantly, got up
and brought Alanis to the beach. He recounted how he never broke a
promise to his kids...and how he loved spoiling them...whatever, they
want. So, as we were in conversation, his very elegant wife and his
super elegant eighteen year old daughter with his young son arrived at
the beach with his wife's sister, her daughter, some cousin...and on and
on. He offered us some of the best tequila, bought plate after plate of
freshly shucked oysters, plates of ceviche (scallops marinated in lime and other ingredients), as many cervezas as we could possibly
drink (after all the tequila)...of course, they drank most of it
because we were just not used to all that...and all the while telling
us about places of great interest to visit in out-of-the-way areas of
Mexico. We had such fun with this family...burying Alanis in the
sand and making a mermaid out of her...and what a mermaid she
made. When she hugged us, we said we wanted to bring her to
Canada but her dad said that was not possible because he would cry
too much if she left.....
So, this is how we have to be afraid of 'being robbed'.....
they grow such charm in Mexico.
Now, time to reluctantly leave this heartbeat of the Pacific and our
new found friends (including the crocodiles with their voracious
appetites, living in the river bed beside our campsite)....to find
some other interesting culture in the interior....
Once again, weaving through the Sierra Madres del Sur ...the
mountainous skyline dotted with organ pipe cactus ...where pines
and palms share the landscape...until reaching several thousand feet
heights, the pines take over ...feeling like a Mexican tortuga ...a
turtle with our house on our back ...all along the way stopping for
long horned cattle casually crossing the roads waiting for the
inevitable caballero to gather up his herd ...sometimes passing old
men on their burrows sauntering along with unidentifiable
belongings tethered to the sides of the burrow.
And all the while feeling sorta sad at the news of the passing of one
of our favourite blues musicians ...at a young forty one years of age
...having been blind since birth due to a cancer that he thought he
had conquered ...just happened to have his CD with us, so playing
his tunes and remembering ...Gerald and I used to love lying in bed
Monday evenings listening to his gentle voice giving us so much
information on all the oldest and long gone blues guys ...and
playing their long lost music ...
Jeff Healey will be missed.
...and hours later finally arriving at our latest destination ...an
Indian pueblo high in the mountains ... 8000 ft high ...the
townsfolk call it 'pueblo magico' ... (mahico) ...and magic it is ...a
colonial city filled with plazas (NOT the shopping kind) ...which is
the hub of the townspeople, churches, cobbled stone streets and
tiled adobe buildings all painted white and a reddish brown ...mostly
17th century buildings ... and with its own little lake nestled in the
mountains ...
Finding our campsite was a bit of a journey ...but well worth the
journey ...camping under a small avocado tree, surrounded by
brightly coloured bougainvillea and trumpet vines inhabited by
numerous bright green hummingbirds ...with a sturdy mare living
in the meadow behind us who is used as a workhorse in the making
of mud bricks ...whose job it is to stomp in circles in an area of
local soil made up of red clay ...with water and lots of cut pieces of
hay ...to make a slurry ...which is formed into local building
bricks...same technique used here successfully for 500 years ...
The avocado is a major crop locally ...the region produces over one
billion kilos annually ...the word 'avocado' comes from the Spanish
word 'aguacate' which is derived from the Indian word for testicles
...because it hangs in pairs ...like testicles ...and is said to have
aphrodisiac-like qualities ...so much so that in times past when
crops were being harvested, young women were banned from
strolling the streets. So amigos ...eat up !!!!
Food ...foremost on everyone's mind ...well, maybe ...winding our
way through the outdoor mercados, which seem to stretch forever in
all directions from the central plazas ...swarming with people
...jammed with impossible quantities of fruits, vegetables, freshly
killed cows and pigs, tacos and chile rellenos, 'para llevar' ...to take
out ...with infants wrapped in their mothers' sarapes, toddlers
napping atop the fifty kilo bags of flour, school children running in
to buy their bags of caramelos, old women shopping for their dinner
ingredients and elderly men just walking through for something to
do ...we are tempted to taste all kinds of foreign fruits and
vegetables and 'para llevar' ...some of which delight our taste buds
...and some of which we have to discreetly spit out into our ever
ready napkin ...
Having a peaceful but culturally dense time here ...taking a
collectivo filled with polite locals, always entering the bus with a
smile and a polite ...'buenos días' ...going to el centro ...where we
stop off at the town biblioteca ...named after a local heroine
Gertrudis Bocanegra ...and housed in a 16th century former San
Augustin church ...with ...to Gerald's art-focused delight ... a 30'
by 70' fresco painted by O'Gorman in the early 1940's... covering
the whole back wall ...with hundreds of sections all depicting a
piece of local history ...one section showing Gertrudis ...local
martyr who gave her life fighting for Mexican independence ...shot
by a firing squad in 1818 ...and local folklore alleges that when her
blood flowed into the streets it became the rivers of the nation ...
We often take advantage of enjoying a free evening at the local
teatro in Plaza Chica ...which occupies a former 17th century Jesuit
training college ...it is grandiose with surprisingly excellent
acoustics, showcasing the music of the Michoacan and surrounding
areas ...last night we were treated to a lavish display of regional
dances and their colourful local costumes ...one very memorable
dance where the female dancer carried a clay pot that the male
dancer was forcefully trying to take ...when finally he grabbed it
and threw it down and broke it, carrying her off in an exaggerated
triumphant pose ...was this symbolic of him stealing her
virginity??? ...and the night before last a quartet of joyous young
guitarists whose enthusiasm and antics had the audience gushing for
more ...even us gringos were chuckling at the jokes we had no
understanding of ...
And our trip around the lake ... with the many villages surrounding it
...each with their unique crafts displayed artfully shop after shop, row
after row ...some specializing in copper ware, some wooden, some
woven cloth, some straw weaving ...
village after village and their unique character ...one with streets so
narrow that we smashed our rear hub cap on a curb trying to make a
corner so narrow that we almost had to lift the van to get through ...
and the many little heads popping out from behind their wooden gates
trying to get a glimpse of the rarely seen gringo who stupidly tried to
enter their little world ...
on to one of the oldest settlements on the lake ...a peaceful little village
with its narrow cobblestone streets where French artist André Breton
lived in the '50's and often visited by Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo
...Breton crafted a wrought-iron cross composed of mystical symbols
which stands in the courtyard of the church ...then strolling through the
little plaza ...the zocalo ...we meet up with the local men, looking like
true cowboys in their authentic cowboy hats and boots, relaxing their
time away in animated conversation, all the while their wives working
the food stalls and sweating over the huge hot pozole soup pots.
In the next village we strolled into the gated courtyard of the 16th
century ex-convento de San Francisco where, in this courtyard, are said
to be the oldest olive trees in the Americas, brought from Spain in the
1500's ...still standing there like old worn out men ... but such beauty in
their antiquity...
and onto the next village where we hiked a kilometre up a deserted
cobblestone road to reach the Tarascan ruins ...just me and Ger, all
alone in this expanse of land, with two pyramid-like structures with
surrounding walls of stone set there hundreds of years ago and still
standing ...the sun was pounding down on us ...the wind was moaning
...just a bit, and birds were soaring high in the sky above the pyramids
...must have been old souls protecting their temples ...we climbed the
stairs of the wall surrounding the pyramids and sat awhile ...inhaling
the history ...just us ...and the birds ...
We enjoyed a lively boat tour to a small island in the lake where its
interesting pathways wind their way up to a twelve story statue lined
with murals. We huffed and puffed our way up 150 corkscrew
steps to inside the arm of the statue, which ends in a panoramic view of
the area ...
Here in town ...climbing the steep hill street to the basilica ...built
atop a pre-Hispanic ceremonial site, the Basilica de Nuestra Senora de
La Salud ...Our Lady of Health ...miraculous healings are said to
have taken place at the site of the statue ...made in the 16th century by
the Tarascos ...this statue known as 'healer of the sick' ...so, standing
in the church by the statue, wondering if we should believe or not,
asking for a 'sign' as all skeptics do ...there, all of a sudden, appeared beside us, eight very young novices from the local convent, singing,
in their finely crafted angelic voices, the Ave Maria...
so, in a few days we will be heading north ...leaving this 'pueblo
magico' , hesitantly putting Mexico and all our experiences in the
rear view mirror ...but the truth of it is ...we will always be here.
Besos...
hola amigos ...yet again ...
Dense and getting denser ...both beginning of spring and Semana
Santa ...the holiest of holidays ...happening at the same time this
year...a rare happening...so...layers of festivities...music and
dance, parades and costumes, fireworks and flowers ...the town has
become a garden ...cannons blasting in the dark of dusk ...church
bells tolling ...and rockets exploding ...
Gerald and I are finding it difficult to leave this land of beauty and
culture ...with its people full of colour and humility ... 'un día más'
...we say each morning ...we keep wanting 'just one more day '...
Sitting on our little patio of our casita in the countryside of our
Pueblo Magico looking over the hills, we think we could be in
Tuscany or some Italian mountain village ...with its tightly woven
cypress trees, the crispness of the mountain light and the deep blue
skies ... so unlike the misty air of the coast where the landscape is
always in a haze.
Feeling like the Mexican dust has become part of our souls, we
reluctantly move on.
So ...we are on the glide path now ...
amor y hasta luego
Hola Amigos,
Time is fading.
After three months in the warmth and splendour of Mexico, it is
time to exit the dream. It is Semana Santa, time to leave before
being trampled on by the crowds ...every Mexican from the interior
driving frantically to find their spot on the coast. The usual tranquil,
solitary beaches are transformed into temporary, boisterous villages
with thousands of families camped on the beaches ...Easter week, a
holiday I associated with sanctity and piety, is actually a cause for
the biggest partying of the year.
Home beckons.
We begin our trip north heading to the Mexican / U.S. border ...the
frontera ...taking it slowly, so as not to disturb the dust.
But along the way ...many adventures...
We twist our way along a dusty, gravel path ...a road less travelled,
the kind of place where one would imagine a bandit jumping out
from around each curvy corner ...anxiously, I beg to turn back, but
Gerald says “too narrow to back up – we're committed” ...so forward
we go with nervous hesitation into dry, desert mountains...the
mountainside strewn with ruins and cartoon-looking cacti ...to
reach an abandoned silver mining town, abandoned since the early
1900's, since they ran out of silver ...but recently experiencing a
rebirth, the ruins being morphed into magnificent gardens, spare
galleries and restored villas, the whole town white and pink stone...
but still with the feel of an old cowboy town. We finally arrive,
disheveled, but rewarded, after reading the town's new’s journal
saying that this is a place for 'viajero sofisticato' ...the
sophisticated traveller.
It is Palm Sunday. Just outside the town, brightly decorated
chapels and parades of pious Mexicans all dressed up in costumes to
re-enact the very first Palm Sunday ...with Jesus and Mary ...and
the crowds waving their huge palm fronds.
And the last day of our Mexican sojourn, we reach the outskirts of
Monterey. We somehow miss the Periferico ...the by-pass ...and
are headed through the central spine of town, the third largest city in
northern Mexico, an industrial, sprawling city of four million people
...bumper to bumper traffic, horns honking, hot...not the
soothing Mexican hot that we are used to, but sticky, dirty,
crowded, polluted hot ...a place where we are sure
pickpockets and thieves abound. Hours later we are worn and
exhausted as we arrive at the other end of town.
Almost made it, but sure enough, as we are leaving town, two
crisply uniformed 'thieves' (a.k.a. policia), wave us down and
falsely accuse us of speeding ...we have been expecting this
our whole time here since this is a well known ruse in Mexico.
They tell us that we owe 1200 pesos ...we adamantly protest
...and say we will pay 100 ...they laugh, and finally settle for
our last 400 pesos ...all the while, their curious big eyes trying
to get a good look inside the van ...to see, I presume, how we
gringos live. Gerald consoles me by telling me that Mexican
police have to buy their jobs and their uniforms ...we consider
this bribe a donation.
But now it is getting late ...we must be at the border before
dark ...and we remember that we have to find a money
machine to replace the ‘stolen’ pesos, for gas and border tolls
...we cautiously park our van in this rough and tumble barrio
...the first machine is out of cash ...so we find another ...it too
out of cash...
...we literally run through crowded blocks and marketplaces
...from one machine to the other ...all out of cash ...and finally
remember ...Semana Santa ...the holidaying crowds have beat us
to the cash machines. Frustrated and furious we finally get our
pesos...we take our money and run...pleased to see that our little
'home' is still intact.
The dust, though, has definitely been disturbed.
Further along our way, we are driving along flat desert country, so
unlike the hillsides of the Jalisco region, near Tequila ...the town
named after what it is famous for ...where the landscape shines a
blazing silver blue. The cactus-like agave plant, the plant that
resembles the plants in many of Gerald's paintings, is what gives
the landscape this unusual shade. When we first saw these agave
plantations several years ago, we thought Nature copied Gerald's
art! Agaves, their boiled roots, looking like pineapples, are what
give the Mexicans their traditional drink, tequila. It is said that in
the old days when the drink was produced manually, when the
millstones were turned by hand, in order to get enough bacteria for
fermentation, the workers soaked themselves in the brew, the
dirtier they were, the better. We bought some tequila in Tequila
...hopefully produced in the more modern mode.
So ...policia paid off, pesos in hand, we sail along the autopista
cuota, the toll road to the border, feeling somewhat frazzled but
trying to settle the dust once more.
We are driving through pure white hot dusty desert landscape, so hot that
even the cactus plants seem to be drooping ...the wind howling, the van is
rockin' ... “the el nino” they say.
Just a few kilometers from the frontera, Gerald suddenly stops our ‘casita’ at
the side of the road and plays our favourite romantic Mexican song ... “our
last dance”, he requests. With the el nino kicking up the dusty white desert
sand, hurling it around the van...enveloping us...seeming to say “un día más”
...Gerald whispers ... “well, we'll always have Mexico” ...drunken with
tiredness and grand times ...we laugh ...
We are transported once more.
hasta amigos ...muchos besos ...and Feliz Semana Santa
from Me and Ger
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