Still amazed at....
the juxtaposition of the ancient and the modern that exists in Mexico.
Leti and I took a ride yesterday. I haven't mentioned Leti as yet. It's because I don't know exactly how to introduce her. It's like trying to introduce Mount Rushmore or an ocean, it takes some thought. Leti ( pronounced, lay-tee and the diminutive for Leticia) is the reason I'm married and the reason I'm in Mexico. Between Leti, Mexico and the 'we' equation is why I live in a constant state of not knowing what's up.
Anyway, the ride. Not ten miles from the avenue of mayhen and chaos on which we live we began to wander some back roads. Rough, dirt, back roads until, in no time, we were lost.
We drove past old, deteriorated haciendas whose ruins loomed on the horizon like eleventh century castles. The rains have made the countryside bright green. Cattle lazily grazing along side horses and goats. Freshly tilled fields, moist and dark, promising a well fed future. But, no people to ask directions.
Finally, at a fork in the road, we paused to have the usual discussion when we noticed a young girl sitting in the shade.
Leti asked her where would we be if we took the left tine? San Antonio she answered, I added, and the other? La Merced she replied. These names are the remnants of famous haciendas that ruled this country more than a century ago.
Leti asked the child if she were waiting for a bus or a ride? The girl said she was not. She seemed content to be where she was, so we left her to it.
We had opted for the route to San Antonio. Shortly we began to see a series of low slung houses up ahead. They were dotted along a small hill which seemed to be setting for San Antonio. The dirt road changed into a narrow stone street. The stones for these streets are hand laid in exactly the same way as the Roman Iters.
The houses were a mish-mash of construction styles. Some old time adobe, some in uncovered brick and a few with plaster over the brick. Tiny courtyards and entrances were guarded by a variety of barriers. Live cactus fences, dried, thorny ocotillo woven together to make it impenetrable. Stones, some large, some smaller, stacked precisely so as to form walls that would take some doing to assault. Iron gates and fences, welded locally, graced a few of the places.
Cows, hobbled so they don't wander too far,roam the streets unconcerned with their own incongruity . Burros tied under trees waiting to be told what's next. Dogs lolling about, too disinterested to even notice a strange vehicle.
Flowers everywhere. Mexicans love flowers. They line their rock walls, they are planted in any obsure corner. Hundreds of plastic buckets, jars and jalapeño chile tin cans bursting with flowers.
How could this place be? In the same moment that I was worried if I had turned off my computer I was in the world of Pancho Villa and Emiliano Zapata. While I was able to communicate with China or have quantum physics explained to me I sat on a spot of the universe that mirrored scenes which can only be found in history books.
Still amazes me.
QUOTE OF THE DAY:
How many of you believe in psycho-kinesis? Raise my hand. - Steven Wright.
THE SERIAL Her Viking:
We left off here:
After seeing that her Viking only left the line is the water long enough for it to pay out, then re-wound it, paddled 20 or 30 meters further on and repeated the procedure, the Widow Mora discarded her fishing theory. 'Besides,' she sniffed, 'even the Americans can't catch fish using just a rock.'
Having dashed her only idea as to what he might be up to she simply became resigned to the fact that this mysterious person was not to be figured out. Once that weight was lifted from her, the widow found it was much easier for her to just relax and fantasize about her Viking.
What would it be like to have him staying in her house? Would he like dinner late? With wine, perhaps, or did her Viking not drink alcohol? Might he hold her chair as she seated herself?
Maybe, since he awakened so early each morning, he would prefer his main meal earlier in the day, say, 3 or 4 in the afternoon. Then, later in the evening, just coffee with something sweet. Cee Cee is asleep so early at night that the widow understood she herself would be responsible for making him coffee at night. She did not mind having to do it.
It was warm by her window and the Widow Mora felt cozy sitting there with the binoculars on her lap. How she enjoyed dreaming up new scenarios for the two of them. She imagined they might go up to the roof at sunset to marvel at the spectacular colors of the sun and sea. Another evening they might wait there on the roof as enormous thunderheads piled one on another until, with a booming explosion of sound and light, the rain came. Fresh gusts of the moist sea breeze would blow their hair back, exposing their faces to those first, ploppy, drops that would begin smacking against the roof. She saw them scampering down the spiral, metal stairs, laughing all the while, making it to the door barely in time to avoid being drenched. Once, safely inside, they might like a glass of red wine or, perhaps, she'd have Cee Cee fix a wonderful snack to savor during the shower.
More than three weeks had gone by since the stranger
first appeared and the Widow Mora had been watching his
movements during the whole time. After so many hours of
faithful observation she was now thoroughly in love with
him.
Things could not be better than they were right
then because, to the widow's delight, her Viking had
arrived in front of her house for the past three days.
It seemed that he had settled on this spot to continue
what ever it was he was doing. Each morning he carried
his inner tube and a coconut but now, she noticed, he no
longer brought the coil of rope. Still, though, every
time before entering the water with his tube he threw the
coconut into the noisy waves and waited, sitting or
standing, sometimes walking short distances then
returning, until the rhythm of the surf methodically
carried it out to sea.
The widow could not understand why her Viking had
chosen this stretch of beach since the waves were
especially large and thunderous and the undertow was
treacherous. If anyone were to be caught in it they
would never be able to return to shore. Nonetheless, the
Widow Mora was ecstatic that he was here so close that,
with the binocular's help, she could almost touch him
with her tongue.
continued....
Leti and I took a ride yesterday. I haven't mentioned Leti as yet. It's because I don't know exactly how to introduce her. It's like trying to introduce Mount Rushmore or an ocean, it takes some thought. Leti ( pronounced, lay-tee and the diminutive for Leticia) is the reason I'm married and the reason I'm in Mexico. Between Leti, Mexico and the 'we' equation is why I live in a constant state of not knowing what's up.
Anyway, the ride. Not ten miles from the avenue of mayhen and chaos on which we live we began to wander some back roads. Rough, dirt, back roads until, in no time, we were lost.
We drove past old, deteriorated haciendas whose ruins loomed on the horizon like eleventh century castles. The rains have made the countryside bright green. Cattle lazily grazing along side horses and goats. Freshly tilled fields, moist and dark, promising a well fed future. But, no people to ask directions.
Finally, at a fork in the road, we paused to have the usual discussion when we noticed a young girl sitting in the shade.
Leti asked her where would we be if we took the left tine? San Antonio she answered, I added, and the other? La Merced she replied. These names are the remnants of famous haciendas that ruled this country more than a century ago.
Leti asked the child if she were waiting for a bus or a ride? The girl said she was not. She seemed content to be where she was, so we left her to it.
We had opted for the route to San Antonio. Shortly we began to see a series of low slung houses up ahead. They were dotted along a small hill which seemed to be setting for San Antonio. The dirt road changed into a narrow stone street. The stones for these streets are hand laid in exactly the same way as the Roman Iters.
The houses were a mish-mash of construction styles. Some old time adobe, some in uncovered brick and a few with plaster over the brick. Tiny courtyards and entrances were guarded by a variety of barriers. Live cactus fences, dried, thorny ocotillo woven together to make it impenetrable. Stones, some large, some smaller, stacked precisely so as to form walls that would take some doing to assault. Iron gates and fences, welded locally, graced a few of the places.
Cows, hobbled so they don't wander too far,roam the streets unconcerned with their own incongruity . Burros tied under trees waiting to be told what's next. Dogs lolling about, too disinterested to even notice a strange vehicle.
Flowers everywhere. Mexicans love flowers. They line their rock walls, they are planted in any obsure corner. Hundreds of plastic buckets, jars and jalapeño chile tin cans bursting with flowers.
How could this place be? In the same moment that I was worried if I had turned off my computer I was in the world of Pancho Villa and Emiliano Zapata. While I was able to communicate with China or have quantum physics explained to me I sat on a spot of the universe that mirrored scenes which can only be found in history books.
Still amazes me.
QUOTE OF THE DAY:
How many of you believe in psycho-kinesis? Raise my hand. - Steven Wright.
THE SERIAL Her Viking:
We left off here:
After seeing that her Viking only left the line is the water long enough for it to pay out, then re-wound it, paddled 20 or 30 meters further on and repeated the procedure, the Widow Mora discarded her fishing theory. 'Besides,' she sniffed, 'even the Americans can't catch fish using just a rock.'
Having dashed her only idea as to what he might be up to she simply became resigned to the fact that this mysterious person was not to be figured out. Once that weight was lifted from her, the widow found it was much easier for her to just relax and fantasize about her Viking.
What would it be like to have him staying in her house? Would he like dinner late? With wine, perhaps, or did her Viking not drink alcohol? Might he hold her chair as she seated herself?
Maybe, since he awakened so early each morning, he would prefer his main meal earlier in the day, say, 3 or 4 in the afternoon. Then, later in the evening, just coffee with something sweet. Cee Cee is asleep so early at night that the widow understood she herself would be responsible for making him coffee at night. She did not mind having to do it.
It was warm by her window and the Widow Mora felt cozy sitting there with the binoculars on her lap. How she enjoyed dreaming up new scenarios for the two of them. She imagined they might go up to the roof at sunset to marvel at the spectacular colors of the sun and sea. Another evening they might wait there on the roof as enormous thunderheads piled one on another until, with a booming explosion of sound and light, the rain came. Fresh gusts of the moist sea breeze would blow their hair back, exposing their faces to those first, ploppy, drops that would begin smacking against the roof. She saw them scampering down the spiral, metal stairs, laughing all the while, making it to the door barely in time to avoid being drenched. Once, safely inside, they might like a glass of red wine or, perhaps, she'd have Cee Cee fix a wonderful snack to savor during the shower.
More than three weeks had gone by since the stranger
first appeared and the Widow Mora had been watching his
movements during the whole time. After so many hours of
faithful observation she was now thoroughly in love with
him.
Things could not be better than they were right
then because, to the widow's delight, her Viking had
arrived in front of her house for the past three days.
It seemed that he had settled on this spot to continue
what ever it was he was doing. Each morning he carried
his inner tube and a coconut but now, she noticed, he no
longer brought the coil of rope. Still, though, every
time before entering the water with his tube he threw the
coconut into the noisy waves and waited, sitting or
standing, sometimes walking short distances then
returning, until the rhythm of the surf methodically
carried it out to sea.
The widow could not understand why her Viking had
chosen this stretch of beach since the waves were
especially large and thunderous and the undertow was
treacherous. If anyone were to be caught in it they
would never be able to return to shore. Nonetheless, the
Widow Mora was ecstatic that he was here so close that,
with the binocular's help, she could almost touch him
with her tongue.
continued....
posted by bbuckman | 6:40 PM
1 Comments:
I love reading about your long ride.
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