Situational Awareness

Humor me a moment and imagine you leave your house one morning to go to work. You step out and there is a weird vehicle parked on your street, half truck half RV and with a strange license plate. Foreigners! Camping! On my street? 

What to do? Call the police? They may move them on, eventually. If you take the electric bike off the back will anyone notice? Could you break in and kill the occupants and steal the truck? Can you drive it? What would you do with it? What would your neighbors say? In the end you’ll continue your routine I’ll bet and eat breakfast and go to work. Just like any other day.

And that pretty much is what happens in Mexico when weirdos abandon their comfortable middle class community lives and take off in tin boxes to be uncomfortable on the road. I know it goes against the grain, against the negativity you read, the frisson of fear you get just thinking about it but that’s the sad truth. Narco traffickers shoot rivals. Police are bored most of the time and Mexicans are happy to overcharge you for items that in reality are pretty damn inexpensive to start with. 

We found these tostadas (toasted tortillas) in various flavors in the stores including Walmart. They cost around 25 pesos ($1.25) and you can use them like crackers without the added salt or crumbs everywhere. Quite delicious. We were sitting around with Ron in the evening sun when a group of Americans came by. They had three dogs two of whom were owned by nervous New Mexicans who exuded a leash law vibe even though their dogs weren’t, but the third engaged Rusty to the exclusion of all else. A rather severe middle aged woman with the aura of a buxom head teacher of a private school approached and asked us what the security situation was. Huh? What did it look like as we three longed in the sun without a care in the world.

She launched into an account of petty thefts and a drunk Mexican stepping into her van at three am before being brusquely ushered out by her good self in no uncertain terms. It sounded like an average night on Duval Street when I was on night shift. This wildness it turned out on subsequent investigation took place in distant 2016.

No, Ron said it’s pretty quiet around here. I said nothing but I did want to say we suffer from deafening silence  every night. Wild Mexican home invasions are apparently on the wane.

I am fond of pointing out Mexicans don’t carry out active shooter drills in their schools. They like their children. I only wished they liked their dogs as much despite the Pope’s recent suggestion that we none of us should. Personally I don’t think the woman who dropped by our camp had much situational awareness. We weren’t acting like gringos under siege that much was obvious even to my oblivious eye.

Most Americans who nag on about the dangers of Mexico are people who have never visited or old timers who came forty or more years ago when Americans drove Delta 88s and imagine Mexico is in a time trap  stuck in the same era.
Mexico isn’t perfect and had I had my motorcycle wreck here I would most likely be dead. I may very well die here, but the idea of not visiting especially if you want to but are afraid to cross the border would be a shame.

I have seen the videos on YouTube that advocate van life for people on the edge of economic devastation as though sitting in a van in a cold Arizona desert saving money is the best option. Maybe it is but sitting on an empty Mexican beach twenty degrees warmer suits me better.

It’s not just about money or the lack of it. It’s an opportunity to see life from a different angle. All the rules imposed are impositions you discover. They aren’t requirements for living.  Mexicans do things differently and some of those differences may suit you better. They could teach you a better way to live if you watch and withhold judgement. Sometimes they show you that what you know is better than their way. The way you live that puzzles them, like living child free for instance, can leave them judging you negatively. All of it is a give and take, an opportunity to be curious, to be patient, and to learn.

Being curious about Mexico doesn’t diminish the fascination of the US. We find traveling at home easy. The roads are smooth mostly (some notable exceptions) and thus easy to drive at night. Potholes, topes (speed bumps) loose animals and unlit vehicles all make streets and surface roads a bad gamble in Mexico. The US has first class tow and first aid services and all you need to do is be able to pay for them. We plan to explore the US endlessly when we are more infirm and slowing down.

Foreign travel takes patience to learn the customs and time to learn the culture and desire to learn the tricks of daily living. We still enjoy curiosity and reasonable physical strength and an adequate mastery of Spanish. When we run out we have back up plans for later.

My biggest beef with Facebook is the way it gives voice to fear, which combined with lack of context and narrative accountability makes it a tool to hold you back. I’m not a fan of aphorisms either but if you don’t seize your day, whatever it is, no else will seize it for you. 

Come on in, the life is lovely. 

Shopping And Fog

It happens that when you sit at the beach in your van you run out of fresh food. If the van is parked 15 minutes from town you clear the decks and take to the mud roads back to main road into San Carlos. 

Our neighbor Ron told us about this fabulous bakery as you get into the outskirts. Naturally we missed the giant white sign advertising Rudy and Ruth’s Old European Bakery so I had to make a series of complicated turns to get back and park.  Job done. Eventually. 

Ruth speaks English with a German accent but it turns out she’s Mexican   born it in the capital Mexico City, of German parents. Rumor has it Rudy is of Spanish extraction. They are demon bakers. Their ancestry is as mixed up as is mine, so there is that as well. I am in love.

We got two loaves and two fruit pies   Naturally I wanted to go overboard but the Admiral kept me in check. We spent eight bucks. 

Layne pulled out her Trader Joe’s fig jam and a slice of Muenster cheese from the Guaymas Walmart so we had breakfast there and then. I love living in a van drinking my own hot tea and eating a thick slice of freshly made bread on the side of the road at home. 

Next stop was fruit and vegetables at the Ley supermarket. San Carlos is laid out with the commercial district on the main highway into town so just keep driving until you see what you are looking for. 

The supermarket was not great but I saw an abandoned minivan with an upside down dinghy on the roof with a 1991 Arizona registration. The dinghy was stuck on to create a raised roof. Very clever. 

We went by the marina as I was looking for a wider mouthed funnel to make loading the water tank by hand faster. I failed but we went by a ferret shop as well and that ended up not working. Hardware stores in Mexico are called ferretería so naturally we call them ferret shops. 

I watched them fussing around the boat out of the water and felt relief that it wasn’t me doing the haul out. A passerby asked where we were from and I told him Key West and we had switched from boats to vans for a simpler life.  He laughed and walked back toward the docks. 

If you think Mexicans shop in third world open air markets as though the 20th century by-passed them think again. You can find many of the same products you see in the US even if not the name brands you recognize. 

Santo Valle near the gringo marina is the upscale market but to Layne’s surprise not all the prices were higher. The kid bagging our groceries at the upscale market spoke fluent colloquial English a skill he attributed to his grandfathers interest. We suspected his grandfather owns the market and he seemed to be stepping into the family business. Maybe Layne will find out more next time. 

Rusty likes San Carlos where there are no street dogs to bug him and lots of activity for him to watch. He had a walk on the beach when we got back to our spot, played with another RVer’s dog, ate a huge dinner, had a fresh flour tortilla for dessert because he loves them, and passed out in his bed on our bed. A full life for him.  

The ferret shop was on the way out of town so I pulled another, less complex u-turn and found a funnel. However it had no bend in it so it doesn’t work to fill our irritatingly horizontal filler. Three bucks wasted. 

The guy in front of me in line looked older than me neatly dressed in shorts and long socks with a particular felt cap on his head. It was gray and had an insignia on it. He looked retired military and carried himself thus. I wanted to ask but for some reason lacked the nerve. He looked through me so that killed that conversation in the bud. 

This is the big white sign we managed not see first time around. Hard to miss really isn’t it? 

Back at camp we found ourselves buried in a fog bank. It was summer in San Francisco suddenly so we retreated to the bedroom (the back of GANNET2) and took a nap with Rusty curled up on my legs.

We went for a walk towards sunset. The fog lit up the sky and hung low over the water. The breeze had died down but it was cool and damp. 

Layne had met Alejandro in his pick up and came back to the van with a quart of fresh squeezed orange juice ($4) and more shrimp than you should be allowed to eat ($14).  Weird combo but then Ron came by with fresh flour tortillas and we all nibbled those like a snack. Rusty loved them.  He sat in front of Ron and stared until he got another one. Layne gave half the shrimp to Ron who wandered back to his family’s camp dreaming of grilled shrimp. Simple things light your day out here. 

I saw Alejandro’s red lights later as he finished his rounds of the RV campers and the condo residents and he drove home.

Sunset was muffled by the fog but some colors broke through. As night fell the clouds lifted and we could see the sliver of moon. We retreated inside to get out of the chill damp. 

Layne made an appointment Monday afternoon to get her teeth cleaned ($50) in a dental office as spick and span and English speaking as any she has seen in the US. 

Mexico may not be as exotic or strange as you think it is. Just another way to get through the business of living that we all face. Friends in Key West sent us a text reminding us the weekend was starting  for working stiffs. Really? Good to know, I suppose. 

Swimmer’s Ear

Vinnie came down the beach leaning on a walking stick with his dog circling him as he stumped along. He looked to me a bit like Ben Gunn of Treasure Island fame, a retired Navy baseball cap on his head, a dark tan torso with tattoos and wispy white hair all over the place and a long white beard reaching down all over the place almost to his reggae striped shorts. “You people are mad,” he said as he stopped on the beach in front of us as we trod water in the cold Sea of Cortez.

Layne had decided yesterday was her day to try swimming in water we estimated was around 65 degrees. I had surprised her by saying how much I enjoyed swimming in cold water and I wanted to do it again. Our neighbor Ron had come by with a pound of fresh maize tortillas he didn’t need and offered to go swimming. So we did.

That was how Vinnie came across us and threw a stick for his shaggy retrieving dog and checked our sanity for cracks as we enjoyed the cold. Layne was totally into it. I was so comfortable I felt no need to get out. But Ron was taking his van into town and layne had begged a lift to do snd shopping so we had to stop swimming. “You must be from

Canada!” Vinnie said leaning his short wiry frame on his walking stick. He looked to be in his seventies maybe, a beach bum through and through. 

No, I said and told him we were from Key West. “The waters warm there” he said reminiscing about the Naval Air Station at Boca Chica. Originally Vinnie was from Boston he said. He doesn’t swim in cold water. Later Ron told us he has seen Vinnie on the beach for years. He sold some land in California and moved to Mexico.  As you do.
We walked back to our vans and got ready for Layne and Ron to go into San Carlos to do some shopping. We had prepared our pressure solar shower earlier heating it in the sun. We were ready to shower and feel clean though neither of us was cold getting out of the sea. True enough we stepped onto warm sand on a 75 degree afternoon.

Rusty had come down to the beach with us and after surprising us by splashing into the water he had run up and down the beach a bit before hearing over the dunes and out of sight. He was back at the van when we ambled back guarding his camp. Funnily enough when Ron had come  round he alerted us by barking and confronting him until he recognized him. Apparently Rusty feels quite at home here in the wilderness .
Ron drove his van over and picked Layne up for a little light shopping which means we may be able to hold out for a few more days without moving. We have powdered milk when the fresh runs out and Layne has a carton of soy milk for her chai so our middle class existence need not suffer too many ripples. The salads gone and laundry is piling up after our mud bath. Trash is holding out, the orange bag in the photo is where we store the filled trash bags from our very small can. Most importantly Rusty has all the food and treats he needs for a long stay.

We’ve ordered 15 gallons of drinking water for delivery by Saturday so now we have figured out how to enjoy swimming, the urgency to go south has abated. Slightly. I think we might see Mazatlan next week. I say that but I’m not certain even what day it is today…

Lemonade From Lemons

To be stuck in the sand is no easy thing, but one has to wonder, why did they drive their family car into what is obviously not suitable ground?

They had the tools to get themselves out eventually and the kids thought it was great fun but in Mexico there is always an alternative. In this case the local tow company advertises among the sand dunes. You need a grua? Not Ghostbusters for sure. Try these guys: 

Layne and I were ambling along walking Rusty watching the gyrations of the Mexicans with an idea to circle back and offer help when, without warning we both found ourselves flat on our backs. Holy shit! We forgot the mud. It was slippery and we struggled to get a grip between bursts of uncontrollable laughter. Layne went so far as to take my picture as I set off to find a dry way out. 

How to get this sticky chocolate from off was the big issue. How much water would it take? We’d just bought a dollars worth of delivered water to off our tank and now we were going to have to pour it on ourselves? Grrr.

So we trudged back to GANNET2 pondering our various thoughts. Layne was figuring how to clean our clothes while I was feeling the mud drying like armor on my leg.

Eventually the obvious answer to our dilemma presented itself as we approached the van. Rusty ran in ahead but we went up the dune and down to the tide line. Oh well I thought to myself, wishing I were approaching Florida’s warm waters, how bad can it be? 

Oddly enough not bad at all. We industriously scraped  the thick goo from our rubber footwear and I washed my legs and arms in Pacific Ocean water that was actually quite bearable. When I used to live in California among the coastal fogs under gray sunless skies I craved the quieter warmer waters around Florida. When we sailed from San Francisco to Panama I told my wife stories of the joy of Caribbean warmth.

So to be honest I was not looking forward to dunking myself at sunset into the Sea of Cortez. But a man has to do what a man has to do and from time to time I have to do the same so there I was: splashing water on myself in an effort to rid myself of impurities.

It worked. Dinner was a brief affair thrown together on a salad while I hung the muddy vestments of our impromptu ceremony on a thorn bush to dry. Rusty had whimpered when we got back to the van as though wondering what grid us up but like all good dogs ( and all dogs are good) he asked no questions.

It was obvious we had to rinse the clothes in saltwater to prepare for laundry day later in the week so I volunteered to go back to waters edge and rinse them in as many buckets of salt water as necessary. I wore the muddy shorts and left everything else behind including my shoes. It was the work of a few minutes to render buckets of clear salt water muddy as I rinsed the clothes one at a time.

Sod this I said to myself as I submerged the clothes one last time in a bucket full of brine. I put my glasses in the sand next to the bucket and walked like Joan of Arc into self immolation.

It would be stupid of me to claim the waters were bath tub warm, my favorite temperature, but I found myself tingling not unpleasantly in the cold crisp water. The sand underfoot was ridged and solid so I stopped doing the stingray shuffle and devoted myself to walking out slowly and chilling my shoulders with hands full of seawater. Immersion followed. 

Ron from the silver van down the beach had come upon as as we staggered home covered in goo and he stopped by yesterday morning to see how we were doing. He’s from Iowa and is in construction and takes glorious trips all over the place. I hope we meet him down the coast. Yesterday I met him as I swam and he drifted by on a paddle board.
He said scientists have discovered thermogenesis is good for one’s health. Oh good I said. What’s that? It turns out submitting to cold temperatures can improve blood flow and I don’t know what as long as you don’t kill yourself. No chance of that on a 75 degree lunchtime in Sonora. We chatted for a while as I trod  water then he paddled off. I tingled all the way back to the bucket and as I trudged back to GANNET2 full of thermogenesis.
We had homemade asparagus soup last night thanks to Walmart and our Instapot as Layne came to grips with cooking outdoors. I, thanks to one small muddy slip, am going to give cold water swimming another go. What surprising things we learn on the road. I’d never have expected to enjoy that.