Here at UMAR we have come at last to the end of the midterm exams. We started giving them last week, then of course, had to correct all of them, as well as give make-ups this week, then enter all the scores into what for me was a confusing Excel spreadsheet, that had the wrong formula, then do a lot of it over as teachers discussed the results and we decided to either ignore some sections or mark them differently. Tons of fun. However, there were a few moments of levity. As I corrected, I also kept track of some of the more amusing mistakes, and I include a short list here. The intention is not to make fun of the students, since I have my own share of pretty funny mistakes (I once asked for 200 chargers for my phone, instead of recharging my account for 200 pesos; the girl's eyes got so wide they actually bulged), but that sometimes, you have to laugh. And now and then, there's an unexpected truth.
A short sampling of the better (or worst) mistakes:
-John isn't a shower.
-Sometimes the local people was us.
-I am going to connect my mind with my heroes, with Chile's history, and original pollution.
-Puerto Vallarta is another place where you can have an excellent wheat ear.
-My favorite rock band is Argentinean: Soda Stereo . . . Now they are disintegrated.
-The course was challenged academically.
-I don't sometimes eat my tree lonchs.
-We bought thousandth of dollars because we lodge in the presidential suit.
-My vacation was very funny because I went to many places that like me.
-Here, people were typical clothes, as the food, and the traditional scream.
-Storm Man caused people to rain.
-The athlete was exhausting after the race.
-Where are you born?
Friday, December 5, 2008
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Finca Monte Carlo
I have checked off one more item from my lifetime to-do list: to visit a coffee plantation, to taste the cherries, and see from whence my favorite beverage comes. Tucked into the mountains about two hours from Huatulco, Finca Monte Carlo is a lovely, family-owned operation, that I visited last weekend with Gary (the Englishman's Englishman), Caryl (my American boss), Celia (a French teacher) and Yulma (a Mexican linguistics professor).
We set off from Huatulco in a rattling camioneta, traveling by highway for the first 15 minutes or so, then turning onto a twisting dirt road that led higher into the mountains, which our driver casually navigated with one hand, the other clutching a faded red scarf kept pressed to his cheek. Since it seemed to serve no practical purpose, I was mildly concerned that it was some sort of good-luck charm, which I hoped would prove unnecessary. In any case, we went high and deep into the jungle for another 45 minutes and when the trees opened up enough to permit a view, we could see the browning of the dry season fading the previously lush hillsides. Having arrived at the end of the wet season, it had seemed difficult to imagine these rolling waves of greenery looking anything but impossibly verdant, but the branches were noticeably barer, patches of grey and dusty beige appearing on the slopes, large dried fronds and leaves crinkling and collapsing into powder beneath our wheels.
Eventually, after much swaying, bouncing and jarring, we arrived at a little puebla, dominated by a central church, half crumbling colonial stonework, half modern reconstruction. We uncoiled our cramped limbs from the seats and each other, paid the driver the startlingly small sum of 25 pesos each ($2.50US; not only that, a taxi ride within Huatulco is always and only 20 pesos, no matter where you go), and waited for our host to pick us up. Gary and I had to heed a call of nature, and a few minutes of walking and asking led us back to the church and the kiosko outside; sanitarios on the bottom, and the top half a bandstand, a somewhat odd arrangement, especially given the conditions below. The toilets, unlike the rest of the tidy, pleasant village, I fantasized as only being cleaned once a year in some ritual celebration involving the local priest and burning herbs, the rest of the time superstitiously left alone for fear of offending the local spirits. The stench was truly awful. In any case, by the time we'd escaped the noisome altar, after quickly pouring out our offerings, a battered but healthy white pick-up truck had arrived, driven by our host and owner of the finca, Efrain (spelling uncertain, forgot to check). Gary, Yulma and I hopped in the back, helped a dusty brown tree frog to hop out, Celia and Caryl got in up front, and we were off up a dirt road again. More twisty mountain bouncing, this time steeper and more gravelly. We forded two streams, and after perhaps half an hour of climbing, finally came to the gates of the plantation.
Just beyond the gates is the plantation house, a beautiful building that had obviously seen better days, but nevertheless maintained with love and care. Large, sprawling and open, the front half of its two stories are painted a peaceful brick red, flowers and palms and other nameless (to me) plants cluster around and over it, cobbled paths and patio embracing it. All its many windows and doors were open to the cooler air of the mountains, though it was still warm and sunny. Inside and out, the furnishings are clearly the collection of careful and tasteful generations; nothing is new, but all are of a time and character where quality and uniqueness were valued. On the walls are many pieces of art, from paintings to framed prints to a compelling woodcut in the stairwell, done by Ephrain's grandmother.
We were shown to our rooms on the top floor, each furnished with beautiful hardwood dressers, tables and beds, but the most stunning feature up there is the spacious gallery commanding a view of the compound and the mountains sloping away into green mistiness and clouds. Yes, the elevation is that high. After settling in (i.e. dropping our bags on our beds of choice), we got a short tour of the house, then came out onto the veranda, for, unsurprisingly, coffee. Our hosts, Efrain and his wife, Ana Berta, were animated and friendly, peppering us with questions and stories. I say "us," but as usual, I mostly sat and listened, as it was all in Spanish. I was pleased to be able to follow the general thread of the conversation, but by the time I gathered the words to say something, the moment was gone. It doesn't bother me though; I already know and understand more Spanish after not quite two months here than I ever learned of Polish in two and a half years, so I'm content with my progress.
Several cups and some oatmeal-like cookies later (biscuits to Gary, galletas here), we went to tour the grounds while lunch/dinner was being prepared. Efrain began by talking expansively about the big stump at the head of the short, cobbled drive, where he'd had to cut down an enormous tree. Not only had it been rotting, and thus a danger, but it also had been interfering with his satellite reception. Two birds with one saw. Then up the grassy track by an old stone aqueduct, fed from a large tank, in turn fed from the river we'd crossed. This provided all the water for the plantation, not only for plants, but for drinking, washing, and cleaning. Wonderfully clear and cool, it was a quiet rushing noise that threaded through our visit whenever we cared to stop and listen.
Back down the track, and through a wire gate, past a stand of three-story tall bamboo and we were walking among the coffee bushes. They really look more like small trees, with slender trunks from which branches begin sprouting about halfway up, heavy with dark, glossy, almost poisonous-looking leaves. At the base of the leaf stems is where the cherries grow; in a couple of weeks is harvest time, and then they will be a deep, translucent red, but for now they were still green and hard, like tiny Granny Smiths'. A few ripe ones were found for us to sample: a little disappointing. They were sweet, but without a terribly distinctive flavor and the two beans in each cherry leave little room for the whitish flesh anyway. I don't know what I'd expected, but something more, something that hinted at the flavors to come, and I didn't find it. The bushes themselves grow beneath a canopy of much larger trees, leaving it cool and shady where we walked and their gnarled branches were another cause for wonder and admiration. It wasn't quite clear to me as Efrain talked whether it was a completely organic operation, but they had lined the path and mingled with the bushes other plants, whose purpose was to discourage pests and protect the coffee, and from what I understood, it seemed to be working well.
Further back, we visited the children's cemetery, a family plot, maybe ten or twelve stone tombs, with a lime tree at one corner. Efrian and Ana Berta picked some fruit for us to take home with us, and there was nothing strange about it.
After the coffee bushes, we walked back to the compound, where we saw part of the processing facilities. Huge stone tanks like giants' bathtubs, one of which was currently home to large goldfish and tilapia, where the beans would be washed. Stretching out in front of them, several enormous tiers of flat, red-painted concrete where the beans would then be spread to dry over the course of four or five days. At opposite ends of the farthest one, were two basketball hoops, netless, their wooden backboards fading. This was also the largest open space we'd seen since leaving the puebla, and the view of the green mountains, the peaks rising behind us cloud-wreathed, the ones across the valley below us rolling away in mistier shades, was truly breathtaking.
We took a short turn around the back garden and through some other outbuildings, now clean and bare concrete, but soon to be full of people and coffee, roasting and grinding, and ended back on the veranda. Gary and Yulma and I had brought a bottle of mezcal, and when Efrian heard of this, nothing would do but that I bring it out and he his so that we might compare the two. I had been in charge of purchasing, and knowing no better, went with the pretty, tri-colored bottle, aptly named El Tri. Efrian's came in a large, clear, label-less bottle, produced in Puebla, north of us. He poured first, we toasted and drank; it was fiery and strong, with hints of smoke and unfamiliar aftertastes. Later, we poured the El Tri, and it was generally agreed that it was fine, smoother perhaps, but completely lacking in character.
All of that was made inconsequential by the meal that arrived on the table. Plate after platter after bowl came out, and we fell to with ravenous good will. First, a rich cream and asparagus soup, which held at bay the slight chill beginning to develop in the air. Next, large, thick handmade tortillas, each the size of a dinner plate, and shortly after rice tossed with oil and a little onion, thick cuts of beef tender and flavorful, a fresh lettuce and tomato salad (which sounds plain, but it's actually very difficult to find fresh lettuce here; I think there are infrequent shipments to Huatulco's markets, and if you don't buy it right away, the heads quickly wilt, so this was a pleasant surprise), mole and chicken tamales, bread, juice, the ever-present, always useful dish of limes, a dish of pickled jalapenos and sliced carrots, and of course, plenty of coffee. We gorged. There's really no other word for it. As we ate, it began to rain, a common occurence in the mountains, but it only served to make us feel cozier and snug, deep under the roof of the veranda, wrapped by well-tended gardens, the jungle beyond, filling ourselves with good food and company.
After, we sat and chatted, then drifted away one by one to nap and digest. I ended up in the hammock on the gallery outside my room, where I quickly dozed off without so much as cracking my book. When I woke, the sun was well behind the mountains, and I swung lazily, watching the flitter of bats across a clear, purplish sky, wishing them good hunting. At last, my bladder roused me, so I went downstairs and out to the toilet, and found Caryl on the veranda reading. She challenged me to a game of Scrabble, which I couldn't refuse. However, she had the Spanish edition, and even though she's my boss, I have to say I would have won if she hadn't insisted that the double l, the double r, and the n with the accent, all of which she played, keep their inflated point values, despite being used as regular, single English letters. But no matter.
The others arrived as we were finishing, then Efrian and Ana Berta brought out bowls of potato chips, cubes of queso fresco and green olives, Celia and Caryl broke out the wine they'd brought, and we fell to snacking and chatting once more. So passed our evening, and despite the naps we'd had, everyone went to bed early, all of us gone by eleven o'clock.
In the morning, after we'd all arisen, breakfast was served, just as overwhelming as the dinner the night before. In addition to the coffee, we had bread and tortillas, fresh fruit with yogurt, oats and honey, poached eggs topped with a mild sauce and bacon, black beans, and a fresh salsa. The sun was bright, the air already warm and inviting, bees and flies and ants and birds going about their business, the compound's dogs basking or barking or begging unobtrusively at the edge of the veranda. What better way to spend a Sunday morning?
After breakfast, after digestion and unhurried discussion, we decided to go swimming. This was a matter merely of walking five minute down the road to where the river crossed it. A small, swift stream cascading over pale boulders, cutting down the mountainside in a series of steep falls and small pools, a largish one of which spread out just before the road. Deep enough to swim, cold enough that Gary had to be dunked (he was really asking for it, I swear), surrounded by overhanging trees and bushes, and pure enough to drink. The force of the current was so strong that it was essentially a forever pool, the kind some people spend thousands of dollars on, but here nature had provided, and we spent a long time swimming against it, or trying to hang on to the rocks where it pounded down on the upstream edge. Eventually, the cold won out, which meant time to do some basking of our own on the boulders by the falls from the road, and so our afternoon passed, from sun-warmed rock to mountain-born water and back again.
When the sun was no longer high and direct (a period of three hours or so, I think) we made our way slowly back to the compound. It's possible that the thinner mountain air was affecting us, but we'd also exerted ourselves a great deal, so when, shortly after our return, lunch was served, we were ready and more than. This meal was a noodle and tomato soup, chicken and potatoes, more rice, more salsa, toast and tortillas, and then a green squash, almost like zucchini, cut lengthwise, topped with ham and cheese, baked and served on a bed of chopped lettuce. And of course, coffee.
And sadly, that was the end of our stay. Half an hour later, we were packed and climbing back into the pickup. Efrain and Ana Berta drove us down to the puebla, where we had to negotiate for a taxi in the fading light of sunset, small children giggling and creeping closer to stare at the gringos. We had no real choice but to pay almost three times as much for the return trip, so we did. The driver of this camioneta was younger than the first, but he negotiated the winding dirt road with the same one-handed nonchalance, though it was full dark by now. I closed my eyes and let the jungle night slip by me unremarked. When at last he dropped us off in La Crucecita, the finca and the weekend were already fading into memory, hurried along by the now-intrusive sounds of Huatulco. What had seemed a small, sleepy town on the coast when I first arrived, now felt all too urban and busy, loud and bustling even on a Sunday evening. But it was home, and pleasant for all that, even if no one will make me breakfast in the morning. Caryl, Celia and I made our goodbyes to Yulma and Gary, and headed up the street to our neighborhood. I left them at the Y-fork that separates our streets, walked the last few feet to my building, up the stairs, and into the stuffiness of an apartment unused for a couple days. Laid down on the sofa, tried not to count the hours before I had to return to work, reminded myself I love my job, and promised I would go back soon.
We set off from Huatulco in a rattling camioneta, traveling by highway for the first 15 minutes or so, then turning onto a twisting dirt road that led higher into the mountains, which our driver casually navigated with one hand, the other clutching a faded red scarf kept pressed to his cheek. Since it seemed to serve no practical purpose, I was mildly concerned that it was some sort of good-luck charm, which I hoped would prove unnecessary. In any case, we went high and deep into the jungle for another 45 minutes and when the trees opened up enough to permit a view, we could see the browning of the dry season fading the previously lush hillsides. Having arrived at the end of the wet season, it had seemed difficult to imagine these rolling waves of greenery looking anything but impossibly verdant, but the branches were noticeably barer, patches of grey and dusty beige appearing on the slopes, large dried fronds and leaves crinkling and collapsing into powder beneath our wheels.
Eventually, after much swaying, bouncing and jarring, we arrived at a little puebla, dominated by a central church, half crumbling colonial stonework, half modern reconstruction. We uncoiled our cramped limbs from the seats and each other, paid the driver the startlingly small sum of 25 pesos each ($2.50US; not only that, a taxi ride within Huatulco is always and only 20 pesos, no matter where you go), and waited for our host to pick us up. Gary and I had to heed a call of nature, and a few minutes of walking and asking led us back to the church and the kiosko outside; sanitarios on the bottom, and the top half a bandstand, a somewhat odd arrangement, especially given the conditions below. The toilets, unlike the rest of the tidy, pleasant village, I fantasized as only being cleaned once a year in some ritual celebration involving the local priest and burning herbs, the rest of the time superstitiously left alone for fear of offending the local spirits. The stench was truly awful. In any case, by the time we'd escaped the noisome altar, after quickly pouring out our offerings, a battered but healthy white pick-up truck had arrived, driven by our host and owner of the finca, Efrain (spelling uncertain, forgot to check). Gary, Yulma and I hopped in the back, helped a dusty brown tree frog to hop out, Celia and Caryl got in up front, and we were off up a dirt road again. More twisty mountain bouncing, this time steeper and more gravelly. We forded two streams, and after perhaps half an hour of climbing, finally came to the gates of the plantation.
Just beyond the gates is the plantation house, a beautiful building that had obviously seen better days, but nevertheless maintained with love and care. Large, sprawling and open, the front half of its two stories are painted a peaceful brick red, flowers and palms and other nameless (to me) plants cluster around and over it, cobbled paths and patio embracing it. All its many windows and doors were open to the cooler air of the mountains, though it was still warm and sunny. Inside and out, the furnishings are clearly the collection of careful and tasteful generations; nothing is new, but all are of a time and character where quality and uniqueness were valued. On the walls are many pieces of art, from paintings to framed prints to a compelling woodcut in the stairwell, done by Ephrain's grandmother.
We were shown to our rooms on the top floor, each furnished with beautiful hardwood dressers, tables and beds, but the most stunning feature up there is the spacious gallery commanding a view of the compound and the mountains sloping away into green mistiness and clouds. Yes, the elevation is that high. After settling in (i.e. dropping our bags on our beds of choice), we got a short tour of the house, then came out onto the veranda, for, unsurprisingly, coffee. Our hosts, Efrain and his wife, Ana Berta, were animated and friendly, peppering us with questions and stories. I say "us," but as usual, I mostly sat and listened, as it was all in Spanish. I was pleased to be able to follow the general thread of the conversation, but by the time I gathered the words to say something, the moment was gone. It doesn't bother me though; I already know and understand more Spanish after not quite two months here than I ever learned of Polish in two and a half years, so I'm content with my progress.
Several cups and some oatmeal-like cookies later (biscuits to Gary, galletas here), we went to tour the grounds while lunch/dinner was being prepared. Efrain began by talking expansively about the big stump at the head of the short, cobbled drive, where he'd had to cut down an enormous tree. Not only had it been rotting, and thus a danger, but it also had been interfering with his satellite reception. Two birds with one saw. Then up the grassy track by an old stone aqueduct, fed from a large tank, in turn fed from the river we'd crossed. This provided all the water for the plantation, not only for plants, but for drinking, washing, and cleaning. Wonderfully clear and cool, it was a quiet rushing noise that threaded through our visit whenever we cared to stop and listen.
Back down the track, and through a wire gate, past a stand of three-story tall bamboo and we were walking among the coffee bushes. They really look more like small trees, with slender trunks from which branches begin sprouting about halfway up, heavy with dark, glossy, almost poisonous-looking leaves. At the base of the leaf stems is where the cherries grow; in a couple of weeks is harvest time, and then they will be a deep, translucent red, but for now they were still green and hard, like tiny Granny Smiths'. A few ripe ones were found for us to sample: a little disappointing. They were sweet, but without a terribly distinctive flavor and the two beans in each cherry leave little room for the whitish flesh anyway. I don't know what I'd expected, but something more, something that hinted at the flavors to come, and I didn't find it. The bushes themselves grow beneath a canopy of much larger trees, leaving it cool and shady where we walked and their gnarled branches were another cause for wonder and admiration. It wasn't quite clear to me as Efrain talked whether it was a completely organic operation, but they had lined the path and mingled with the bushes other plants, whose purpose was to discourage pests and protect the coffee, and from what I understood, it seemed to be working well.
Further back, we visited the children's cemetery, a family plot, maybe ten or twelve stone tombs, with a lime tree at one corner. Efrian and Ana Berta picked some fruit for us to take home with us, and there was nothing strange about it.
After the coffee bushes, we walked back to the compound, where we saw part of the processing facilities. Huge stone tanks like giants' bathtubs, one of which was currently home to large goldfish and tilapia, where the beans would be washed. Stretching out in front of them, several enormous tiers of flat, red-painted concrete where the beans would then be spread to dry over the course of four or five days. At opposite ends of the farthest one, were two basketball hoops, netless, their wooden backboards fading. This was also the largest open space we'd seen since leaving the puebla, and the view of the green mountains, the peaks rising behind us cloud-wreathed, the ones across the valley below us rolling away in mistier shades, was truly breathtaking.
We took a short turn around the back garden and through some other outbuildings, now clean and bare concrete, but soon to be full of people and coffee, roasting and grinding, and ended back on the veranda. Gary and Yulma and I had brought a bottle of mezcal, and when Efrian heard of this, nothing would do but that I bring it out and he his so that we might compare the two. I had been in charge of purchasing, and knowing no better, went with the pretty, tri-colored bottle, aptly named El Tri. Efrian's came in a large, clear, label-less bottle, produced in Puebla, north of us. He poured first, we toasted and drank; it was fiery and strong, with hints of smoke and unfamiliar aftertastes. Later, we poured the El Tri, and it was generally agreed that it was fine, smoother perhaps, but completely lacking in character.
All of that was made inconsequential by the meal that arrived on the table. Plate after platter after bowl came out, and we fell to with ravenous good will. First, a rich cream and asparagus soup, which held at bay the slight chill beginning to develop in the air. Next, large, thick handmade tortillas, each the size of a dinner plate, and shortly after rice tossed with oil and a little onion, thick cuts of beef tender and flavorful, a fresh lettuce and tomato salad (which sounds plain, but it's actually very difficult to find fresh lettuce here; I think there are infrequent shipments to Huatulco's markets, and if you don't buy it right away, the heads quickly wilt, so this was a pleasant surprise), mole and chicken tamales, bread, juice, the ever-present, always useful dish of limes, a dish of pickled jalapenos and sliced carrots, and of course, plenty of coffee. We gorged. There's really no other word for it. As we ate, it began to rain, a common occurence in the mountains, but it only served to make us feel cozier and snug, deep under the roof of the veranda, wrapped by well-tended gardens, the jungle beyond, filling ourselves with good food and company.
After, we sat and chatted, then drifted away one by one to nap and digest. I ended up in the hammock on the gallery outside my room, where I quickly dozed off without so much as cracking my book. When I woke, the sun was well behind the mountains, and I swung lazily, watching the flitter of bats across a clear, purplish sky, wishing them good hunting. At last, my bladder roused me, so I went downstairs and out to the toilet, and found Caryl on the veranda reading. She challenged me to a game of Scrabble, which I couldn't refuse. However, she had the Spanish edition, and even though she's my boss, I have to say I would have won if she hadn't insisted that the double l, the double r, and the n with the accent, all of which she played, keep their inflated point values, despite being used as regular, single English letters. But no matter.
The others arrived as we were finishing, then Efrian and Ana Berta brought out bowls of potato chips, cubes of queso fresco and green olives, Celia and Caryl broke out the wine they'd brought, and we fell to snacking and chatting once more. So passed our evening, and despite the naps we'd had, everyone went to bed early, all of us gone by eleven o'clock.
In the morning, after we'd all arisen, breakfast was served, just as overwhelming as the dinner the night before. In addition to the coffee, we had bread and tortillas, fresh fruit with yogurt, oats and honey, poached eggs topped with a mild sauce and bacon, black beans, and a fresh salsa. The sun was bright, the air already warm and inviting, bees and flies and ants and birds going about their business, the compound's dogs basking or barking or begging unobtrusively at the edge of the veranda. What better way to spend a Sunday morning?
After breakfast, after digestion and unhurried discussion, we decided to go swimming. This was a matter merely of walking five minute down the road to where the river crossed it. A small, swift stream cascading over pale boulders, cutting down the mountainside in a series of steep falls and small pools, a largish one of which spread out just before the road. Deep enough to swim, cold enough that Gary had to be dunked (he was really asking for it, I swear), surrounded by overhanging trees and bushes, and pure enough to drink. The force of the current was so strong that it was essentially a forever pool, the kind some people spend thousands of dollars on, but here nature had provided, and we spent a long time swimming against it, or trying to hang on to the rocks where it pounded down on the upstream edge. Eventually, the cold won out, which meant time to do some basking of our own on the boulders by the falls from the road, and so our afternoon passed, from sun-warmed rock to mountain-born water and back again.
When the sun was no longer high and direct (a period of three hours or so, I think) we made our way slowly back to the compound. It's possible that the thinner mountain air was affecting us, but we'd also exerted ourselves a great deal, so when, shortly after our return, lunch was served, we were ready and more than. This meal was a noodle and tomato soup, chicken and potatoes, more rice, more salsa, toast and tortillas, and then a green squash, almost like zucchini, cut lengthwise, topped with ham and cheese, baked and served on a bed of chopped lettuce. And of course, coffee.
And sadly, that was the end of our stay. Half an hour later, we were packed and climbing back into the pickup. Efrain and Ana Berta drove us down to the puebla, where we had to negotiate for a taxi in the fading light of sunset, small children giggling and creeping closer to stare at the gringos. We had no real choice but to pay almost three times as much for the return trip, so we did. The driver of this camioneta was younger than the first, but he negotiated the winding dirt road with the same one-handed nonchalance, though it was full dark by now. I closed my eyes and let the jungle night slip by me unremarked. When at last he dropped us off in La Crucecita, the finca and the weekend were already fading into memory, hurried along by the now-intrusive sounds of Huatulco. What had seemed a small, sleepy town on the coast when I first arrived, now felt all too urban and busy, loud and bustling even on a Sunday evening. But it was home, and pleasant for all that, even if no one will make me breakfast in the morning. Caryl, Celia and I made our goodbyes to Yulma and Gary, and headed up the street to our neighborhood. I left them at the Y-fork that separates our streets, walked the last few feet to my building, up the stairs, and into the stuffiness of an apartment unused for a couple days. Laid down on the sofa, tried not to count the hours before I had to return to work, reminded myself I love my job, and promised I would go back soon.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
When in Huatulco, drive as the Huatulquenos do
What follows are my observations on driving in Huatulco only. Not to be construed as applying to Mexican drivers as a whole, since I have no road experience outside my little corner of the country. Just as East Coast drivers are different from West Coast drivers are different from Southern drivers, rural from urban or suburban, I assume it's likely a similar variety exists in Mexico. However, here in Huatulco, these are the prevailing rules of the road:
1. Obey the posted speed limit, except when: a) you want to go faster; b) you want to go slower; c) you didn't see it.
2. Stay in your own lane, except when: a) you are trying to avoid a pothole; b) you are passing somebody; c) it feels better in the center; d) you weren't paying attention; e) you see somebody you know and have to swerve to wave at them.
3. Come to a complete stop at all stop signs, except when: a) you are sure you can beat the traffic; b) nobody is around; c) pedestrians are crossing in front of you (in which case, slow way down, but keep moving so they don't know if they should go or not).
4. Use your horn: a) when the light turns green; b) just before the light turns green; c) to attract passengers (if you are a taxi driver); c) to say hello to friends; d) to say goodbye to friends; e) to let your friend know you are there to pick them up (if the first five or six blasts don't work, keep trying. Only losers quit); f) to let scooter riders know you are there, but only when you're right behind them or passing; g) your stereo has stopped working and you need to keep the beat to the song you're singing.
5. Do not go the wrong way down a one-way street, except when: a) you made a mistake; b) you're driving backwards; c) you only have to go three or four blocks; d) someone else is coming the correct way.
6. Use your blinkers: a) all the time; b)never.
7. Leave a courteous amount of distance between you and the car ahead, except when: a) you are at a stop light/sign; b) you are in motion.
8. When parking, make sure you do one or more of the following: a) park headfirst and leave the back sticking out in the street; b) pass the spot, drive a block or more, then back up till you reach it, at which point do a); c) double park in front of a scooter, so it can't get out; d) if you are in a lot, angle your car to cover at least two spots; e) stop wherever you are and get out, you'll just be a minute.
1. Obey the posted speed limit, except when: a) you want to go faster; b) you want to go slower; c) you didn't see it.
2. Stay in your own lane, except when: a) you are trying to avoid a pothole; b) you are passing somebody; c) it feels better in the center; d) you weren't paying attention; e) you see somebody you know and have to swerve to wave at them.
3. Come to a complete stop at all stop signs, except when: a) you are sure you can beat the traffic; b) nobody is around; c) pedestrians are crossing in front of you (in which case, slow way down, but keep moving so they don't know if they should go or not).
4. Use your horn: a) when the light turns green; b) just before the light turns green; c) to attract passengers (if you are a taxi driver); c) to say hello to friends; d) to say goodbye to friends; e) to let your friend know you are there to pick them up (if the first five or six blasts don't work, keep trying. Only losers quit); f) to let scooter riders know you are there, but only when you're right behind them or passing; g) your stereo has stopped working and you need to keep the beat to the song you're singing.
5. Do not go the wrong way down a one-way street, except when: a) you made a mistake; b) you're driving backwards; c) you only have to go three or four blocks; d) someone else is coming the correct way.
6. Use your blinkers: a) all the time; b)never.
7. Leave a courteous amount of distance between you and the car ahead, except when: a) you are at a stop light/sign; b) you are in motion.
8. When parking, make sure you do one or more of the following: a) park headfirst and leave the back sticking out in the street; b) pass the spot, drive a block or more, then back up till you reach it, at which point do a); c) double park in front of a scooter, so it can't get out; d) if you are in a lot, angle your car to cover at least two spots; e) stop wherever you are and get out, you'll just be a minute.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Dow who?
It's Friday evening here at UMAR, and you can practically smell it. All the teachers have had their last classes, and all pretense of working has been abandoned, here in our little corner of the campus. An impromptu game of office football (soccer) has sprung up, with a ball of paper held together with tape. A cluster of French teachers discusses their weekend camping trip to Cangrejos, a beach a couple hours from here. Not far in the distance, the students have gathered at one of the larger intersections of the pathways, and we can hear the lightness in their voices as they discuss which club, which party, which clothes.
We are all waiting for seven o'clock. That's when we can punch out, when the buses and taxis arrive to take the students away; outside the gate there's almost certainly three or four trucks and cars with amplifiers bolted to their roofs, ready to begin blasting advertisements for local clubs, their eternal promises of fun and frolic. One of them, Litros, is having a foam party tonight, where they will fill the dance floor with bubbles, and this seems to be the club of choice for most of the kids. Even so, they will be there at the gate, with their speakers and billboards, their pretty girls handing out flyers and somewhat disturbingly insisting you will have a good time.
But it's relatively quiet in the Centro de Idiomas; even the shrieks and shouts of the football game are muffled by the jungle. The sun still grazes the tops of the trees, but here, under the canopy, it is definitely twilight. Crickets have begun their nightly symphony, the iguanas and lizards seem to have disappeared to whatever safe nook they wait out the cool of night in, even the flowers seem still and peaceful and ready to rest. In less than an hour, we will give the jungle back to them for the weekend; only those few professors who live on campus will remain, and most of them will leave too, to visit family or go to a beach or whatever.
And I will leave, and happily enough. Home, slowly, (still have water in my carburetor), a gentle putt-putt down the hill to my home, which feels more so everyday. Later, many of us will meet again at the Dublin, where Richard may convince me to try my hand at darts again, and Alex the bartender will likely make those tiny margaritas with the rotgut tequila that only a few hardened regulars drink, which is why he gives it away to us, and Angela will probably watch whatever sports happen to be on the flatscreen, and Gary will flirt shamelessly but charmingly with whoever happens to be around, and later, perhaps, we'll all go to a new club, opening tonight, the owners a married couple, he's American, she's Mexican, who have treated us well at their little cafe, and are now embarking on bigger ventures.
Somewhere north of here, the global economy is melting down, and the impacts of it will surely reach deeply into Huatulco. But for now, it's only Friday evening, and it's time to go.
We are all waiting for seven o'clock. That's when we can punch out, when the buses and taxis arrive to take the students away; outside the gate there's almost certainly three or four trucks and cars with amplifiers bolted to their roofs, ready to begin blasting advertisements for local clubs, their eternal promises of fun and frolic. One of them, Litros, is having a foam party tonight, where they will fill the dance floor with bubbles, and this seems to be the club of choice for most of the kids. Even so, they will be there at the gate, with their speakers and billboards, their pretty girls handing out flyers and somewhat disturbingly insisting you will have a good time.
But it's relatively quiet in the Centro de Idiomas; even the shrieks and shouts of the football game are muffled by the jungle. The sun still grazes the tops of the trees, but here, under the canopy, it is definitely twilight. Crickets have begun their nightly symphony, the iguanas and lizards seem to have disappeared to whatever safe nook they wait out the cool of night in, even the flowers seem still and peaceful and ready to rest. In less than an hour, we will give the jungle back to them for the weekend; only those few professors who live on campus will remain, and most of them will leave too, to visit family or go to a beach or whatever.
And I will leave, and happily enough. Home, slowly, (still have water in my carburetor), a gentle putt-putt down the hill to my home, which feels more so everyday. Later, many of us will meet again at the Dublin, where Richard may convince me to try my hand at darts again, and Alex the bartender will likely make those tiny margaritas with the rotgut tequila that only a few hardened regulars drink, which is why he gives it away to us, and Angela will probably watch whatever sports happen to be on the flatscreen, and Gary will flirt shamelessly but charmingly with whoever happens to be around, and later, perhaps, we'll all go to a new club, opening tonight, the owners a married couple, he's American, she's Mexican, who have treated us well at their little cafe, and are now embarking on bigger ventures.
Somewhere north of here, the global economy is melting down, and the impacts of it will surely reach deeply into Huatulco. But for now, it's only Friday evening, and it's time to go.
Monday, October 20, 2008
The beaches and bahias of Huatulco, San Agustin
All the beaches of Bahias de Huatulco are beautiful, and they all have their own particular characteristics and quirks. Yesterday morning, as often happens on the weekends, I got a message from Rob and Anita, two Americans from Albany, New York, who live here most of the year with their son, Robbie: “San Agustin, 12ish ne1?” They are great organizers, these two, the same ones who got us together to go rafting a couple of weeks back. So I called for directions, talked to Anita, was offered a ride in the back of their pickup, but I wanted to take mi moto; it was a glorious day, and while it knew it was relatively far out (about 25km), I’d also been wanting to go for a longer ride than to Super Che and back. Anita told me to go past the airport and then left at the next intersection (directions in Huatulco tend to be just that simple) onto a dirt road. “Is it passable by scooter?” I asked. “Well, it’s a bit bumpy, but sure,” she said.
Round about noon I met up with Gary, my very English English teacher colleague and friend, who happens to be bike buddies with me as well. He has the same model Zanetti, purchased the same day from Super Che, only blue. It was a lovely, early Sunday afternoon ride through mountains, surrounded by jungle, even less traffic than usual, the highway much better maintained than the streets of Crucecita where we live. Passed the airport after about 25, 30 minutes, found the turnoff to San Agustin. Dirt, yes. Road is a more generous term for what we found. More like a collection of potholes, bumps, rocks, and deep, straggling runnels strung out in a twisting line through hilly jungle. Gary, showing an unexpected lust for adventure (having got lost [through no fault of his own] in the jungle for two hours just the day before), said, “Let’s just start and see how far we get.”
Which we did. If the picture of my scooter isn’t clear, let me tell you that what we have are street bikes. Our suspensions basically consist of one big spring between the seat and the rear wheel, which, like the front, is very small, hardly big enough to go over a golf hole let alone the divots and cracks on this road. So after about 10-15 minutes, we’d barely covered a kilometer, with 6 or 7 more to go, when Rob, Anita, and their truck packed full of people, bags, equipment and Chester the dog come rattling up behind us. The group is understandably amused, although Anita does apologize, claiming the road was much better during the dry season, which it probably was. Then they tell us about the river. Apparently, to get to San Agustin, you must also ford a small river, which at the end of the rainy season, we are told, is a couple of feet deep. Our engines are about 5 inches off the ground.
Mark, a retired expat who’s lived here for years, tells us there’s a safe place we can leave the scooters, and then hop in the truck for the rest of the way. It’s another of kilometer of bumps and weaving, but we make it to a little store, not much more than a shed with a log bench, where we park and take a break. There’s some good-natured ribbing about the idiocy of taking our 90cc street bikes down this road, but I can’t help feeling a small amount of pride in having made it as far as we did. And truth be told, it was far more comfortable than the back of the truck; at the very least, on a scooter, you can drive around many of the worst holes and bumps. In a truck, you can only go over most of them, and if you happen to be squeezed with five other people and a frisky young dog into an unlined bed, you may start thinking it wasn’t so bad on the scooter.
Nonetheless, we all made it at last (the river turned out to be only 20 feet across or so, and not as deep as we’d been told, and thus mildly anti-climactic. Still would’ve swamped our engines), and as usual, worth the journey. A long, breathtaking curve of pale sand, scattered with bits of white coral, lined with palapas (beach restaurants), bordered behind those with jungled hills, all of it enclosing blue, crystalline water punctuated by a couple of small, rocky islands. But the most notable feature of Bahia de San Agustin is under the water: a coral reef that covers most of the sea floor and stretches almost to the beach, thus making it perfect for snorkeling. The locals take care of their reef; if someone is foolish or careless enough to actually stand on it, they quickly and vehemently yell at them to get off. It’s a community; behind the palapas are small homes, where it seems many of the owners and workers live. Mark told us they’d only gotten electricity in the last year or so, and all the drinking water has to be trucked in still.
We went to a palapa called Charly’s, where its namesake greeted us warmly, sat us down at tables under a thatched shelter with two hammocks strung from the side posts. We nearly had it all to ourselves. At a rough estimate, there must be at least thirty palapas on San Agustin. Most of them were closed, and of the handful that were open, none of them were full. Which is nice if you’re the visitor, but it’s easy to see that it’s bad for the locals, who are probably waiting anxiously for December and January when business picks up again.
Most of us headed straight for the water, cool at first, but warm and embracing after a few seconds. The tide was just coming in when we arrived, which seemed great initially; the low depth meant we could snorkel very close above the reef, but several of us independently discovered that in certain parts, as the waves pull back, you can get stranded in mere inches of water above the coral, with no way off but to wait for the next good wave and hope it lifts you up and not slams you down. This is the part where I’d love to detail all the fish I saw, but the only ones I could positively identify were the puffer fish. Most were colorful, many were flat and wide, some small and darting; a few tiny, vibrantly blue fish flickered in and out of holes in the reef. The coral itself was mostly a dark red or brown, greenish in the light in some places, and deceptively smooth-looking, rounded and curving over the floor. The water itself was the clearest I’ve seen yet; though all the beaches here are clean and swimmable, some are better than others for snorkeling, either because of reefs like this one, or, especially at the end of the rainy season, worse due to sediment and runoff (it should be noted that there’s virtually no heavy industry anywhere near Huatulco, and it’s sparsely populated. Runoff here means only dirt; while it can certainly turn the water of the bays cloudy and murky, there’s no need to be wary of it).
After we’d all trickled (literally) back to the tables, talk turned to lunch. There was a general consensus about fish, so we ordered two grilled “gallo.” A long time later (the coals weren’t ready yet), they appeared on our tables, nicely seasoned, firm flesh, reminiscent of tuna, fresh caught, with strangely small sides of rice and vegetables. There was a bit of grumbling when we got the bill later; 450 pesos per fish is a little high for Huatulco, but I do still think in American standards, and $45 for a fish large enough to feed 4-5 people is not a bad deal.
Later, some of us went out on Mark’s boat, cruising around the bay, where they caught sight of sea turtles and dolphins; a few of us, myself included headed back into the water for more snorkeling. By the time the boat returned, the sun had begun to set. Because of where Huatulco is in Mexico, the bottom of the curve eastward, and the position of the bay on that coast, I had the rather mind-twisting of sitting on a Pacific beach, looking out over the water with the sun setting behind me. It just didn’t seem right somehow, although still pretty. But no one wanted to drive that road in the dark, least of all me and Gary, so we settled up pretty quickly, shoehorned ourselves back into the truck and headed out.
The return was uneventful, retrieved our bikes, waved goodbye to the others, jounced our way back to the highway, and with the minor exception of a few thousand bugs dying by being crushed into our faces and chests, made it back to Crucecita without incident. At my apartment, I showered off the dust and insect guts, had a small sandwich, and went to bed early, with that pleasant tiredness of adventures survived, and a head full of new memories.
Round about noon I met up with Gary, my very English English teacher colleague and friend, who happens to be bike buddies with me as well. He has the same model Zanetti, purchased the same day from Super Che, only blue. It was a lovely, early Sunday afternoon ride through mountains, surrounded by jungle, even less traffic than usual, the highway much better maintained than the streets of Crucecita where we live. Passed the airport after about 25, 30 minutes, found the turnoff to San Agustin. Dirt, yes. Road is a more generous term for what we found. More like a collection of potholes, bumps, rocks, and deep, straggling runnels strung out in a twisting line through hilly jungle. Gary, showing an unexpected lust for adventure (having got lost [through no fault of his own] in the jungle for two hours just the day before), said, “Let’s just start and see how far we get.”
Which we did. If the picture of my scooter isn’t clear, let me tell you that what we have are street bikes. Our suspensions basically consist of one big spring between the seat and the rear wheel, which, like the front, is very small, hardly big enough to go over a golf hole let alone the divots and cracks on this road. So after about 10-15 minutes, we’d barely covered a kilometer, with 6 or 7 more to go, when Rob, Anita, and their truck packed full of people, bags, equipment and Chester the dog come rattling up behind us. The group is understandably amused, although Anita does apologize, claiming the road was much better during the dry season, which it probably was. Then they tell us about the river. Apparently, to get to San Agustin, you must also ford a small river, which at the end of the rainy season, we are told, is a couple of feet deep. Our engines are about 5 inches off the ground.
Mark, a retired expat who’s lived here for years, tells us there’s a safe place we can leave the scooters, and then hop in the truck for the rest of the way. It’s another of kilometer of bumps and weaving, but we make it to a little store, not much more than a shed with a log bench, where we park and take a break. There’s some good-natured ribbing about the idiocy of taking our 90cc street bikes down this road, but I can’t help feeling a small amount of pride in having made it as far as we did. And truth be told, it was far more comfortable than the back of the truck; at the very least, on a scooter, you can drive around many of the worst holes and bumps. In a truck, you can only go over most of them, and if you happen to be squeezed with five other people and a frisky young dog into an unlined bed, you may start thinking it wasn’t so bad on the scooter.
Nonetheless, we all made it at last (the river turned out to be only 20 feet across or so, and not as deep as we’d been told, and thus mildly anti-climactic. Still would’ve swamped our engines), and as usual, worth the journey. A long, breathtaking curve of pale sand, scattered with bits of white coral, lined with palapas (beach restaurants), bordered behind those with jungled hills, all of it enclosing blue, crystalline water punctuated by a couple of small, rocky islands. But the most notable feature of Bahia de San Agustin is under the water: a coral reef that covers most of the sea floor and stretches almost to the beach, thus making it perfect for snorkeling. The locals take care of their reef; if someone is foolish or careless enough to actually stand on it, they quickly and vehemently yell at them to get off. It’s a community; behind the palapas are small homes, where it seems many of the owners and workers live. Mark told us they’d only gotten electricity in the last year or so, and all the drinking water has to be trucked in still.
We went to a palapa called Charly’s, where its namesake greeted us warmly, sat us down at tables under a thatched shelter with two hammocks strung from the side posts. We nearly had it all to ourselves. At a rough estimate, there must be at least thirty palapas on San Agustin. Most of them were closed, and of the handful that were open, none of them were full. Which is nice if you’re the visitor, but it’s easy to see that it’s bad for the locals, who are probably waiting anxiously for December and January when business picks up again.
Most of us headed straight for the water, cool at first, but warm and embracing after a few seconds. The tide was just coming in when we arrived, which seemed great initially; the low depth meant we could snorkel very close above the reef, but several of us independently discovered that in certain parts, as the waves pull back, you can get stranded in mere inches of water above the coral, with no way off but to wait for the next good wave and hope it lifts you up and not slams you down. This is the part where I’d love to detail all the fish I saw, but the only ones I could positively identify were the puffer fish. Most were colorful, many were flat and wide, some small and darting; a few tiny, vibrantly blue fish flickered in and out of holes in the reef. The coral itself was mostly a dark red or brown, greenish in the light in some places, and deceptively smooth-looking, rounded and curving over the floor. The water itself was the clearest I’ve seen yet; though all the beaches here are clean and swimmable, some are better than others for snorkeling, either because of reefs like this one, or, especially at the end of the rainy season, worse due to sediment and runoff (it should be noted that there’s virtually no heavy industry anywhere near Huatulco, and it’s sparsely populated. Runoff here means only dirt; while it can certainly turn the water of the bays cloudy and murky, there’s no need to be wary of it).
After we’d all trickled (literally) back to the tables, talk turned to lunch. There was a general consensus about fish, so we ordered two grilled “gallo.” A long time later (the coals weren’t ready yet), they appeared on our tables, nicely seasoned, firm flesh, reminiscent of tuna, fresh caught, with strangely small sides of rice and vegetables. There was a bit of grumbling when we got the bill later; 450 pesos per fish is a little high for Huatulco, but I do still think in American standards, and $45 for a fish large enough to feed 4-5 people is not a bad deal.
Later, some of us went out on Mark’s boat, cruising around the bay, where they caught sight of sea turtles and dolphins; a few of us, myself included headed back into the water for more snorkeling. By the time the boat returned, the sun had begun to set. Because of where Huatulco is in Mexico, the bottom of the curve eastward, and the position of the bay on that coast, I had the rather mind-twisting of sitting on a Pacific beach, looking out over the water with the sun setting behind me. It just didn’t seem right somehow, although still pretty. But no one wanted to drive that road in the dark, least of all me and Gary, so we settled up pretty quickly, shoehorned ourselves back into the truck and headed out.
The return was uneventful, retrieved our bikes, waved goodbye to the others, jounced our way back to the highway, and with the minor exception of a few thousand bugs dying by being crushed into our faces and chests, made it back to Crucecita without incident. At my apartment, I showered off the dust and insect guts, had a small sandwich, and went to bed early, with that pleasant tiredness of adventures survived, and a head full of new memories.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
The University
Universidad del Mar, my new home. Or it feels like that anyway, since I spend and will spend a lot of time there. It's a beautiful campus, its position in the jungle maintained daily by a team of groundskeepers, who can be seen trimming, cutting, sweeping, painting, and hacking with machetes in a truly Sisyphean effort to keep the bushes, shrubs and trees from overwhelming the buildings completely. Amongst the flora, our fauna consists of black and white iguanas, assorted smaller lizards, giant hornets, innumerable spiders, rumors of scorpions (haven't seen any myself), ants in the billions, and birds, who are mostly seen as flashes of color and movement in the foliage. The buildings themselves are mostly made of thick stone and concrete, whitewashed or painted a pleasant orangey color, with terracotta tiled roofs. The paths are an oddly-patterned concrete, gouged in lines to resemble cobblestones, which at first I assumed had some practical purpose for drainage, but after splashing through many puddles during the first rain, I abandoned that theory and have decided it's purely decorative, because it's not exactly easy to walk on.
The classrooms have high ceilings and louvered windows that we never close, cooled only by two fans whose effective reach is straight down in a three-foot radius. The teachers stand on a low cement stage before the whiteboards, which, while it may make it easier for the students to see, does seem a little strange when you're the one standing there. In a perfect example of the university's rigidity, the student's desks are bolted to the floor in narrow rows, making it difficult to move around and monitor conversations and discussions. For all of that, my students are (mostly) interested and attentive, energetic and inquisitive, which is all a teacher can really ask. We are still getting to know one another, after a week and a half, though a few have already distinguished themselves, either by their preparedness and interest, or, in one notable case, severe truculence (but what can you do?).
Most of the teachers in the Centro de Idiomas have their offices in a pleasantly curved building, but mine is in the computer building next door, one of the few on campus that has air-conditioning. At the moment, I have it to myself; I will share it with Angela, our lone Aussie, whose paperwork has not been fully processed yet and will hopefully begin next week. There's a lot of us: a handful of English, a few Canadians, five or six Americans, a cadre of French teachers and one Chinese teacher who, for unknown reasons, is the only one who lives on campus. It's a good group, generally lively and playful, and conversations take place in a mix of Spanish, English, and French, with the occasional phrase in Chinese.
The university's administration has honed its bureaucracy to a dull, implacable edge. There is a form for everything, incomprehensible and contradictory instructions for becoming a fully legitimate employee, unnecessary journeys (in this age of information technology) to various offices to present the same documents, delays for signatures and signatures for delays, and proctors who prowl the grounds in hopes of catching us outside our classrooms or in the act of negligently leaving a fan or light on somewhere. But, I am assured, if you keep your head down, nod and smile, the situation is no more than a minor irritation, and as I have only one more trip to make (registering at the hospital for medical insurance) much of the stress and frustration of the last couple of weeks is behind me for good.
All in all, there's a feeling of relaxing around the campus as we settle into the new year. The girl in the library who makes copies no longer seems on the verge of tears all the time (all students need literally hundreds pages of copies of workbooks and texts for their classes), the shuffling of students from this class to that has died down, routines are becoming established, even the lizards seem to scuttle more slowly across the paths. There may be more shoes ready to drop somewhere, but for now, todo bien.
The classrooms have high ceilings and louvered windows that we never close, cooled only by two fans whose effective reach is straight down in a three-foot radius. The teachers stand on a low cement stage before the whiteboards, which, while it may make it easier for the students to see, does seem a little strange when you're the one standing there. In a perfect example of the university's rigidity, the student's desks are bolted to the floor in narrow rows, making it difficult to move around and monitor conversations and discussions. For all of that, my students are (mostly) interested and attentive, energetic and inquisitive, which is all a teacher can really ask. We are still getting to know one another, after a week and a half, though a few have already distinguished themselves, either by their preparedness and interest, or, in one notable case, severe truculence (but what can you do?).
Most of the teachers in the Centro de Idiomas have their offices in a pleasantly curved building, but mine is in the computer building next door, one of the few on campus that has air-conditioning. At the moment, I have it to myself; I will share it with Angela, our lone Aussie, whose paperwork has not been fully processed yet and will hopefully begin next week. There's a lot of us: a handful of English, a few Canadians, five or six Americans, a cadre of French teachers and one Chinese teacher who, for unknown reasons, is the only one who lives on campus. It's a good group, generally lively and playful, and conversations take place in a mix of Spanish, English, and French, with the occasional phrase in Chinese.
The university's administration has honed its bureaucracy to a dull, implacable edge. There is a form for everything, incomprehensible and contradictory instructions for becoming a fully legitimate employee, unnecessary journeys (in this age of information technology) to various offices to present the same documents, delays for signatures and signatures for delays, and proctors who prowl the grounds in hopes of catching us outside our classrooms or in the act of negligently leaving a fan or light on somewhere. But, I am assured, if you keep your head down, nod and smile, the situation is no more than a minor irritation, and as I have only one more trip to make (registering at the hospital for medical insurance) much of the stress and frustration of the last couple of weeks is behind me for good.
All in all, there's a feeling of relaxing around the campus as we settle into the new year. The girl in the library who makes copies no longer seems on the verge of tears all the time (all students need literally hundreds pages of copies of workbooks and texts for their classes), the shuffling of students from this class to that has died down, routines are becoming established, even the lizards seem to scuttle more slowly across the paths. There may be more shoes ready to drop somewhere, but for now, todo bien.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Yo quiero mi moto
I love my scooter. It may be the greatest thing I have ever owned, absolutely, no kidding. At first, after arriving in Huatulco, I had assumed I would get around by walking, bus, or, since they're so cheap, taxi. But the buses only run to the university twice a day, and are not terribly reliable, so I'm told; the taxis may only be 20 pesos (about 2 dollars), but multiply that by at least 4 times a day, 5 days a week (just to get back and forth to work) and soon we're talking serious money; and quite honestly, I'm kind of a sweaty guy under the best of circumstances: if I walked everywhere (and the town is rather spread out) I'd never dry out. So a scooter I bought.
I knew I didn't want anything too big or fancy; never having ridden one before, I didn't feel up to learning how to shift gears and all that with my hands. Just seemed like more trouble than it was worth. I asked around about used ones, but as another teacher pointed out, unless you know something about them (I don't), you don't really know what you're getting, and the new ones come with some free services and a warranty.
On the advice of several people, I went to Elektra, sort of a cross between Best Buy and Ikea, tvs, stereos, dining sets and mattresses. And there it was, a perfect little putt-putt, on liquidacion, only 7000 pesos (700 dollars). We talked to the guy about it for a little bit, it was automatic, no gears, exactly what I wanted. I told him I'd take it. He said he didn't have any. What about this one on the floor? It's sold. Then what the hell are we talking about, I didn't say, but was thinking, frustrated and disappointed.
After going to the Yamaha store (20,000 pesos) I finally settled on a little Zanetti from Super Che, kind of a Wal-Mart type store on Boulevard Chahue. The guy told me to come back that night, about 8; they had to get it ready, check it out, whatever. Hours of restless anticipation pass. 8 finally rolls around, I head to the store, hand over my receipt, the woman says something over the loudspeaker, another guy comes to get my receipt, disappears toward the back. Minutes pass. Another new teacher comes in, Gary from Sheffield, England. He's bought the same scooter, only blue, and is picking it up. He also speaks fluent Spanish, which seems helpful. Mine comes out first, fire-engine red and oh-so-pretty. We all head outside, me, Gary, two guys from Super Che and Thor, another American who was staying with me until he could move into his own place. One of them begins showing me the controls, blinkers, lights, ignition. It's a simple machine. He turns it on, hits the electric starter, and my scooter roars into life. A glorious, beautiful noise. The Super Che guy guns the throttle on the right-hand grip a bit and it leaps forward a couple feet, taking him with it, but he brings it to a stop, grins a bit sheepishly. Then he does it again, my pretty scooter shoots out into the parking lot, the guy running alongside, and suddenly, somehow, it's sliding, scraping, screeching painfully on it's side on the concrete and the guy is flying over it, rolling on the ground and none of us quite believe what we're seeing. He's fine, but my scooter, which I haven't even touched, has some nasty gouges, there's a few bits of plastic scattered around and my stomach hurts. So close. They say they'll fix it, I just have to come back the next day. Sigh. Gary gets his without incident.
The next day, they bring it out, the scraped panels have been replaced, everything seems fine, the guy puts the back stand down, which raises the rear wheel, to demonstrate the throttle, and I am in possession of my scooter. I climb aboard, and tentatively, cautiously, having received a graphic object lesson in what could wrong, give it some gas. I wobble around the parking lot, encouraged by watching taxi drivers and customers, who, though obviously laughing at the gringo, do so good-naturedly. I come to a stop by the Super Che guy and Gary, who came down to help if need be. "Esta bien?" "Esta bien," I say.
And since then, while I needed to take it back to have the gas gauge and speedometer fixed, which the speedometer was and the gas gauge wasn't, causing me to run out of gas on a downtown street, but also letting me know exactly how far I can go on a full tank (100km precisely, it was a little eerie), I have taken my scooter to the beaches, around town, grocery shopping, on unnecessary errands and just joy-riding. Thor, who is something like 6'2" and 220, will never ride on the back again, but Nanci, Barry's fiance, who has been an extraordinary help to us, and comes up to my chest, is always welcome to a lift. I've gotten to know all the potholes in my neighborhood and I'm learning how to lean into the turns, though I still slow down more than is necessary. Everybody passes me, including the occasional cyclist, but I just smile and keep on putting along. I love my scooter.
I knew I didn't want anything too big or fancy; never having ridden one before, I didn't feel up to learning how to shift gears and all that with my hands. Just seemed like more trouble than it was worth. I asked around about used ones, but as another teacher pointed out, unless you know something about them (I don't), you don't really know what you're getting, and the new ones come with some free services and a warranty.
On the advice of several people, I went to Elektra, sort of a cross between Best Buy and Ikea, tvs, stereos, dining sets and mattresses. And there it was, a perfect little putt-putt, on liquidacion, only 7000 pesos (700 dollars). We talked to the guy about it for a little bit, it was automatic, no gears, exactly what I wanted. I told him I'd take it. He said he didn't have any. What about this one on the floor? It's sold. Then what the hell are we talking about, I didn't say, but was thinking, frustrated and disappointed.
After going to the Yamaha store (20,000 pesos) I finally settled on a little Zanetti from Super Che, kind of a Wal-Mart type store on Boulevard Chahue. The guy told me to come back that night, about 8; they had to get it ready, check it out, whatever. Hours of restless anticipation pass. 8 finally rolls around, I head to the store, hand over my receipt, the woman says something over the loudspeaker, another guy comes to get my receipt, disappears toward the back. Minutes pass. Another new teacher comes in, Gary from Sheffield, England. He's bought the same scooter, only blue, and is picking it up. He also speaks fluent Spanish, which seems helpful. Mine comes out first, fire-engine red and oh-so-pretty. We all head outside, me, Gary, two guys from Super Che and Thor, another American who was staying with me until he could move into his own place. One of them begins showing me the controls, blinkers, lights, ignition. It's a simple machine. He turns it on, hits the electric starter, and my scooter roars into life. A glorious, beautiful noise. The Super Che guy guns the throttle on the right-hand grip a bit and it leaps forward a couple feet, taking him with it, but he brings it to a stop, grins a bit sheepishly. Then he does it again, my pretty scooter shoots out into the parking lot, the guy running alongside, and suddenly, somehow, it's sliding, scraping, screeching painfully on it's side on the concrete and the guy is flying over it, rolling on the ground and none of us quite believe what we're seeing. He's fine, but my scooter, which I haven't even touched, has some nasty gouges, there's a few bits of plastic scattered around and my stomach hurts. So close. They say they'll fix it, I just have to come back the next day. Sigh. Gary gets his without incident.
The next day, they bring it out, the scraped panels have been replaced, everything seems fine, the guy puts the back stand down, which raises the rear wheel, to demonstrate the throttle, and I am in possession of my scooter. I climb aboard, and tentatively, cautiously, having received a graphic object lesson in what could wrong, give it some gas. I wobble around the parking lot, encouraged by watching taxi drivers and customers, who, though obviously laughing at the gringo, do so good-naturedly. I come to a stop by the Super Che guy and Gary, who came down to help if need be. "Esta bien?" "Esta bien," I say.
And since then, while I needed to take it back to have the gas gauge and speedometer fixed, which the speedometer was and the gas gauge wasn't, causing me to run out of gas on a downtown street, but also letting me know exactly how far I can go on a full tank (100km precisely, it was a little eerie), I have taken my scooter to the beaches, around town, grocery shopping, on unnecessary errands and just joy-riding. Thor, who is something like 6'2" and 220, will never ride on the back again, but Nanci, Barry's fiance, who has been an extraordinary help to us, and comes up to my chest, is always welcome to a lift. I've gotten to know all the potholes in my neighborhood and I'm learning how to lean into the turns, though I still slow down more than is necessary. Everybody passes me, including the occasional cyclist, but I just smile and keep on putting along. I love my scooter.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
I know, I know
So it's been far too long since I posted anything, and I have vowed anew to be more regular about it this time. Even if in my new home I am unable to get internet, I think I'll have plenty of time and opportunity to compose new posts. However, since I'm working on battery at the moment, this will have to be short.
For those who don't know, I have moved to lovely Huatulco, Mexico. I've been here five days now, and it's just about perfect. I'm told that in a few months, all the lush greenery will turn brown and dusty as we enter the dry season, but at the moment it's the kind of scenery that almost hurts to look at, impossibly pretty and alive.
I have an apartment and a scooter, and many new friends. Life should be pleasant here, and already I feel comfortable. But power is rapidly slipping away, and I want to post some photos . . .
For those who don't know, I have moved to lovely Huatulco, Mexico. I've been here five days now, and it's just about perfect. I'm told that in a few months, all the lush greenery will turn brown and dusty as we enter the dry season, but at the moment it's the kind of scenery that almost hurts to look at, impossibly pretty and alive.
I have an apartment and a scooter, and many new friends. Life should be pleasant here, and already I feel comfortable. But power is rapidly slipping away, and I want to post some photos . . .
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