‘Paradoxical Pandemic’

A newspaper has three things to do. One is to amuse, another is to entertain and the rest is to mislead. – Ernest Bevin

In response to my continually full inbox within the last week of urgent requests and inquiries beseeching my whereabouts, overall health and my personal “swine flu” status, influenza A(H1N1), I felt compelled to further examine this current “pandemic” from my geographic position of relevance and from a stance of being relatively unbiased by either country’s media. Lately, our trusted news sources (now there’s a hypocritical phrase) have been reporting all but doomsday for the human race; yet, so far, the facts define this “pandemic” as anything but a super-mutant, killer flu. As of Sunday, May 3, I am still safer walking around the streets of Mexico than jumping in the ball pit at the indoor McDonald’s playground. That, I promise you.

First, the inappropriately termed “swine flu” phrase that the media so quickly picked up requires nomenclature clarification. One cannot contract this virus from eating swine. This is spread by human to human contact. In fact, a farmer in Canada just gave the virus to his stock of pigs! Paranoia has struck the world populace, however, with Egypt already ordering the slaughter of its country’s swine population of roughly 300,000 animals – sounds almost biblical. Because of their vulnerable respiratory systems, pigs are susceptible to annual bouts with the flu, much like humans. Often, this is a swine strain that only affects pigs. Occasionally, a pig may acquire a virus from an avian strain of influenza and/or a human strain. This is how we have found ourselves in this current mess. Influenza A(H1N1) is a combination of avian, swine and human strains of the virus from each species. When the pig is infected by a virus from another species, the viruses swap genes and mutate by combining themselves into a new strain. By definition, a virus must mutate and re-assort itself to ensure it passes on new genes to continue its destructive existence; a virus is unable to grow or reproduce without first invading a host cell. (Center for Disease Control and Prevention; Wikipedia)

A(H1N1) has travelled around the world within a week. This simple fact alone has lead the World Health Organization to classify this virus as a 5 out of 6 on the pandemic alert scale. That sounds pretty scary, doesn’t it? (I’m having flashbacks of the Bush administration toying with the terror alert level, citing a new Sesame Street color each day of the week). God, those times were gripping! According to the Associated Press, as Sunday began, the total number of cases in Mexico reached 454 with only 19 confirmed deaths. In the United States, 197 cases had been reported with one death attributed to this strain of influenza. The 21-month-old boy who died in Texas actually contracted the virus in Mexico and afterwards traveled to the U.S.A. Worldwide, the total number of infected was 809 persons. Although the number of confirmed A(H1N1) cases will continue to rise worldwide over the next few weeks, this is hardly the deadly pandemic all the media outlets have made it out to be. In the meantime, you will see the media backtrack on its initial ‘gloom and doom’ reporting, which is nothing more than ratings reporting. If I am wrong and the WHO is correct and we are on the verge of a global pandemic than please accept my pre-apology for not scaring the shit out of you sooner. I’ll leave that to your trusted news stations. According to history, which humans refuse to learn from, if this is the killer virus our governments need it to be to distract us from the real happenings, it will soon go into a lull and rear its ugly head again in a few months ten times stronger (read: deadlier) than it is now. Let’s just hope this strain runs its course like the majority of seasonal flu viruses.

I woke up last week to a country transformed into something akin to the set of Steven Spielberg’s E.T. Twenty-five percent of the people in Zacapu now sport masks or, cubrebocas, whenever outside of their houses. Out of these overly-concerned citizens, 99% of them wear their masks incorrectly. The Center for Disease Control says a mask must be worn 100% of the time in order to be effective. Even then, experts claim that “effectiveness” provides little, if any, protection against a virus. This is a respiratory virus spread from human-to-human and the CDC says its best advice is to avoid large crowds and wash your hands. Good stuff. My mother is a kindergarden teacher. She tells her six-year-olds the same thing when a cold is being passed around the class. Take off your masks! The only way the mask could work is if someone is infected and it blocks a sneeze or a cough from said individual from shooting into your personal bubble. Chances are that person has already checked themselves in to the hospital or is at home on the couch sweating it out. I doubt they are out sneezing and coughing in public. People are so fickle and worried at this point that I’m sure they would punch that person out before the sneeze escaped.

Such a minute percentage of our earthly population has contracted this virus that I am stunned by the attention it has received. Out of those who were unfortunate enough to get sneezed on or lazy enough not to wash their hands, only a small percentage of said infected have perished due to the influenza A(H1N1). Has media coverage of the real killers in this world ceased to make room for the nightly influenza count? A child in Africa dies every 30 seconds from Malaria: 3000 deaths daily (WHO). The USAID Organization states that 5,500 people die daily from AIDS. That’s over 2 million deaths a year. Heart disease, cancers, starvation, car accidents, WAR, etc… I think you get my point. As our governments and media outlets continue to cover the outrageous and most interesting stories to score ratings and veil the real issues of our world from coverage, let us not forget that it is we who must hold them to higher standards. I hope we once again will demand intelligent, thoughtful and factual reporting from our media outlets and not succumb to their mind-numbing, degrading coverage of band-wagon sensationalism.

Perhaps the most obvious political effect of controlled news is the advantage it gives powerful people in getting their issues on the political agenda and defining those issues in ways likely to influence their resolution. – W. Lance Bennett

Killer Bees Blown in on a Remolino

Sundays are family days. We meet at Patty’s parents’ house at 10 in the morning, eat carnitas and decide where to spend the afternoon. Always, the decision involves a lake or bodies of water where we eat and nap under the shade of the trees and watch the little ones frolic. This includes the youngest, Alex, also known as The Mexican Denise the Menace, habitually stripping clothes off at inopportune times and running naked through groups of other picnickers. I tire quickly of sitting around so I wander off to explore and daydream. This Sunday, Martín decided to join me, pointing to a small hill in the center of the valley as a good destination. And so we were off.

We marched for miles in terrible conditions alongside an irrigation canal that cut through the endless patchwork of fields in the lowlands. This time of year is the height of the dry season and in March and April the heat arrives along with the winds that create the perfect conditions in the valley for remolinos. (It turns out the mini-tornado I drove through has hundreds and hundreds of cousins, much like the families of México). At any time during the day there are as many as a dozen remolinos spotting the level plain nestled between the mountains. Hundreds evolve and disintegrate every hour and they are as plentiful as they are weak; usually born, alive and dead within a five minute span. Half of these never develop; others remain nearly invisible, stranded over an area of grass, never picking up soil. Some, however, grow to huge proportions and pick up the earth from the fields, blackening and appearing as monsters. These, too, vanish but not before throwing copious amounts of dust and soil high and far into the air, permeating the lower atmosphere and darkening the skies.

Martín explained to me that the entire depression was once a vast expanse of water. Indigenous peoples, the P’urhépecha, once looked down from the mountains onto a field of blue. We were walking on a field of brown with spots of green. It was hard to fathom how crops were successful in this valley, fighting for air as the small tornados choked the wheat, alfalfa and maíz with their swarms of dirt. Yet, often what lies beneath our feet bears answers. México is infamous for its underground rivers. Even where I was walking, sinking calf-deep into the loose, top soil, water was flowing silently below, feeding the irrigation canals and small streams that zig-zag through the fields.

Three medium-sized remolinos cut through us on the way to the hill, stealing from beneath our feet the very ground that we walked on. Soil and dirt were sucked from behind us, beneath us and around us. It felt as though the baby twisters were pulling the earth straight through my body. The farther from us they departed the more their appetite to feed their spirals seemed to pull. You might ask, “Well, why didn’t you just avoid them?” Good question. Thankfully, these things never grow destructive because you cannot outrun them. As they crossed our path all we could do was shield our eyes and bend our heads and push forward, carefully marking each step as the earth disappeared from under our feet. We knew that no harm could be brought by the dust swirls, no havoc wreaked – they only served to dirty us further. The proof of their innocence lies with what they cannot disturb. The incalculable amount of stone fences constructed hundreds upon hundreds of years ago by the indigenous still stand today, structural integrity intact.

Distances are always deceiving. We thought the hill was a mile away from the lake when we started but it quickly turned into a 4 mile dirt hike. Finally arriving at the bottom of the mound, we bent to wash our faces in a newly-born spring head. It was the equivalent of an upside down faucet. The water was pouring up through the ground, snaking its path through the grass until it spilled into the stream nearby. Further proof the crops would continue to thrive and the stone fences stand for at least another generation could not have been more obvious.

On the top of the hill was a concrete block which anchored a single vertical, wood pole. At first I was confused, until I located the second pole lying on the ground which was split in two from a past fire. The burnt cross once had the best view of the valley below. I stepped up onto the concrete platform, holding onto the pole as another tornado passed through the hill. I lost track of Martín again who was standing no more than ten feet away. It was then I heard that unmistakeable sound of flying predators buzzing around my head. I hopped down and saw a nest five feet from me under an odd-shaped rock like a lean-to with hundreds of wasps huddled together. Time to leave. We made our exit and as Martín began to descend I stopped to take a leak. I was already unzipped with meat-in-hand when the wasps started their blitzkrieg. I was completely helpless. I took off running, one hand still holding my Johnson while my free hand was swatting aimlessly, screaming, “Avispas! Avispas!”

I realized I was running in circles and still being stung so I made a sprint for the declension, all the while fumbling feverishly to put it back in my pants. In the midst of the chaos, I thought, “But if I get stung, it swells, right?” Might not necessarily be a bad thing, right ladies?

I let it hang. I didn’t have time for both the descent and the zip-up. I ran straight down that mountain like a billy goat. Martín was waiting for me at the bottom, laughing. I zipped up and was explaining the terror from above when the second attack fell upon me. The fucking wasps were inside of my bandana and my shirt, waiting to strike again.

Needles all over my head and back!

I screamed, “Wasps!” and Martín took off on a fade rout toward the nearest field, making a graceful semicircle toward the sea of brown. I already had my bandana and shirt off and so I shot straight for the stream – fly pattern – I knew I was faster than those bastards so I wanted to test their defense. At least this time I had my “D” in my pantalones. What fools we must of looked like! I was screaming, running, waving my shirt around my head like a helicopter like Petey Pablo used to tell me at Baja Beach Club every Thursday College Night. Martín looked like Pig-Pen from Peanuts as he was running through the field kicking up a massive cloud of dirt behind him. I was stung but the mutual embarrassment was well-worth it for the both of us.

Now that I am a father, watching my son has taught me how to see things anew I seemed to have forgotten over the years. I find myself participating in the minute details of life with much more concentration now. A new pair of eyes can stare at a pair of curtains for an hour and be content. Exactly what is going on inside that head? I will never know; but it is fascinating to witness a young life fully take in a new experience and process it. When I watch this, the details of life I took for granted start to flood into my brain. I look at the bubbles now after I take David out of his bath and give him to his mother to dry him off. The shapes form and disintegrate as if they were morphing clouds and I was 4 years old, lying on my back in the grass on a summer’s day. These days, I can’t remember the passing childish ideas that flew fleetingly through my head or the grand plans I made for my life while watching those clouds slip by and fade away. What is important is that I am capturing that way of seeing the world again; the way that says life is in the details, the way that opens up the imagination.

There is a pure joy in carrying this mindset through life but we lose it as we age. It’s here, though. I still see glimpses of it. A few weeks ago in Cantabria there was a rumbling in the sky. It took the cry of, “Avion! Avion! Avion!” from one astute youngster and a stampede ensued. Children quickly converged from every doorway, side street and alley, screaming like wild chimpanzees, chasing the flying object down the street that followed its southwestern path. It was a fruitless attempt to catch it and they knew it. They just wanted to keep it in their sight for as long as possible. That they have never been on a plane only pushed them to run faster and scream louder. That a plane rarely flies over this area only excited their imaginations further. These are the children that grow old here in this part of México and a spirit lives within them. As their time on Earth whittles away, they guard that inner youth (those times they, too, chased down a plane) and refuse to trade it for something new. I’ve seen it in the ranchitos; how the old world still lives. The further you move away from Mexican cities, the richer they hang on to all their different traditions and culture. There are 62 recognized indigenous groups within México and each one of their languages is an official language of this country. This is the México you need to dig.

One tradition all Mexicans agree on is that any social or religious event should somehow be made into a procession. A procession simply qualifies as any number of people walking through the streets trailing a newly wed couple, a coffin, a religious flag or an alter. Funerals, weddings, holidays and tributes to The Virgin are all fair game. One key element is the presence of a band, which takes up the rear of the line. Let’s take the occasion of a funeral, for instance. When someone’s time has run out, there is a wake in their house for one to three days. This is called the deathwatch. The community comes to pay their respects to the family and friends of the loved one while sitting around the perimeter of the living room walls, mourning. Rosaries are echoed and prayers recited. The coffin is then followed by the crowd of mourners to the church. For this, a walk through town is required. As the procession winds its way through the streets, hammers stop, hats are removed and conversations cease. After a service at the church the final walk commences toward the cemetery. Once again, movement and excess noise halt. Regard for those who have passed on is not just shown during funerals, however. A respect for the dead is one of the fibers of the Mexicans’ cultural cloth. It is prevalent in their ceremonies and traditions, El Día de los Muertos, and how they remember their loved ones who have passed. A normal grieving period for a family is nine days, during which rosaries may be called for to be performed in different houses and masses requested. In México, a person is always honored and remembered, they are never really gone, for death is only a transition to another existence.

I am under the assumption that those who have passed on still hear all the noise from their earthly town of residency. Perhaps it even comforts them to hear the kids playing in the streets wherever they might be. Not only is it the loud bands that the people here adore, it is noise in general. Every vendor has a distinct sound as he rides through town. The boys selling “tepache” by bicycle have a high-pitched whistle which is made through a bicycle air-pump with a horn attached to it. Two quick pumps and a long third moan that draws the rest of the air out of the device. The trash men peruse the streets ringing a bell, the gas trucks each have their own catchy and annoying jingles playing on repeat through the megaphones attached to the roofs. If that’s not enough, one company attaches metal loops to an after-market bar at the back of the truck that bounce off of and scrape the streets as they make their rounds. Another air horn of sorts is wielded by the “camote” vendor. Men selling “garbanzos” utter the same sentences as they did yesterday. The same goes for the fruit merchants. Go to the market and it is an orchestra of offers and sales just for you. Try walking through the cacophony of fifty assorted auctioneers stuffed into a half-block without forgetting why you came to the market in the first place.

The sound of all sounds here is the whistle. It could possibly be one of the 62 recognized languages of México. I have heard that Mandarin and Cantonese have up to five different tones of the speaker’s voice to pair with every word, making that already baffling dialect all the more challenging to decipher. Such is life with the whistle, the default form of communication in México. If you cannot whistle loudly without using your fingers then it is safe to say you are not Mexican. The boys at work back the truck up with it. They alert their presence at a new job site with it. Any familiar person that is passed on the street while you are driving gets the whistle, too. It is ubiquitous. Close your eyes and picture yourself in a bird sanctuary. There is a Mexican there, standing at the base of the tree imitating perfectly any species of bird. He has mastered the whistle as a form of communication just like his winged friend. 

Zacapu: The Ins and Outs and the Waiting Game in Between

I drove through a mini-tornado last week – straight through the middle of it. I was behind the wheel and leaving a job site when I saw countless pieces of trash circling rapidly fifty to sixty feet in the air in my peripheral. Nothing really registered. I kept driving. As I turned the corner onto Interstate 15, the oldest “highway” in Mexico, there, directly in front of me, was a twisting and dusty funnel of garbage. There was nowhere to go and nothing to do but hammer down on the gas. (I thought if we were moving at a good speed it would be harder for the twister to move us. In hindsight, that thought could have just been a fight-or-flight response). What Don Mario and I didn’t have time for was to roll up the windows. As I drove through the center of that dusty, spiraling trash can, pieces of garbage were sucked in through the passenger side window and, flying across our faces, fighting to escape out the driver’s side to join the funnel again. It happened quickly: that 60-foot-high tunnel of trash that came straight through the truck, rattling and shaking us from side to side at 40 miles per hour. The tornado was behind us and making its way down the road faster than I could pull the plastic bag from off of the steering wheel. Don Mario looked at me without saying a word and we drove in silence to the next job site. I can’t say for certain what he was thinking, I never asked him. A moment like that is best appreciated without words. Perhaps he was admiring how nature can take us by surprise. I thought of that but what really shocked me was how much trash was in that funnel, as if the tornado was hovering over a landfill before passing through our truck like the ghost of a hobo dressed in the contents of a dumpster through which he had rummaged. I did feel a chill in those moments.

There was no landfill around. The simple fact is: this country has a problem with trash and it is a mental roadblock for which there may exist no detour. What I mean by that is the freedom to litter is inherited and engrained in the brains of most men just like it is a right of citizenship. You cannot drive without seeing something flying out of a car window. You cannot walk without passing someone dropping something on the side of the street. It is your right to throw litter wherever you please. In fact, this is not a right, there are signs forbidding littering and laws against it but to no avail. One of the things most Mexicans who have visited or worked in The States say to me is how surprised they were that there is no trash. To which I respond, “Then why don’t you pick up that Coke can that just accidentally slipped out of your hand?”

I saw an old man stop his car one day in front of Santa Anna to pay his respects. (This church was built in the XVI century and is a main source of pride for the people of Zacapu). He gracefully made his way across the street, taking his time as most men his age do. As he approached the front gates, he crossed himself and ended the habit with a kiss of the hand, as is custom for many Mexicans. For a long time he just stood there, staring through the bars at the old stones of the church. When he had gotten what he came for, he turned to leave but, as he turned, he dropped a piece of trash from his pockets at the gates where he was standing. He saw it but did nothing. He made for his car, started the engine and gingerly slid his vessel out of his parking space and down the street. It was then I understood that the littering problem was hardwired into their brains. If an 80-year-old man could leave a piece of trash at his holiest site, then what must that say for the others?

On the road is also where I learn the most. I have a personal tutor who knows everything about the area and its people; how they think, how they function, how money operates here, how the internal workings of the local government run. I know who the heavy hitters are, the men you should always be on good terms with because they “know people,” who is about their money and so on. I know when to take advantage of an opportunity here and when to be patient. These drive times are like an insider’s edition into “Business in Zacapu for Dummies.”

Funny things happen when Don Mario and I are out together. A few weeks ago a situation arose which demonstrated the opportunistic mentality of the Mexican people. While passing La Alberca del Cerro de Los Espinos, a water-filled volcanic crater, the breaks were tapped abruptly, rousing me from one of my daily, sun-induced slumbers. My eyes flashed open to see something tumbling down the road as I heard a truck roaring past us. The object transformed into three parts which came to a rest in the opposite lane of traffic. Don Mario had reached across me and opened the door before he had stopped the truck. (We both thought they were boxes of shoes stacked one on top of another and tied together with string. He was thinking he had twenty new shoes to sell. I was wondering if any of them were size twelves). 

“They fell right out of the sky!,” he yelled.

Over the traffic, I screamed, “It’s a gift from God!”

“Quickly, quickly! Before the truck comes back!,” he shouted as excited as a child. 

I ended up dodging traffic for 15 shitty, plastic bins. It was an anti-climatic ending to what would have been some good beer money for us had those bins been new shoes. Still, after God had given us those gifts, we had to find a way to put them to use. We brainstormed: Patty can put her jewelry in them or your wife can use them for food! Someone beat her to it. We arrived at work the next day to find José dipping a large spoon into our gifts and scooping out ceviche for his tostadas. Someway, somehow, everything is put to use in Mexico to serve the people. Servir: to serve. This is one of the most frequently used verbs in Mexico. I hear it multiple times a day.

No me sirve. It doesn’t serve me.

Nos sirven. They serve us.

I feel like the frankness of this verb is a direct representation of how Mexicans live day to day and how what they choose to use or do during each day must bear results. 

Now, if something does not serve a particular purpose or function anymore it is simply abandoned. Nothing is torn down, cleared or cleaned up. Money is not spent here on aesthetically pleasing aspirations. Grass and weeds fight trash for dominance over empty lots adjacent to abandoned homes and businesses still standing as lonely testaments to once occupied, functional places that have run their course in the age of progress. The people have moved on but their structures did not have that luxury. Often I find these edifices eye-sores but only because I had been subconsciously comparing what was in front of me to my experience of the organization of the United States. Here, it is better to wait until something breaks or falls apart – to either fix it or leave it – than it is to pour any money into it before its demise.

Do not mistake, however, a house in the process of being built for an abandoned building. Many homes are either expanded upon or built from scratch with money from paisanos working and/or living in the United States. How much money they send back at a time determines how their mother’s house or brother’s house is going to be expanded. Because of this, houses are built in stages. Many appear vacated, nothing more than a brick and concrete skeleton, but they are just homes in a holding pattern, a waiting period until more money arrives to continue construction. Ironically, there is never really an end result to a house. Hribar protrudes skyward from the top of every home in and around Zacapu, waiting to fulfill the dreams of each owner of stacking another level on top of the house when they have the money. Houses can appear as strange shapes when expanded upward and, when many are crowded together in a neighborhood, it looks like someone was dealt a bad hand in Tetris and lost.

My stomach finally gave way after three months and I was made a victim. Mole was the offender. Real mole, a suace that contains more than 25 ingredients, takes time and skill to make. Damn, it’s good. Before that incident, I had been complimented on more then one occasion for having the stomach of a “burro,” or, a donkey. After the mole, I know now what must be conquered. Irregardless, I am still called “Iron Stomach” in some parts of Zacapu. I eat eyes and tongues, other parts of the heads of animals and sauces made with blood alongside other brave souls almost on a daily basis. It sounds terrible but somehow all of it is terribly delicious. People eat meat down here, that’s just how it is.  

Compilation of Thoughts Since Leaving ‘The States’

Statistically, I am an anomaly: each year the United States grants over one million legal permanent residents citizenship, more than any other country. In fact, the demand to grab one’s own piece of the “American Dream” is so high that over 500,000 illegals pour through our borders annually. At a time when the United States is becoming inundated with people from the south looking to find work and a better life, I am moving south to look for work and start a family. Which, the way I see it, can only mean one of two things: either I’m attempting something unique or very stupid. Nevertheless, I have always believed that every man should choose his own path so that, in turn, he may also write his own story. After all, the list of successful men, past and present, were never part of the masses, they defined themselves. This is not to say that those who have everything planned out in their lives are followers, not in the least; although risk takers, doubtful. However, a road map for life designed by others has never come to fruition for me. 

High in the sky I fly on a cloudless night over the United States… We have crossed the Appalachians and are headed toward the Mid-West. My mind jumps from thought to thought as the plane passes over shimmering globes of glowing light. It seems certain a giant could hopscotch across the Central and Eastern time zones of America, skipping from pool to iridescent pool, just getting his feet wet enough to test the temperature of each puddle. At a distance, the towns and cities look like a mirage, twinkling to catch attention, but ordinary enough to lose your interest before another floats into view. From ground level, it is hard to appreciate the preciseness of urban planning – the long, straight lines of main boulevards and downtown business district streets, squares of housing developments, quarantined industrial zones just out of the reach of city limits, and distinct types of lighting used for each city section: business, residential, industrial. Then comes Chicago, drowning all the little pools of light, pulling in the opportunities of each glowing puddle and amassing it all in a phosphorescent whirlpool of energy and ambition and talent. Someday, I hope to really dig that town.

I was clearly the only gringo in the boarding area of our flight. Before I could count all the cowboy hats, boots and blue jeans I was promptly asked (in English) if I was sure I was waiting for the correct flight. And so began the reality of being singled out. Ten minutes had not passed since I answered that I was positive I was traveling to Morelia when I was questioned again by another Mexicana employee. My final destination is not Morelia, in fact, I answered, it is Zacapu. At this, her jaw dropped and she looked perfectly puzzled but she turned and somehow seemed satisfied with my response. I was left to fend for myself on the all Spanish-speaking flight.

You wouldn’t believe it, at first, but they call Morelia an international airport. Maybe it was just the shock of leaving O’Hare and it’s 5 massive terminals and arriving in a building where I could yell and the entirety of the airport would hear me clearly. The first thing I noticed flying in was the lights. They were all the same dull, yellow glow. There was no distinguishing between the separate parts of each town here because there are none, it is all grouped together. The planning of American towns is eloquently absent here in Michoacan. There is no code to follow, less rules, no community boards making sure Sr. Lopez painted his front door the same color as his neighbors. The edifices are flat and line the narrow streets in a pastel of colors. The rich smells of tortas and tacos and carnitas so thick you have no choice but to eat all day long. Parapets on third floors jut out over small balconies on the second which lie over declining awnings on the first, shading businesses, tiendas and food stands on street-level. Every inch of town is put to use by someone selling something.

The senses register richer here: the colors, the smells, the sounds of people and traffic and music, the feel of each new Mexican town and its peoples. The major difference is, here, I have more time to appreciate the subtleties and details of life. It is true the Mexican people make more time for family and friends, food and leisure. Almost every day so far I have gone to a paint store or a hardware store that has closed early, closed for lunch, or simply just shut-up shop on Thursday for no other reason than because that is what people do on Thursdays. I have traded a punctual and planned way of life for a day-by-day lust for living. I haven’t opened up a refrigerator. We buy what we need for that meal and worry about the next meal when it comes. I haven’t looked at a clock since I have arrived. I’ve lost track of the days on the calendar, telling time only by the size of Patty’s belly and how hard the baby is kicking each successive day. At times, when a cowboy turns the corner riding his horse and pulling a mule loaded with a mountain of hay on its back through the busy streets, it seems I have stumbled into an old Mexican movie or a canvas painting. And, I understand now, that humans are incredibly adaptive creatures, at least, for those of us who learn to nurture this attribute of our species. The differences between here and The States are great and they are many but I have very much come to appreciate both places.

So you want to travel from Zacapu to see the flowers and waterfalls of Tuxpan, do you? The map says it’s not that far so it shouldn’t take that long. Right, right, right. Welcome to Mexico, where the roads own you. Go ahead and double your projected arrival time. Roads here wind and curve and bump and stop. Instead of policemen hiding and using radar to keep you from speeding, there are speed humps, traffic calmers, whatever the hell you want to call those obnoxious obstructions that appear out of nowhere in the middle of all Mexican roads. Actually, here they are called“topes,” and they are accepted as part of the roads just as much as pavement. Sadly, these concrete bumps are much more effective than uniformed officers. Some are strategically placed as you come into a town; that makes sense, kids play in the streets. Others are constructed in the middle of the road with absolutely nothing around but cactus, fields and mountains. Full speed to a sudden stop. Cross over the speed bump. Full speed to sudden stop again, 200 yards later. Curve, curve, hill, curve, hill. Bump, pothole, speed hump. You’re in the middle of a field surrounded by mountains. Why the fuck is there a traffic calmer here?! This would never fly in The States. It would impede progress too much.

I will say this, however: Mexicans drive better than Americans. It is a skill they must acquire early on if they are to get anywhere in a car or truck: how to navigate claustrophobic streets in constant commotion. A mixture of pedestrians making their own invisible crosswalks, countless scooters and motorcycles with more than one passenger passing on either side of the car at any time, squeezing through the narrowest of openings, donkeys, horses, cows, sheep, tractors, dump trucks, rickshaws, bicycles and vending carts are all competing for space. The same space. The same space where there is already another vehicle, two scooters, a taco stand, a woman selling peanuts, a man selling aguacates, two men in suits talking business in the middle of the street, three young boys playing soccer and a band marching because every day is some kind of holiday here. You’re at an intersection. This means the other three streets converging into this area you need to get through are experiencing the same chaos. It’s like two dicks in a log jam, or is it two logs in a dick jam? I can’t say. All I know is that it doesn’t work and it isn’t natural. Getting through this is the trick. Once through, you are allowed to pass any vehicle at any point on any road at any speed in Mexico in order to get to your destination. It’s a game of life and death. Somehow, there are far fewer accidents here then in The States. I can’t quite explain why.

Another thing that doesn’t exist here is the idea of a noise ordinance. Mexicans are free to make as much noise as they want, especially with automobiles and fireworks. Some trucks have loudspeakers glued or taped to the hood of the vessel so everyone in town as interested in his music as the driver can also partake. Thank you. In fact, in Tuxpan, while visiting Patty’s father’s family, we were abruptly woken up at 3:30 in the morning and again at six to a screaming rendition of the song of La Virgen de Guadalupe slowly making its way through the back streets of town. “Ese pendejo era un grocero.” You can get kidnapped for a thousand dollars here but no one even bats an eyelash in the middle of the night if your neighbor wakes the entire town with a song on repeat. Interesting. And another thing – I don’t wake up anymore to the firecrackers or get startled when they go off behind me on the street but I think I shit myself on one occasion during my first week here when someone threw one across the street under the taco stand where I was eating. Pardon, where I was gorging. Kids light those “cebollitas” off habitually – and in the narrow, crowded streets of Zacapu, they sound like bombs. There was an old lady next to me holding her grandson and they both jumped so quickly she elbowed me right in the liver. Really, that was alright because I was eating every part of the cow at that point and I’m sure it contained some organs including another liver.

Few foreigners have seen for themselves that the state of Michoacán is such a treasure trove of natural and cultural beauty – its diversity of geography, history, flor and fauna unmatched in much of the rest of the world. Famous to most Americans only for being host to the Monarch butterflies after their lengthy migration from the north, I am surprised that this is the only well-known secret that has slipped out about this part of México. The abundant lakes, rivers and waterfalls here all owe their thanks to the majestic mountains of the Sierra Madre del Sur for their humble beginnings. The fertile soil, which produces such abundant agricultural, is volcanic. Cutting through the state is the volcanic chain of central México (Eje Neovolcanico) that dominates the skyline around Zacapu. From Lago Pátzcuaro, where the P’urhépecha have lived for over a thousand years, continuing to fish on the shores of their ancestors and still speaking their language, to the newest volcano in the Americas, Parícutin, born in 1943 before a farmer’s eyes, the people of Michoacán are rightfully proud of their heritage and state. I am reminded I am living among the blood line of Amerindians every time I turn around in Zacapu and see Tecolote just waiting to be summited, the mountain/volcano looking over me that once watched over their ancient civilization.

On the way back from Tuxpan, we stopped at Las Grutas de Tziranda, a cave formation near Ciudad Hidalgo where, starting in 1810 with their quest for independence, Hidalgo and his men hid from the Spanish, camped out and cooked underground. The smoke from the fire would get sucked up into the body of the Tziranda tree, masking any signs of life from within the rocks. Today, the caves are popular for the many images the interior rocks bear and for the 19 species of bats it houses. Of course, being superstitious helps to distinguish the less-obvious images from merely rocks. But, it is part of the Mexican culture to see things appear in otherwise obscure places. After all, the Virgin Mary appeared to the Amerindian Juan Diego in 1531 as a colorful imprint on his tunic and today La Virgen de Guadalupe is a powerful religious entity in Mexican culture, second only to God. Images of La Virgen appearing to people here are popular subjects of debate and Mexican lore. The people still ask her to perform the miracles she is popular for and in the house or business of any religious person there is always an alter to her.

I have spent a lot of time with Patty’s family already. They’re wonderful. It is always interesting to see where such a good person comes from. Her sense of humor is present in the entire family; most notably, the little two-year-old hellion Alejandro, a.k.a. La Copia, or El Bebé. Turn your head for one second and he is into something, painting himself with make-up or cologne, crawling into the washing machine, spilling something somewhere, going through your stuff, eating everything in sight. I think he is our training. He walks around repeating everything he hears, living in his own world. His older brothers have trained him to call everyone and everything “puto,” or whore. God, he makes me laugh. He is a mess.

We’re getting excited and nervous about the delivery. Don Mario and Doña Gloria think he will arrive on the full moon on the 28th. Patty is always tired now and since we are together all the time, it is rubbing off on me. Some experts claim that the husband or boyfriend or significant other of the pregnant woman also feels what she feels, depending on the amount of time spent together. When this was brought up to me, I felt like arguing that I was not a part of a group of girls living together and unknowingly synchronizing their periods, but I yawned. It could be true.

My Spanish is getting better. I’m starting to pick up on more of the conversations around me and I can usually participate. Going to the hardware store for supplies for our apartment is another story, however. It’s funny how they all start the conversation talking to and looking at me, the man, until we tell them that I haven’t understood a damn thing they were saying. Reservedly, while still looking at me, they address Patty about the manly issues of calking, drilling, painting and hanging window treatments. Thankfully, she makes for a competent translator. Much like at the airport, but even more so here in town, people pick me out from across streets and plazas. It’s my face they say; but I think it’s the fact that I am the only person here with a sunburn in December. I’ve heard a dozen life stories from perfect strangers about how much they like America – they are called “paisanos:” people who were born in México and have gone to live/work in the United States and then returned home. Without fail, Zacapu is compared to where they lived in America and The States to México. Everyone I have met under these circumstances has a great smile and sense of humor. I hear them before I see them around town while I am working. It’s usually an excited phrase they learned while in America that catches my attention first like “What’s up, man?” or “How you doing, buddy?” Other times I just hear in Spanish, “You’re not from here, right? You’re American. How do you like Zacapu? How long are you going to be here? Oh, you’re going to like it even more the longer you stay!”

Being here during the Christmas holiday is like a history lesson of the United States driving right by you. Zacapu is flooded with paisanos during the month of December who have come to spend the holidays with their families. Every state of the contiguous U.S. is represented, some much more than others. It’s fair to say that 25% or more of the license plates during this time are from America and that 65-75% of those American “placas” are from California and Texas. And then they’re gone. Give or take a few days after New Year, the town returns to the much quieter and relaxed existence of it’s 11 month natural atmosphere before the lengthy migration of the paisano. All the money and noise that they have poured into their small town of birth has settled. And they have left; gone back to America, following the same charted path as the Monarch, to chase their part of the dream.

My stomach has proven strong, working my way up the hot salsa ladder. I’m proud that I’ve eaten and drank everything offered without the consequence of Montezuma’s Revenge. I’m still getting used to some other Mexican traditions. For example, every Mexican man or boy with a wife or girlfriend must walk closest to the street or on the street, depending on navigable space, while keeping her toward the inside of the sidewalk bordering the buildings. If this is not accomplished, it is understood that she is single and free game. I cannot grasp that whenever a man here walks out of a store or crosses the street the first thing on his mind is where he has to position himself and his girl. I obey this law but we still get looks; partly because Patty is so obviously with child at this point, but mostly because I am what I still believe to be the only non-Mexican in town. Being tall and pasty doesn’t help with the stares. We don’t mind, people in this small town are naturally curious.

Two days before Christmas I was invited by Patty’s uncle Martín to play in my first soccer game in over 13 years. I forgot that American football doesn’t require as much running as the version of football that everyone else plays in the world. To make matters worse, Martín and his friends are all ex-professionals. Los Mosqueteros de Antaño they call themselves now. The Musketeers of Old. Twenty-five years ago, however, they were the Tauros, and at one point they didn’t lose a single match in a five year span. I was promptly given a pair of cleats one and a half sizes too small and sent to play striker because I looked German. Needless to say, they ran me into the ground. I lasted about 75 minutes before the undersized cleats got the best of me and the blisters were too much to run any longer. We lost 3-2. I scored two goals in the midst of my pain. A third was called back on an unseen foul by everybody but the referee. The goalie and I met in mid air as we both got to the ball at the same time. I happened to jump higher than him and I headed the ball into the net over top of his outstretched hands. He took the worst of the collision. I took the foul.

I’ll never forget the day my son was born. I’m bad with dates and December 26, the day after Christmas, is easy to remember, but that’s not what I am talking about. I had been in México for just over three weeks and you don’t learn a language that fast. I had no idea what was going on when we went to the hospital for our appointment with the doctor and she looked at Patty and said the mother-to-be was going to have to stay – the baby was only a couple hours away from taking his first breath. I was not expecting this. Immediately, I started to shake, although I think I concealed it well enough. An hour later while some tests were being run on Patty, I was sitting alone just outside of her room, my mind racing…

“Oh my God, I’m not ready for this.”

“¿Qué?, Señor,” replied the custodian.

“Ay, perdón, Señora. Nada.”

I looked over my shoulder towards Patty’s room.

“Por eso, estoy un poquito nervioso.”

She said nothing and continued cleaning under my chair; I hadn’t remembered lifting my feet up for the mop. She had such an expressionless look about her. Ingrained in my memory is the smell of that cleaner and the morse-code-tapping of the typewriter as the doctor took down my information. The concrete building was cold and that section of the hospital a bit dim and with the combination of the potent cleaner the atmosphere seemed to put me into a trance-like state. I was about to become a father and these nurses and doctors were so reserved and collected. Maybe it was those long, white, medical coats that set them apart but my heart was throbbing. They moved about their business like robots. Programmed. This was no different than any other day, except this beta version of health-care robots had no English-language application installed. Just before the fumes knocked me out for good, I was whisked away, trailing long, white, lab coats down a tiled hallway and into a room where Patty’s mother stood. I was given instructions I didn’t fully comprehend but I knew to wait there. Not long had passed before I heard screams. I knew they were from Patty, we were the only people in this wing of the hospital. It was empty, void of any movement; no medical staff to be seen.

The door swung open shortly thereafter and hospital scrubs were thrown into my lap. They were not folded and I barely saw the nurse before she took off. It was a blur of motion. I knew what to do but not where to go. I started out the door and followed the screams of labor. When I turned the corner three doctors where running through the hallways converging on a single door while grasping their scrubs. A nurse caught me from behind and tried to tell me what to do and that there wasn’t much time. I didn’t understand. She pointed to the door through which the doctors had disappeared and I made for that room. Two doctors were throwing their clothes off and their gowns on when I entered. They were late. I was halfway dressed when I heard my son’s first cry. I rounded the corner from the changing area into the delivery room and saw Patty lying on the table, exhausted and panting. I went to her. As I held her head between my hands I looked down and saw what a pathetic attempt I had made at my scrubs: one nylon boot hanging halfway over my shoe, the other missing; pants and shirt on backwards; mask somewhat on, but not a piece of it covering my mouth or nose – it was functioning more like a scarf. The only thing I had time to put on correctly was the cover for my hair. The anesthesiologist took one look at me and just laughed. The doctor attending to Patty looked up over her, paused, and gave me a smile. At this I knew all was well. Todo fue bien. Y rápido, también. Patty’s labor was less than two hours. This is why the doctors had been late to the delivery. They were expecting her to deliver around 6:30 P.M. Little man first showed his face to the world at 4:23 in the afternoon. Davíd Alejandro spent the first night of his life with us in our room in the hospital – all 3 kilos, 400 kilograms and 52 centimeters of him.

The word father carries connotations with it from my twenty-five years of life that I don’t associate with myself. To me, a father is, well, my father. A man who has children and who I always remember as having children. At times, I still feel like I’m babysitting. When someone calls me a father here, or asks what being a father is like, I usually look around to see if I am the guilty party being addressed. Absolutely, your life changes. Life’s responsibilities, pleasures, free time and sleep are all prioritized in a new schedule which doesn’t allow much time for the last three items of that list. And, yet, I haven’t noticed the lack of sleep and I’m still the same guy and I am happy. Giving Little Man his bath at night is now what I look forward to while I am working all day. Instead of physically, perhaps the change to fatherhood is born from within – your heart cannot help but to grow. It has to grow; to make enough space to love and care (without end) for that little person you have created. When I need a break, I simply walk downstairs to the pharmacy underneath our apartment and buy a 7 peso can of Modelo. Why canned Modelo, you ask? I’ll tell you why… Modelo is the official Mexican beer sponsor of the NFL and they pay for American Football to be broadcast nationwide. I don’t care what that stuff tastes like, if they keep playing Ravens games in the middle of México, I’ll keep drinking that sludge.

Some of you have asked what I do for work and money. Jealousy is not a good trait, so please don’t be envious of the 800 pesos weekly salary I have amassed. Sure, it sounds like a lot, but do the math. Currently, the exchange rate is 13 pesos to one dollar. Believe it or not, it is enough to pay for food each week and for the monthly bills. I work for Patty’s father who owns a lumber business that rents wood to construction sites. What you need to understand about the business is that everything here in México is built with brick (tabique) and concrete. Wood is not used for a house, only to assist in building the house as the framework for the concrete. The job is rough and dirty and I come home sore with splinters and cuts daily. I like it. Don Mario is a fine businessman and even more generous. He has helped Patty and I already with more than I could have ever expected; therefor, I am helping him to expand his business. You will be proud to note that I do outwork the four Mexican guys that work for Patty’s father. They’re hysterical, teaching me only what is not permitted on Rosetta Stone. Panchito, who at the moment is incapacitated due to a dislocated shoulder from falling off a motorcycle, Mario, Joaquín and José Valentín all make me laugh. The deal is this: we take material to new construction sites called “cimbras” and pick the material up when they are finished using the wood we rent to them. It sounds simple, and it is, but we have “un montón” of work and only one truck.

For example, we live in the town of Zacapu (population of about 70,000), in the municipio of Zacapu, which contains in the large valley between the mountains many other small towns called ranchos. We have work in every ranchito and more than a couple trips are required to drop off or pick up material for each location. Working with Don Mario is actually the perfect way to familiarize oneself with the region. I already know the roads better than the delivery boys who will bring snacks and beer to you by scooter, regardless of your location. Now, I’ve explained how the roads down here can make you vomit quicker than a ride at the New Freedom carnival, but with one truck loaded down with lumber and many of the main roads in the ranchitos paved with dirt, you can only imagine the bowel-shaking discomfort of the back streets. Despite this displeasure, I have been given history lessons, cultural seminars and GPS training by my boss and future “suegro.” Not to mention, I now know where are hidden all the best tortas, tacos, carnitas and caldito spots to feed. Don Mario could be a tour guide of Michoacán, or better yet, the mayor of Zacapu. Everyone knows him and the truck he drives wherever we go. Indeed, I think mayor would be a good post for him because Mexican politics is all about the money and Don Mario constantly has money coming in and going out of his pockets, which, explains another part of our daily routine: chasing people down for money and avoiding those who want to get paid. It is very entertaining, much like a game of cat and mouse, which, again, brings me to another point: you won’t see Felix the cat on the streets in México. The dogs patrol these towns; well, the dogs and the police who patrol the streets in the back of pickup trucks in 90 degree weather in full, black, winter gear, brandishing massive guns. To me, the dogs and the police have a similar look in their eyes: hunger. The police just want some action. The dogs just want their next meal. The majority of dogs are not house pets here. They don’t appear trained, either. Something about their eyes when they square up with me makes me think of the time before the first dog was ever domesticated. It’s not malicious or evil; it is simply that look of hunger mixed with intelligence. That desperate look of hunger that tells you they will do anything for their next meal. Dogs have to be smart here or they won’t last very long. I know where to find certain dogs in each town, too. Like clockwork, they occupy the same spots at the same times of day much like the old people do in México. Dogs jostle for space here, the older people simply inhabit it. Every day, the “viejitos” adhere to the same schedule. They are so much a staple of my surroundings on my daily journeys that they have become the scenery, as permanent as their houses they sit in front of or their trees they seek shade under. It sounds sad but it is magical, and they are stoic. I feel like many years ago they walked out of the paintings I see in the gallery on Calle Zaragoza to become a small part of the living scenery here. “Just another part of the dream I’m living,” I remind myself. Usually, this is around mid afternoon when the sun and the heat have already laid their suffocating hands on me.