La Mesa de Abajo , March 2001

3/19/01

Fred Allebach

fca25@yahoo.com

PO Box 31931, Tucson, AZ 85751

Mesa de Abajo, Chihuahua

Passing on the Blind Curve 

In the Sierra, you run into a lot of slow trucks and cars, on steep, winding roads and at some point, a guy has to just step up and do a little passing, even though it might be a bit scary, without much room to get the job done. At one curve between Cananea and Imuris we were behind a semi- truck; I saw up the road for an instant; it was clear. Without a thought I started to pass, even though I would be rounding the curve blind. I knew I had it but still, as I rounded the curve, my chest filled with adrenalin, what craziness! Could I have missed something? The freight train of expectation met the rhinoceros of doubt, an instant became an eternity, with pedal to the metal, we pulled out, with enough adrenalin on board to sportily arrive in Imuris for our last delicious taco stand meal.

Another time I went to pass a semi and had him on a good straight away. I accelerated and just as I got along side him, the truck moved towards me a little and at that exact time, a big rock, 48 qt. cooler size, was sticking right into my lane. Oh shit! How inopportune, I just barely scooched by it, up tight against the truck, must have missed that rock by less than an inch

La Maria Lloró (Cried)

On our last day in Mesa de Abajo, I had some deer meat for breakfast, along with beans, corn tortillas and coffee. I had to go down to Gerrardo’s house to organize the packing of the vans and I told Maria that I would be back to stay goodbye, as she usually stays close to home and doesn’t come out to socialize with the group. When we were all packed, I went up to say goodbye, and we hugged and shook hands and exchanged goodbyes and then she broke down and started really sobbing and crying. I was like “wow”. I hugged her again and then headed back to the van. She was at the fence waving as we drove bye, eyes filled with tears.

Deer

Octavíto went out one morning with a spare horse in tow and returned late in the afternoon with a deer that he killed with five shots. I heard the men talking about it, “was it fat?” We saw it in the hall, hanging, bloody red. He had half, another guy got the head and the other half. Some of the kids came to see it and looked with astonishment in the dark hall, a rack of ribs and two legs.

The next morning Maria had Tavo cut some up for breakfast and she cooked a few steaks, along with the ever present beans and the rest. Tavo then worked more on the meat, cleaning it off the bones. He cut it right on the counter, no cutting board, with the blood all over where Maria makes tortillas. They wiped the counter with the same rag as for everything else. Nobody got sick, maybe even strengthened their immune systems.

I said I would have to cook lunch that day, and Maria hatched a plan to feed everybody deer, and to also have the chance to break out her peaches. She loves to have the group over and ply them with as much food as they are willing to eat. So, the plan became a reality, and Tavo and José Luis cut all the rest of the meat up for frying in a BBQ, or as they call it in the Sierra, “una disquiada”, because the BBQ is shaped like a disk, filled with a quart of cooking oil. They cut it all up and had it in a five gallon bucket, which was put uncovered under the counter and then a curtain drawn across.

As lunch time neared, Maria and Tavo kept checking with me to see what time it was, making sure they delivered the goods a tiempo. A fire was made and spices gathered, a bottle of oil borrowed from José Luis and when everything was ready, in went the meat, with onions, green chile, cubed potatoes, salt, pepper and what not. It was a pretty good display of stamina for Maria, as she made tortillas for breakfast, cooked steaks, cleaned that up, cut all the vegetables, made more tortillas with Lizzy, got more tables set, cleaned up the house, got on some fine clothes, got out her doilies to try and sell, then cleaned up after lunch, etc.

The whole group arrived for lunch and the extended family served us all, eyeing all of the plates and immediately asking if you wanted more as soon as the plate was getting empty. Then came the peaches and it was done, as if in a dream. The days all went by like that.

There was still deer left for the next mornings breakfast. They kept back some ribs for later.

What Is It Like Out There?

Everyone was full of questions about life in America and in the world in general. I brought some photos I took at the La Brea tar pits museum in L.A., of 10,000 year old skeletons of saber-toothed tigers, American lions, the giant short-faced bear, Dire wolves, Imperial mammoths, giant bison, giant camels, etc. and they were really fascinated. I also had photos from Yellowstone and some other travels and the folks were all ears for stories of living grizzly bears. What is Montana like? Is there a lot of ranching? Where is New Jersey? Do people in Russia speak English? Do black people speak English? What are the rules for driving in the US?

Tavo’s 17 year old son, Octavito had questions about Albuquerque, as his brother was the first person from the village to go to the US, illegally. They were asking everything about Albuquerque, how far from Tucson? How many people? Climate? Where are the border checks? How many? A lot of questions were repeated over and again. Where are your parents? Are you married? Any brothers and sisters? Kids? Do you see your parents? Does your mother remember the peaches? What do your parents do? What did they do? How far is Tucson from the village? How much time to fly from New Jersey? How many people in the plane? The notion that Americans were all mixed between various ethnic groups was piquing.

There are Mennonites in Chihuahua who apparently have some customs the locals find strange. When they find out I am descended from Mennonites, it raises an eyebrow. What are sins in your religion? What is your religion? What do you believe? The eyebrows stay raised during the religious questioning, all ears, have to be politic, throw Jesus and God in a few times and that seems to satisfy them, although not copacetically. 

I told them about the Talaban destroying all the statues in Afghanistan, and how Buddhists were there before the Muslims, and about religious intolerance, how their own past included the burning of all church records in the Mexican revolution, and folks seemed more on the same page that persecution wasn’t good.

There were also questions about construction, materials, how materials performed. What tools can we buy for them? Clothes? Binoculars? Maps?  I also got on later to do some serious questioning of them and their history and customs.

Painting

I brought two gallons of high quality mismatch color paint and a brush, sandpaper, a duster, a scraper and a rag. I assumed somebody in town would have a wire brush to clean my paint brush with, but there were none to be found. I offered to paint for Tavo and Maria and did a bench, a door and two chairs which Tavo had stored for twenty years without putting a leather seat on them. I soon became popular and was requisitioned by Doña Elvira to work for Elea and Máximo and Eberrardo’s family, and also by Tomás, José Luis and asked by Blanca, to just give her some paint so she could paint what she wanted. I also poured off some for Elvira. They all watched me work intently, asking why I was doing each step, soon probably to be experts themselves. They wash their brushes in gasoline and are used to oil paint; the idea of water based paint was somewhat foreign. My knees got tired from lots of kneeling and up and down work. I honored their color sense as for any client and was asked twice to mix the blue and pink to get a purple color. They stood there and mulled over the color as any good gringo would.  

In exchange, we joked on and on of how many cows I wanted for the work, how much money did I make? Who did I work for? I was plied with coffee,  ate some good food and even got tacos chicharrones one time. At Eberrardo’s, a student helped me prepare the surfaces, with a low cut tank top and the old man Hector came by and chatted, eyes wandering politely. The next day I was telling the men watching me paint about Hector’s sidelong glances and we got a laugh. The same student was in and out at that moment, and since most of the kids didn’t seem to understand fast Spanish, I kept on with my story and she, out at the gate, said “are you guys talking about my shirt?” I was busted.

Next time I’ll bring a couple of cases of caulk, some backer rod and seal door and window cracks against the wind.

Little Boy Blue

The little toy dog is covered with dust,

But sturdy and staunch he stands;

And the little toy soldier is red with rust, And his musket moulds in his hands.

Time was when the little toy dog was new,

And the soldier was passing fair;

And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue

Kissed them and put them there.

"Now don't move till I come," he said,

"And don't you make any noise."

So, toddling off to his trundle-bed,

He dreamt of the pretty toys;

And, as he was dreaming, an angel song

Awakened our Little Boy Blue-

Oh! the years are many, the years are long,

But the little toy friends are true!

Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand,

Each in the same old place,

Awaiting the touch of a little hand,

The smile of a little face;

And, they wonder as waiting the long years through,

In the dust of that little chair,

What has become of our Little Boy Blue,

Since he kissed them and put them there?

Eugene Field

Farts

A little gas can go a long way. Better mileage is in seizing the right moment, for the best laugh, not with indiscriminate poppage. How to know where to draw the line is a constant question.

I had showed the village kids a few tricks last year, breaking your nose tricks, had them entirely fooled, and then forgot that aspect of my repertoire, only to be reminded one year later by being asked to do it again. I broke out all my tricks, even sang the Hee Haw song about how poof! you were gone. The song became a Mexican request. On our last night around the fire, I gave the village kids one more go through of the shtick and Tomás broke out an unexpected addition, the under arm hand fart noise, of which all of the young Mexican guys immediately demonstrated their good technique.

Families of Mesa de Abajo, El Cordón and Bermudes

ancestors who came from North Carolina at around time of Civil War:

-Emilio Clark (grandparent of Doña Tila (Otila) in Bermudes

-Thomas Moore

-another Clark

-David DeMoss came later than the three original immigrants

parents of Tavo:

-Eloisa (Locha) Moore DeMoss (currently 80 years old, looks ancient)

-Jesus Clark Garcia (deceased, Pancho’s picture with him in every house is because it was the last picture taken of Jesus)

sons and families of above, in Mesa de Abajo

Octavio (Tavo) Clark Moore

Maria Clark Valenzuela (sister of Manuel in Bermudes)

Roberto (Beto) Clark Clark

Octavio (Octavito) Clark Clark

René Clark Clark (first villager to go to USA, in Albuquerque)

José Luis Clark Moore

Rosa Estella Amado Valenzuela

Esmeralda Clark Amado (little girl)

Victor Hugo Clark Amado (doing a year of service for school scholarship)

Esmundo Clark Amado (same as above)

Tomás Clark Moore

Enerina García Herrera

Liliana Clark García

Briseada Clark García

Gabriel Clark García

Gerrardo Clark Moore

Blanca Beltrán Ochoa

Samuel Clark Beltrán

Hernán Clark Beltrán

related families in Mesa de Abajo

Hector Clark Villa

Elvira Moore DeMoss (sister of Eloisa/Locha  Moore DeMoss)

Eberrardo Clark Moore (son of Elvira, cousin of Tavo)

Alba Duarte Hernández

Eberrardo Clark Duarte

Elizabet Clark Duarte

Máximo Clark Moore (son of Elvira, cousin of Tavo)

Elea Hernández Gonzales

Asusena Clark Hernández

Fernando Clark Hernández

Tomás Clark Villa

Beatriz Clark DeMoss

Francisco (Pancho) Clark Clark (school teacher)

Sigifredo Clark Villa

Dora Clark Moore (sister of Tavo)

other family in Mesa de Abajo

Facundo Lopez Quintero

Jesús Lopez García (child of Facundo’s brother)

Luz Clark García (unmarried, sister of Emetario Clark García from El Cordón)

Candida Clark García (same as above)

family from Bermudes

Manuel Gilberto Clark Valenzuela (brother of María)

Otila (Tila) DeMoss Clark

Manuel Clark DeMoss ( accompanied René Clark Clark to Albuquerque)

familes in El Cordón

Emetario Clark García (brother of Tavo’s father?)

Matilda Alday Valenzuela

José María (Chemelay) Clark Alday

Teresa Amado Valenzuela (sister of Rosa Estella)

Heremita Clark Amado

Marco Clark Amado

Crossing the Border

Octavito really put a face on who illegal immigrants are. He is a kid from a very nice family. They are not really living in poverty. They (family of 5) can make $4000.00 a year or more from selling calves and dried produce. They all appear pretty happy and well fed. However, by even minimal US standards, they are poor. Life is not easy and demands lots of hard work. They plant all their beans and other vegetables and fruit, a very labor intensive operation when done with mules and burros. It is not surprising that people would begin to think of the US as an option for bettering their lives.

Getting a passport and tourist card is out of the question for campesinos (peasants). They need a credit card, title to land, cattle, money in a bank, need to be married with kids, need to pay deposits etc, enough to show that they have ties enough to return after entering the US. Since the title to the land and cattle are in Tavo’s name, the kids have no chance to get any official paperwork, they have to cross illegally if they want to go.

Over 400 illegals died trying to cross the border this last year, more than in the current Israeli/ Palestinian conflict, yet there is no sense of international urgency or outrage in the US about this. These people will die to make $5.00 and hour, in jobs that most Americans don’t want anyway. Hopefully Bush and Fox can come up with a decent plan. The Border Patrol is catching and sending back over 2000 people a day in the Nogales area alone. These guys are basically like Octavito, simple, honest folk who know how to work hard and want more than just the basics. I see no reason not to make a plan to allow a goodly number of Mexican immigrants into the US every year, or at least for the US to focus serious energy on Mexico and help them out significantly. They are our neighbors and deserve a break. I feel a sense of injustice about the whole situation. It is not right for so few to monopolize the resources for the many. This is structural injustice, and those who partake in it, are culpable. We can easily live inside our own bubbles and avoid messy moral issues by concentrating solely upon ourselves, as if the US lifestyle was a granted right, all the while, really nice people are living in poverty and being mistreated by our government when they look for something more than $3.00 a day. There is something here that doesn’t pass the smell test.

As we crossed the border, the line was interminable, at least an hour of waiting, with 5 lanes squeezing into three lanes, barraged by hawkers, burning gas. One student came to the front of the van and mooned the Border Patrol, as we were maybe 5 cars away from going through. I guess they didn’t see.... We had no problems and they looked at our Quince preserves and canned peaches, saw they were all cooked, and let us through without much talk.

Manolo’s House

On our first night in Hermosillo, the group got farmed out to Panchita’s house and Manolo’s new house, which his family, Elsa and Luz Maria, have not moved into yet. Boys to Manolo’s, girls to Panchita’s. Manolo took us over there and it was a new crackerjack development of tiny places all in big rows out in the desert, no shade, no coolers, very cheaply built, new windows already falling apart. We had eaten tacos in Magdalena, been off schedule for a bit and people had to shit. A student took a dump and the toilet couldn’t get the paper down, it got clogged. Mexican toilets, for some reason, are always fucked up in some way or another and never with toilet paper, no seat, won’t flush, crap all over the floor, way out there. Then we discovered that the water was not on, someone found the turn-on, but still, the amount of mandatory Texan popping and the feeble capacity of the plumbing made it so the back yard had to take the drop. I hope Manolo doesn’t find any of that shit.

Family

Judy hit it in the worship sharing by talking about sense of being at home, family, intimacy. The grandparents are all in the same house, with their own space and kitchens. The grown sons were all working on installing the first flush toilet in town. Doña Locha is getting old to be walking down the steep hill to the outhouse. It is a tight place socially, no avoiding anybody and as with any small place, feuds come and go at a higher rate. One thing is the open smiles and sense of being all in the moment. Time falls away as you have coffee and chat, no pressure, whatever is, is OK. It’s sincere, with lots of laughing and joking. Estoy bién chistoso y travieso.

Palo Parado Rd.

As we got back into the states and I was burning it down the road to be done with driving, we passed a exit sign near Rio Rico that said Palo Parado Rd. Could I really be seeing this? Hard-on Road? Boner Blvd.?  Somebody got away with a good name.

White People

When white folks accustomed to hermetic environments, through inertia, stuck in a box of cleanliness and order, encounter the real deal, the dissonance is palpable. Young people are quite impressionable and the sheer contrast of lifestyles and priorities had to be massively evident. Young folks of the same age in Mexico have full adult responsibilities. There were no Mexican slackers. That is why the guys in Trigo Moreno liked Pedrita (from Moorestown Friends) so much, she pulled all her weight and more. 

I see the students as hungering for something more real than pretense and conspicuous consumption, or whatever it is, more real than what is going on at the moment, something that shows the exciting side of life. They are impressionable as well for whatever a man or woman may say or do, for good or ill.

The lack of spoken Spanish has been a complaint of the villagers and while the crew this year was top notch, very present, diverse and open, the possible profound connection was lost through lack of ability to speak. I suggest more conversation with American Spanish, make an effort to string a few sentences out, speak the language. So much book learning serves no purpose if three and four year, A level Spanish students can’t say more than a word or two. Folks were shy, paranoid about unknown responses in Spanish, focused in amongst themselves, easy to retreat to English. Even three words together fast in Spanish is a barrier. There is a cool connection waiting there in Mesa de Abajo, words will open the door.

Power and Control

Any group of folks together is going to be a juggling act of sensibilities where sometimes, balls may get dropped. It’s not going to be perfect nor to conform 100% to everyone’s sensibilities. So, it takes flexibility, ability to move on and not develop lingering resentments, an effort to see outside of one’s own box, put on the other shoe, etc.

One metaphor that applies here is the Kundalini chakras. The idea is that we contain 7 energy centers or chakras, in a hierarchical order going from most primitive to most advanced. The first three chakras we have in common with animals, gluttony, greed, oral fixation, lust, ego and power to control etc but when we open up chakra number four, the heart chakra, we start to realize our humanity and distinguish our actions from the animal levels. Since this is a metaphor, it is not cast in stone, not a rigid explanation or description. I saw people moving in and out of all the above four chakras. The temptation is to get stuck in the first three and just maintain a sort of low level competition, where all of the game is scored closely as to who said what, who did what, who is a jerk, who is cool etc. It is clear that adults have the same exact issues and that growing older physically does not have any correspondence with spiritual maturity. So, I suggest that we have compassion for our differences because after all, we are all hypocrites and not entirely consistent. It makes no sense to strain out a gnat and then swallow a camel. If some folks are stuck at one level or another, see that for what it is, tolerate their flavor of insanity, because we are all bozos on this bus.

Food

The villagers make their own butter, cheeses, have fresh milk daily, grow their own beans, corn and other vegetables, make tortillas fresh for every meal, drink water from a local spring or their own wells. What goes into their mouths is directly connected to the work of their hands. There is not much prepackaged stuff, sugar, lard, some wheat flour, salt, the rest is home grown and home made. Some of the guys make their own shoes, partially from leather of their own cattle and with soles cut from old tires. They try to get a deer when we are there, and the meat is processed just like any medieval peasants would, hung in the hall to cure, no refrigeration, then sliced and hung to dry for later use as carne seca. The fresh steaks were good as well. Sometimes they get a lot of deer, sometimes not. Sometimes the deer are all around town and then months go by without seeing one.

They make a fresh cheese from the daily cow’s milk which is similar to cottage cheese and is called quajada. It is made one day and eaten the next. Usually you put the cheese right into the hot beans, where it melts and adds some texture and taste. There is another kind of cheese which is similar to hard romano or parmesan, and it is stored up on an airing rack in the shade. This cheese lasts a long time and before meals is grated into a small bowl. It is much tastier than quajada, really strong, a fine cheese with a robust flavor.

Sitting at the table in Maria’s kitchen, I had the feeling of being completely at home, and of eating special food that not only was good and fresh, but was a manifestation of the family’s life, of partaking in a whole other reality.

No Dance

The Mexican programs are usually capped with a little fiesta and dance on the last night. This year the word was out that the girls were scared to dance, or the teachers were scared to let the girls dance and at any rate, we had no dancing or fiesta.

I think this situation boiled down to cultural differences more than any danger to the girl’s good names. To Mexicans in the Sierra, a dance is the highest level of social entertainment, there are no movie houses, VCRs, computers, restaurants out in the country and the entertainment is all home made, just like the food. Their music is descended from polka and the dancing style is close, with the man holding the woman around the waist with one hand, leading her with the other hand. The man’s feet move the woman’s feet and the legs are close together. It is stylistically very different from what people in the US do, which is generally to dance alone, as some sort of free form expression. Country western dancing is about as close as we get to the Mexican style in the US. There is nothing inherently bad about Mexican dancing or fiestas. It is what they do. I think the folks were a little disappointed to hear that their form of entertainment was scary to the American girls, but they took it in stride just like they did the notion that their water was no good.

We did sing an a capella version of the Star Spangled Banner, with all the group singing and then the Mexicans sang their national anthem, hats off, hands at a salute at the level of the heart. That was fun, out by the fire, tires burning with the oak, brilliant night sky, way far away, exchanging the same traditions with different words attached.

The folks at Mesa de Abajo were aware that Lucy’s son Marco had met a gringa on a project and ended up marrying her and was now living in North Carolina. In Trigo Moreno as well, the notion of marrying a gringa is intriguing, because it is a sure ticket to living in the USA and having dual citizenship. However, that is not going to happen on the night of the dance and if any connection is to be made, it will have to be because both parties are interested. A little dance is just some fun. Nothing more will happen because the adults are all around anyway. If people can’t speak Spanish anyway, the chances of developing much of a friendship or more, is very slim. Maybe the leaders shouldn’t bring this up as an issue beforehand. It is a non-issue really, and to make a big deal out of it cuts off the possibility of sharing a fiesta.

Romance

I remember when I was 17 and 18 years old, how the adults tried mightily to keep me away from my girlfriend. It didn’t work. What they didn’t know never seemed to hurt them. I couldn’t understand why my love should be so illegal. We found ways around, at two in the morning when the love police were all happily snoring away. Whether or not it is appropriate in some people’s minds that young adults should be hot on the trail of passion and infatuation, is a question we can leave for those who want to answer.

In a group, the issues are not necessarily who is with who, but can they participate without constantly devolving into exclusive socializing? On my SCA programs, the problems of exclusivity are larger than those of having sexual intercourse. Sex is not permitted, so it is up to the students to honor that, if they don’t, they can be sent home. You can’t really send someone home for exclusive socializing, but it becomes a problem in a small group as threads never get sewn. The exclusive folks remain on the outside of the rest of the group and less of a deep connection is made with them. Actually, this goes beyond relationships and gets into cliques.  The cliquier and more isolated various subgroups are, the less profound is the experience for all. In the end, you can’t force people to participate at a high level and it is the luck of the draw as to how groups unfold. I felt this was a great group, nice tone, good people. The feeling in the end for me was that people had a pretty good time. I didn’t really like the constant picking on one student who I thought was fun and a nice guy.

The Old Days

When Tavo was a kid and young man, there was no road to Mesa de Abajo, nor a road from Bermudes. Yécora was just a ranch. When the original immigrants settled Mesa de Abajo, it was in a time of more rain and a stream flowed close to town. The climate dried up and the villagers were forced to pack water daily on mules and burros from miles away down the hill. They could only make adobes in town during the rainy season. In order to sell produce, dried meat etc. they had to make a 16 day plus journey on horseback to Cd. Obregón or Chihuahua City.

Tavo was the first guy in town to own a truck. The villagers all pitched in money and made the road themselves from El Cordón to Mesa de Abajo.

Now, they have a solar pump about 1000' below the mesa edge, from a spring which pumps water up to a big tank, from which everybody in town has a line to their house. We walked down to the pump and holding tank, down in an arroyo, shaded by trees and had fun getting to know each other. We learned again why to wait at the fork in the trail and why communication is at a premium when out in the boonies. Exposure is the name of that game. Each house as well  has a small solar panel which charges a car battery that gives electric enough for light bulbs, TV and radio.

The main money maker is selling calves. A good calf can get them about $150.00, depending on the weight and they may make $4000.00 a year or more from selling calves, beans and other produce. They don’t sell any corn, keep that all for themselves. A guy might sell 20 or more calves a year and a bull calf will bring more. During the dry season all the cattle are down below the mesa where there is water. They know which ones are pregnant and periodically go on horseback for an all day trip to inspect the cows and see if the calves are OK. Maria will pack a lunch of cheese, tortillas etc., quite a lot, and wrap it in a napkin which goes in a saddle bag. They bring a rifle, binoculars and if any deer happen along, it could be dead deer.

Ride to the Aconchi Hot Springs

From la Mesa de Abajo to Aconchi is way too much driving for one day, which we learned. We left Mesa de Abajo at around 8:30AM and arrived in Aconchi around 11:30PM, people frazzled, short, on the verge of blowing. I tried my best to stay calm and put the experience as whole over my temporary frustration, help people get set up, feed them, answer questions, deal with fears, mold the student’s thought process away from mutiny,  get folks situated for the night, and it was around 1:30 or 2:AM before people were finally settled and quiet enough for Mr. Light Sleeper to knock out. I got about 4 hours sleep, enough to tough it out for the rest of the drive back to the states.

It was a nice drive up through the Sonora River valley and around by Cananea, we gained a lot of altitude, saw an old Kino built church being restored, even snow on the mountains, then over to Imuris, last tacos, run to the border, where Mike and I got separated. I went by Mariposa Rd and we both ended up waiting for at least an hour, as it was Sunday, Spring Break congestion. Once again, no one asked to see stamped tourist cards.

The roads are not up to US standards, with very narrow lanes, no shoulder, steep drop off, bumpy, rocks sticking out into the road, potholes, windy, curvy, un tramo sinuoso. You do get used to it after a while, but it is hard to drive and the stress adds up. I need breaks to walk around a little, to enjoy the journey and not be so dead set on the destination. If you play your cards right, there will be no problem driving on Sonoran highways, but there is a lingering sense of danger, from the unexpected, a cow, a rockslide, a truck broken down around a blind curve, chip seal on curves, the need to pass slow vehicles or have it take two days to get there. I don’t take it for granted and try to be as careful as possible.

Cargo Cult

Sometimes in the old days, big ships pulled up on previously isolated south sea islands and dumped off a lot of booty to the natives, giving rise to actual cargo cults, waiting for the next magic ship to come in. The same type of thinking must go on with guys from Mesa de Abajo, as much of the high tech, stylistic arsenal of modern American youth and seasoned travelers, is seriously interesting to these guys. As Mike said in worship sharing, it may be worthwhile to divest oneself of these things so as to not create temptation where none existed before, simplify life away from gadgets and consumption of unnecessary stuff. Mike prefaced the worship sharing in a very present and insightful way. Big John also had strong honest statement for the crew.

The gringos have fashion magazines, CD players, radios, high tech flashlights, weird clothes, tools, new vans, lots of good food, scampy clothes, credit cards, holographic driver’s licences, strange habits, cool baseball hats, knives, dictionaries, everything new and different, and the whole circus is a never ending source of curiosity for everybody involved, as the life at Mesa de Abajo is just as novel to the gringos in question. I have to marvel at a guy making his own shoes. The gringos not only have stuff, they have knowledge of what it is like out there, how much trucks cost, what are proper stucco techniques over a wood surface, how to get spare parts and sought after items like binoculars. I got a top price for binoculars from Tavo of $400.00 pesos, about $37.00 dollars. I soon found in shopping that any binoculars for that price are cheap, a guy would have to spend twice that much or even up to $1400.00 dollars for the top of the line good stuff. Tavo gets Wal-Mart binocs, for more than he wanted to spend, probably $440.00 pesos.

In the end, when I was packing the vans, all sorts of random junk and extra supplies were on the floor. New batteries, bungie cords, lost this and that, washed in on the tide of affluence and lack of attention. I tossed a new battery pack to Gerrardo, bungie cords to Tomás, a fake pearl to Samuel, TP to Doña Locha. It was like a cargo cult, even our scraps were highly sought after, dirty socks left in the dirt at Aconchi, picked up fast and saved. It has to be common knowledge that a boatload of gringos is going to end up with a bonanza for somebody. Even I am hoping to get some botín here or there, flotsam and jetsam from a mythical rich paradise. If older teen kids can’t manage their stuff and it is all strewn hither and thither, whose responsibility is that? Snooze you lose. Camarón que se duerme, se lo lleva la corriente.

There is such fabulous wealth out there in America, that even a poor guy like me can go to Mexico and feel privileged.  I guess that puts me on the same scale as the rich. I get to be an American, white male, never gone hungry but a few times. Whether it will all work out in the end, who knows. There is the sense that in chasing the American dream, these cool Mexican kids may end up hollow and isolated, like we are.