Tag Archives: Merida

Pat and Betty talk to Seidy (you decide where we are going next)

Inspired, Life in the Yucatan, Ti'ho Tales, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

“Hola Seidy!“, said Betty with a smile when Seidy opened the door for her. “Está doña Pati?” Seidy smiled a shy half smile which Betty took as a sign of affirmation, lowering her eyes and moving out of the way so Betty could come in. The blond woman followed her to the indoor patio where Pat was crouched among a group of plants, rooting around as if looking for something.

“Hi Pat! What are you doing?” Betty asked, curious.

“Betty!” Pat looked up from between some arecas “I’ve been having some problems with my garden; Manuel says it’s probably sayes and so I am trying to find their nest”.

Betty knew that Manuel was Pats’ part time gardener/mozo who went to the house a few times a week to tend to her gardening needs. Most of the time, she had noticed, Manuel spent his day staring dejectedly off into the distance with a hose in his hand, watering different parts of the ambitiously lush patio jungle Pat had created in the middle of her new home. From her own experience, she also knew that sayes – a Mayan word with a Spanish suffix; she had looked it up – were leaf-cutter ants who voraciously attacked anything green, establishing underground nests from which they emerged, usually at night, to cut leaves (hence their name) and carry them back to the colony. Pat wasn’t going to find anything at this time of the day.

Betty waited while Pat got up and they gave each other a little hug, Pat being careful not to get her dirty gloved hands on Betty’s clothes.

“Want something to drink?” she asked.

“Love it” Betty replied.

While Pat went to the kitchen to wash up and get Seidy to fix something to drink, Betty plopped down on the large metal-framed sofa-lounge with the thick cushions and looked around. The house, yet another small, once-forlorn Merida colonial that had been subject to an extensive reno by a recommended local architect who had redone everything in spite of officious protestations from the local INAH office whose mandate, it seemed, was to thwart any attempt at reconciling the city’s history with the present century’s need for such frivolous luxuries as plumbing and electricity, was all muted earth tones and natural surfaces. The old tapestry-style multicolored tile floor was the only splash of life in an otherwise somber ambiance, what with its exposed rock walls, wood accents and high ceilings. Far from depressing though, the effect was peaceful and relaxing and the profusion of green in its center, with sunlight streaming in from an overhead opening in the ceiling made one feel as if in an oasis, completely removed from the hustle and bustle just beyond the front door.

Pat came back and sat down, pulling her legs up under her. “Thanks for coming” she said, glancing at her friends face. She had called Betty that morning to have her come and help with her Seidy ‘situation’.

“No problem” Betty answered “have you talked to Seidy yet?”

They looked up and smiled politely, stopping the conversation that had just begun as Seidy appeared with a tray holding 2 glasses with ice and a glass pitcher of bright red jamaica. Pat had only recently discovered jamaica when Seidy had one day suggested the drink to accompany lunch, becoming quite enamored of it’s refreshing taste and, after reading something online about it’s apparent health benefits, made sure to always pick up a package of dried jamaica leaves when grocery shopping.

“Well?” continued Betty, after Seidy had set the tray down, served each of the women a glass and left, presumably back to the kitchen.

“You know, I haven’t really found a good moment to properly sit down and talk with her” replied Pat. “I just can’t seem to find the right time” She looked down at her hands, somewhat sheepishly.

“Oh Pat” said Betty knowingly “there’s just the two of you in this house most days; are you sure you’re not just putting this off?”

Pat nodded. “I guess so” she said. “I just can’t get started” She looked up at Betty “How do you do it? Talk to your muchacha I mean?”

“Watch and learn” said Betty, setting her glass down.  “Seidy!” she called out in an authoritative voice. Pat looked nervous.

Seidy came back from the kitchen and looked first at Pat, a questioning expression on her dark face, then at Betty. “Señora?” she asked.

“Sientate, Seidy” said Betty and Pat motioned for her to sit next to her. Seidy sat down, the questioning look on her face turning into what might be described as defensive anticipation. She knew something was up.

Betty began. “Como te sientes, Seidy? Esta todo bien contigo?” Seidy nodded. “Como esta tu familia, todo bien?” Again, a nod. Pat, feeling she should ask something, broke in with “Y tu madre?”

“Bien” Seidy replied, looking from Betty to Pat and Betty again and finding this strange questioning rather disconcerting. Normally, her conversations with Doña Paty were of the Tarzan and Jane variety, with her patrona giving her instructions in what little Spanish she knew along with elaborate gestures in sign language, and Seidy answering with simple, short phrases that could be understood without difficulty by her new boss. She had worked only one other job before this one at the home of another woman, Doña Licha, a severe Yucatecan lady who had scolded and reprimanded her on everything; the washing, the cooking, the cleaning; none of it was being done correctly or quickly enough. It was hard if not impossible to please Doña Licha and after a month, she had told her mother that she was quitting. Her mother had scolded her as well, telling her not to be ungrateful and what else would a 15 year old with a grade 4 education expect to be doing, but Seidy had had enough and would not budge. A few weeks after that, her mother had found and recommended Seidy to, Doña Paty.

“Tu padre esta trabajando?” the interrogation continued courtesy of Betty. When Seidy nodded yet again, Betty announced that que bueno; it was important that her father keep his job because jobs were hard to find in these troubled economic times and people should be grateful and…

Her well-meaning yet thoroughly patronizing monologue was suddenly interrupted by a loud knock at the front door.

Betty looked at Pat and Pat looked at Seidy and then all three stared for a moment at the door, no one saying a word. There was another knock, more insistent, almost desperate.

Seidy looked at Pat, got up and hurried off into the kitchen, leaving Betty and Pat sitting there.

ENDING A

“Well, aren’t you going to see who it is?” asked Betty a little impatiently. “Oh yes, of course” answered Pat. She got up and headed to the front door, not before there was yet another knock. Now, as she approached the closed door she could hear voices outside it; a man and a woman – from the sound of it they were arguing. “Pues CLARO que lo voy a ver” she heard the woman say in an angry voice.

“What is this?” Pat wondered, and opened the door, revealing what was most definitely an elderly Mayan couple; the woman wearing an hipil and the man in dark polyester pants folded up at the bottom, a long sleeved wine colored polyester shirt not tucked in and a baseball cap that said Tommy Halfmaker. Both were quite short and were wearing plastic sandals, revealing their calloused, brown feet.

“Trabaja aqui una muchacha que se llama Seidy?” asked the woman, fixing her gaze on Pat while the man said nothing, looking past her into the house. The woman looked upset.

“Si, pero…” Pat’s answer trailed off as the hipil-clad mestiza turned to the man with a triumphant look and then pushed past Pat and headed towards the central garden area, where Betty sat, jamaica in hand, staring at this sudden intrusion. As Pat turned, the man removed his baseball cap, muttered “con permiso” without making eye contact and followed the mestiza into the house.

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Who are these mestizos? What the heck is Tommy Halfmaker? Will the sayes return? Why is Pat such a wuss?

Will we go with Ending A? Your vote will decide!

Stay tuned for another installment of Ti’Ho Tales, coming sometime soon!

ENDING B

“Well, aren’t you going to see who it is?” asked Betty a little impatiently. “Oh yes, of course” answered Pat. She got up and headed to the front door, not before there was yet another knock. Now, as she approached the closed door she could hear a male voice outside; was he talking to someone or to himself?

She opened the door and before her stood a city policeman. A dark skinned, Mayan-featured member of Merida’s finest in a pale blue uniform smiled at her and she noticed he had a length of sisal rope in his hand. The rope was attached to a very familiar looking black dog. Obviously, this was Betty’s dog, Frijol. What was the policeman doing with him?

“Buenos dias” said the oficial with a smile, revealing impossibly white teeth. Then, checking his watch, he corrected himself “Tardes – buenas tardes” he emphasized the tardes and again flashed a toothy smile while shaking his head at his own mistake.

“Buenas tardes” Pat answered. She turned and called to Betty. “Betty, this policeman has your dog!” Betty sat up quickly, set her glass of jamaica on the table and rushed to the door.

“Buenas tardes?” asked Betty stating what was both a salutation and a question. While her face was not unfriendly, her voice said hello and what the hell are you doing with my dog?

The policeman hadn’t stopped smiling. He was a happy policeman, this one. “Es suyo el perro?” he asked Betty. Betty now noticed that a rather sheepish Frijol was looking up at her, apparently trying to decide if it would be appropriate to wag his tail.

“Si” responded Betty emphatically “es mi perro” Pat wondered if she should invite the policeman in.

He decided for her. “Puedo pasar?” he asked motioning to enter the house with his free hand.

“Claro que si” answered Pat, stepping aside to allow the policeman into her home. As he entered Betty bent down to scratch Frijol behind the ears; he immediately decided that yes, it was alright to wag his tail and began to do so in such a violent manner that he threatened to knock over the macetas with their potted plants beside the door. He also licked Betty’s face happily. The policeman’s smile faded and he looked at Betty with a mixture of pity and distaste. “Estas gringas con sus perros” he thought to himself before regaining his composure and rearranging his face to once again highlight his Colgate smile.

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A policeman in your house – Pat what are you thinking? What is Frijol doing on the end of a rope?
Does Seidy put artificial sweetener in the jamaica?

Will we go with Ending B? Your vote will decide!

Stay tuned for another installment of Ti’Ho Tales, coming sometime soon!

Doña Juany – A Long Day

Inspired, Life in the Yucatan, Ti'ho Tales, , , , , , , , ,

The plastic Coca Cola-red chair scraped along the colorful tile floor as Doña Juany dragged it through the sala and out the front door, setting it down on the sidewalk just outside the entrance to her old house. She glanced back inside for a moment, making sure she had turned off any lights she wasn’t using and then sat, wearily, in the cool, late afternoon air.

It had been a long day, washing day that it was, and she had spent an inordinate amount of time washing the clothes as she had always washed them – by hand – in the large batea behind her kitchen.  Of course now with her mother and father gone, there was not much to wash except for her underclothes and some house dresses she wore around the house and to the market when she went to buy the day’s provisions and yet, it had still taken what seemed to be longer than usual. Then she had painstakingly pinned the washed clothing to the lines strung criss-cross just beyond the batea only to have to rush out an hour later when it started to rain. It rained long enough to get all the clothing wet and of course everything had to be rinsed again to prevent it from smelling bad when it finally dried. The clothes were now hanging in one of the empty bedrooms, drying slowly on nylon lines tied to hammock hooks.

All this washing and hanging, combined with a three-block walk to the corner grocery store and back to buy some detergente and a jar of instant Nescafe for her morning coffee, had left her tired. She recalled Maria Ines, the owner of the shop, mentioning something about the weather and how the rainy season had finally come and what a relief it was, especially for the campesinos who were waiting to plant their corn as this year the dry season had lasted so long and what if the rains didn’t come and the seeds would dry and so they were waiting expectantly and… Maria Ines talked a lot, and this morning Doña Juany had not felt like engaging in much conversation, so she just nodded or shook her head depending on what Maria Ines was saying. Finally she managed to pay and left, leaving Maria Ines talking to another, more interested customer who had just walked into the store. He was one of those older gringos that had recently moved in, spent what must have been a fortune on renovating an old house and now spent his days strolling the streets smiling at everyone and drawling out “buenos dias” in a thick American accent without a care in the world.

“How do they do it?” she thought “they just start speaking Spanish without knowing even basic grammar or tense and they could care less how it sounds”

Doña Juany, when she was much younger, had met some American exchange students who were studying at the Rogers Hall school under the supervision of those crazy American nuns – they wore shorts for their sports classes; what kind of nuns did that – and when an opportunity had presented itself to talk to them, Juany had remained silent, afraid to utter anything in English because she was positive her pronunciation was so bad that she would not be understood or worse, laughed at. The girls were nice and had spoken to her in Spanish – such as it was – and she would answer them in Spanish, yearning for the courage to try out her English but that courage never presented itself and the opportunity was lost. Since then she had forgotten most of it and had only recently started to think about English when the neighborhood began to repopulate with the recently arrived Americans.

Across the street, Doña Juany could see Arsenio, the neighbor with the bad leg, moving about inside his living room. His windows onto the street were open to take advantage of the cool air and she could make out a television in the corner of the room. It looked like some sort of telenovela was on and Arsenio was settling down in a rocking chair in front of the TV to watch it.

Besides her neighbor Doña Betty who seemed to live alone with her adopted malix, there was another house a few doors down that had been fixed up and was now owned by two men who spent a lot of time away from Merida. They would be gone for weeks and then, suddenly, be back and then there would be dinner parties with lots of other gringos. Unlike the typical Mexican party, however, Doña Juany noticed that these parties usually started – and ended – early and by midnight the whole affair would be over. One of them was called George, or Jorge as he like to call himself, who seemed friendly enough on the few occasions she had crossed paths with him but the other one she didn’t know because he didn’t seem to get out much. She suspected they were gay. Why else would two grown men live together without any women around? Around the corner was another couple, probably in their 50’s and she had heard they were from Washington but these people did not throw parties or go out late. They mostly stayed home venturing out only to visit el mercado on Thursday mornings when it seemed they did all their grocery shopping for the week. Normally they left on foot, but most times returned by taxi on account of their many sabucanes full of fruits and vegetables.

A few other houses in the area had “Se Vende” or “Se Renta” signs on them with local phone numbers and foreign sounding names and occasionally a gringo in one of those fancy cars would pull up in front of them, step out onto the sidewalk along with a foreign couple – the wife emerging from the back seat, husband from the passenger front – and they would go inside. After a while they would come back out, get into the fancy car and drive away. So far, no one had bought anything for some time. This was another reason D0ña Juany was convinced that her house would never be sold. If those places, many of  which were still in decent shape were not selling, there was really no hope for the crumbling family home that she had taken care of all these years.

With a sigh of resignation, Doña Juany got up and took the red plastic chair back into the house, closing the door to the street behind her. An hour or more had passed and it was time for her novela. She didn’t much care for the earlier soap opera, the one that Arsenio was watching across the street, it was just too melodramatic and the protagonist was far too old for the part of the galan. The actress playing the part of the novia could have been his daughter for crying out loud.

She turned on a table lamp and the television and found the right channel. Then she went to the kitchen to prepare a cup of te de manzanilla and found a package of Canelitas cinnamon cookies and returned to the sala with her cookies and tea to watch her novela.

As the violins and crashingly symphonic music started, accompanied by flowery script and images of flowing haired actresses atop shining horses and men with creased foreheads turning dramatically towards the camera, Doña Juany sipped her tea and swallowed a bite of cookie.

She swallowed again, but somehow the cookie was not moving. Another swallow, nothing. She suddenly felt the urge to take a deep breath and knew she couldn’t because her windpipe was blocked. Thunderous orchestral music came from the television as Doña Juany dropped her cup of tea on the tile floor – it smashed into a thousand porcelain pieces – and the package of Canelitas slipped from her lap as she made an effort to get up, clutching at her throat. She made a croaking sound as she tried to cry for help staggering towards the front door. Flinging it open she felt herself becoming dizzy, sparkling lights in her peripheral vision and she sank to her knees and onto the sidewalk.

Behind her on the small television in the dimly lit sala of the tired old house, a sensual female voice was announcing an exciting new body spray.

Everything went suddenly very black.

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What the Heck is a Beachstro Anyway?

Casual Restaurant Critic, , , , , , , , , , , ,

It’s a cross between a bistro and a beach, that’s what!

So, as the Casual Restaurant Critic had far too much time on his hands and while surfing the internet for food porn he stopped by Facebook and read about a Beachstro and then read about homemade Rocky Road Ice Cream.

Rocky Road Ice Cream!

“Gotta have me some of that” thought the Critic and away he went.

Turns out this here beachstro is not really a bistro but it is on the beach (between Chuburna and Chelem to be exact) and by golly they have pizzas too so the Critic got hisself some of that as well. They bake ’em fresh right there in a big old pizza oven right there in their kitchen too! And the Critic did taste it and found it to be good. The Rocky Road Ice Cream was tasted and it too, passed the test with flying colors.

Now, Cil (or Sil) and Michael said their crust didn’t work out that well that day but you know what, the Critic’s gonna say it was pretty darn good. It’s hard to eat pizza and drive especially with all the new regulations about what y’all are supposed to and not supposed to be doing while you’re driving, but the Critic did pull it off. Also ice cream eatin’ is a challenge, but he’s got that down as well. It’s getting a Tweet in there between bites that’s real hard.

Here’s their Facebook info:

http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100002413601305

Now there ain’t nowhere to set down and eat right there, but you can get it all to go. So if you are gettin’ just a little tired of eatin’ fried fish for the Nth time on your summer vacation at the beach, well you just go and order yourself some pizza and ice cream.

You can buy the house too, if you want. Ice cream not included.

Pat and Betty Visit the Pharmacist

Inspired, Life in the Yucatan, Ti'ho Tales, , , , , , ,

Pat stared up at the ceiling fan, spinning lazily above the bed just enough to move the air around a little. It was not hot; rather, it was pleasant in the mornings in Merida, always cooler than when she went to bed the night before. She thought about her latest sculpture, the one with the forks she had mentioned to Betty at the cafe the other day when they talked about Seidy. She still had to do something about her muchacha. That’s how Pats mind worked – as does everyone’s she presumed – moving from one subject to the next, linking along like a series of clicks on the internet that take you from one idea to the next in a few seconds in a never-ending barrage of images and information.

Thinking of the internet reminded her that she had wanted to update her Facebook profile picture which still showed her standing, smiling then, next to a man she thought she had once loved. She got up, slipped on an old extra large t-shirt with a faded University of Maryland logo and made her way through the silent house to the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea. Seidy had not yet arrived. Good.

The click click click of the gas stove top annoyed her and she made a mental note to have someone come and check the burners or whatever it was that made the thing take so long to light. When it finally did, she put some water on to boil and looked through her collection of teas to see what exotic infusion was going to inspire her this morning. She settled on a black tea called Lemon Lift – what was it with those names – which was from a selection in a welcome basket that Betty had shown up with when she moved into her new home in Merida.

Betty had been a real godsend, a friend when Pat most needed one. The separation from Matthew had been the most difficult thing Pat had ever faced and the realization that she was not getting any younger as she moved into single-ness again – as well as a whole new country – made her feel uncertain and insecure in addition to being severely depressed.

She had met Betty one afternoon at Merida’s main square; two extranjeras sitting at adjacent tables having a sorbete and watching people go about their lives. Pat was still staying at a nearby hotel while her house was being readied; Betty was having a pre-comida sherbet as was her custom after a morning of dog walking and a swim in her backyard pool.

“Isn’t this sherbet the best?” asked Betty; she was having mamey. “Betty” she continued extending a hand between the two tables.

“Yes, it’s fantastic” said Pat, who had been overwhelmed by the strange flavors and had finally settled on safe and familiar strawberry. “I’m Pat” she replied and took the offered hand.

From there they had talked like old friends for what seemed like hours and when Pat finally peeked at her watch discretely, so as not to offend her new companion, she realized with some embarrassment that she had probably kept Betty from her mid-day meal, although there was no complaint from her new friend.

In the time since, Betty had adopted Pat and shown her around Centro, telling her which restaurants were good and which ones to stay away from; where she could get a cheap (and clean) manicure and pedicure – “they keep their scissors and things clean, so you don’t have to worry about an infection” she had said – and the little laundry place just around the corner where they do such a good job. Once Betty had been apprised of Pat’s emotional situation and they had come to the conclusion that most men were cursed with a defective chip that caused them to spin out of control after reaching a certain mileage, Betty also told Pat about ‘her’ pharmacist, a quiet and very serious middle-aged man in spectacles and the obligatory lab coat who worked in an hole in the wall pharmacy next to a small clinic on 57, who could discretely and without a doctors prescription, procure all sorts of medicines to combat all manner of ills.

She smiled and popped a tea bag into a cup of hot water, remembering the first time she had visited Dr. Gustavo, which was the name on the glass door of the pharmacy, in a two-tone Gothic hand painted script. Responsable: Dr. Gustavo Fuentes Alcocer, UNAM. Betty had done most of the talking, introducing her new friend and explaining that she was a little down.

“Mi amiga tiene una depresion” said Betty to Dr. Gustavo seriously after exchanging the usual buenos dias and como esta usted formalities. Dr. Gustavo nodded gravely and Betty continued “necesito una medicina para ella“. Pat looked on, suitably nervous and looking the part without much effort. Betty patted her shoulder.

Dr. Gustavo turned back and looked briefly at the metal racks behind him, where little boxes and containers were neatly arranged in what appeared to be alphabetical order, then disappeared for a moment between the racks. With only the A section visible, Pat could make out a few familiar names and some not-so familiar ones. While Abilify and Afterbite sounded somewhat recognizable, there were some strange ones there like Acarbosa Tarbis and Aclasta. There were so many!

When Dr. Gustavo returned to the counter he presented Betty and Pat with a small box with the name Ludiomil. “Es como Prozac” said the doctor seriously and, after the briefest of interrogations regarding Pat’s health, handed Pat the box in a small plastic bag. Pat fished out her pesos and Betty helped sort out the colorful bills until they had the right amount. They paid and headed for the door, Betty shouting “Gracias doctor!” and Pat smiling sheepishly as they stepped out into the sunshine of Calle 57.

It seemed so long ago already. Pat shook her head and took her cup of Lemon Lift tea to the kitchen table, where her laptop was waiting obediently and clicked open her Facebook page. “15 new messages!” was the excited announcement at the top of the screen. She sat down and began to read.

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Will Pat get around to updating her Profile Pic? Will she set a date for her sit-down with Seidy? Will she spill lemon tea on her laptop? Stay tuned for another installment of Ti’ho Tales coming as soon as inspiration strikes again!

Frijol the Malix Gets a New Home

Inspired, Life in the Yucatan, Ti'ho Tales, , , , , , , , ,

He was born in the street, raised in the street and it was being in the street on a particularly fortuitous Thursday afternoon (not that he could have differentiated between a Thursday and any other day) that brought him to the attention of the bare-legged lady with the yellow hair who took one look at him and scooped his bony body up and threw him into the back of her car, making cooing sounds and speaking in a gentle tone that was new to him.

For most of his life, as long as he could remember at any rate, his life had consisted mainly of running, hiding, knocking over garbage cans and nearly getting killed by cars while running across streets. Food was scarce in a land where even the humans had to scramble to eat. Old tortillas, bits of chicken bone, plastic bags with rotting meat, these were his staples most days.

It was not rare to get a kick in the side from a passing human if he wasn’t paying attention or, feel the sting of rocks pelted from groups of curiously smaller humans who also chased him and made loud, aggressive noises.

Often there was no previous warning. The humans would be still one minute, and then smack, he would get clobbered. Brooms were often used against him as well, whenever he got too close to those places where the humans congregated and the smell of cooking was in the air, driving him to distraction while he scratched himself.

Ah yes, the scratching. At some point when you live in the street, you pick up some ticks and fleas and these just seem to multiply exponentially all over your body making it unbearably itchy and causing welts and bleeding which makes you feel even worse and seems to anger the humans even more because the beatings and rocks and brooms seem to be everywhere and more often.

In any case, the yellow haired lady had found him on the street and had literally and figuratively lifted him out of his misery.

He felt fantastic. Now obviously well-nourished, his coat was shiny and insect-free and his yellow-haired lady talked to him constantly in a soothing voice, patting his head gently and stroking his fur and if there was a thunderstorm or one of those extra-large, monstrous contraptions out on the street backfired, he would run, tail between his legs to his benefactor who would stop whatever she was doing and calm him down.

He learned to recognize her name when other humans stopped to say hello to her and pat his head; they called her Betty.

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Will Frijol the Malix live happily ever after or will he get run over by a bus? Will Betty’s hair remain yellow or will the black roots start showing? Will the gringos and their neutering campaign get to Frijol the Malix thereby affecting his virility?

Stay tuned for another exciting installment of Ti’ho Tales, coming soon (I hope)

A Merida Institution Turns 50 – La Susana Internacional

Casual Restaurant Critic, Life in the Yucatan, , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

If you have spent any time in Merida, any time at all, you have been to La Susana Internacional in Kanasin for panuchos and salbutes and perhaps a delicious caldo. If you haven’t, well shame on you!

Last night, La Susana Internacional threw at party to celebrate their 50th birthday and the Casual Restaurant Critic was there to partake in the festivities and a chunk of tres leches birthday cake complete with fluorescent, super-sweet icing. Imagine! 50 years this place has been operating, not in its present format as it once was a trailer-type stand. This beats Elaines, which recently closed upon reaching 50 years – it seems that panuchos never go out of style!

The restaurant was packed with larger than large tables and it seemed that entire Yucatecan clans came out in full force to celebrate and ; there were at least 5 tables of 12 or more people, happily enjoying their dinner to the sounds of live trio music, and the waiters were scrambling to get the food out of the kitchen.

Here are just a few photos; enjoy!

Leaves in your Pool – The Horror

Inspired, Life in the Yucatan, , , , , , , ,

Here in the charming area that I live in with my lovely Better Half, we are blessed with enough terreno to be able to have a variety of local vegetation including many a tree, on the property. I in turn am blessed with a forward-thinking Yucatecan who is not only good looking and smart, but also atypical in her appreciation for the flaky barked chaka, the honey bee attracting dzidzilche, the lush green jabin and spiny chukum and who early on in our relationship agreed with the idea of leaving the local trees on the property, rather than adopt the accepted local method of bulldozing and burning.

As the years have gone by, our selection of trees as well as the variety of smaller plants, has grown. From a ramon taken from a property behind one of our stores in the Felipe Carrillo Puerto part of town to coconut palms rescued from an earlier home that was bulldozed over to make way for a parking lot to towering yellow bamboo from Cuernavaca from Better Halfs grandmother to… the list goes on.

One of these later additions is a trio of mango trees, that popped up on their own as a result of our rather haphazard composting methods which involve taking the mornings fruit peelings, coffee grounds and egg shells and tossing them under the trees around the edge of the property where the lizards, birds and worms do their thing. Well, during one mango season, several of the mango pits (?) we had tossed actually became trees and this year, the trio, which has grown vigorously and has reached rooftop height, yielded a small basketful of delicious mangoes; not just one kind, but two varieties!

If you are about to stop reading in disgust at the cloying sweetness of this little story, I understand. But fear not, because I am about to introduce to you the antagonist in today’s rant, er story.

Next door neighbors, wouldn’t you know. Let’s call them the AN’s. Not because they are Vietnamese but because they are Anal Neighbors. AN’s for short. These are the folks who need to have every. single. thing. in it’s right and proper place in it’s right and proper position and… well, you get the picture. Each morning at 7 AM their mozo serenades the area with the whine of a vacuum cleaner on ‘high’ with which all four luxury vehicles are vacuumed. This happens 6 days a week and it is a wonder that there is any carpet fiber left in that automotive carpet.

Relations, initially cordial enough, over the 10 foot dividing wall (built by yours truly on our land) between the two properties had already been strained in the past when one of the huge palma real (Royal Palm) fronds crashed down on said wall, knocking out a (rather chintzy) lamp on the neighbors side of the wall on our property and causing great grief to Mrs AN.

“How could you not see this was going to happen!?” she angrily yelled at our gardener  as it is infinitely easier to yell at someone’s employee than at your neighbor who might answer back. “I TOLD you these fronds were going to fall!” Our gardener shrugged.

The tree you see, is on our side of the wall. Better Half, feeling motivated to smooth over any misunderstanding offered to cut down the offending oxygen producing tree but Mrs. AN quickly countered with “It’s not about THAT” to make it clear that she LOVES trees and wouldn’t have a tree sacrificed on HER account.

This week, one morning when Better Half was waiting for the coffee to percolate, she noticed it was rather clear along the side of the wall where the AN’s have their swimming pool. Sure enough, the ANs had (apparently) commissioned their vacuuming mozo/gardener/aspiring horticulturist to clear some branches that were hanging in the vicinity of their swimming pool and this machete-wielding Mayan with the sensibilities of a Donald Trump hacked away at the trees on our property leaving stumps where two of the three mangoes stood, along with several other tree casualties.

After the initial shock and resulting fury, there followed a neighborly chat/visit where things were patched up somewhat and the end of the story will probably mean the demise of said mangoes in the interest of neighborly relations. To which Mrs. AN will loudly emit protesting sounds while secretly happy that no leaf will contaminate her pristine pool and garden tableau.

The whole incident also had me reflecting on the bigger concept of trees vs man and got me to wondering how annoying can it really be to have some leaves in your swimming pool? Is it really that much of a tragedy to have a leaf brush up against you while swimming that you would have to chop down anything in the vicinity? Are you expecting the Home and Gardens photographer to show up without telling you first? What?

And when clearing or widening streets and putting in sidewalks: where does it say that a road cannot go around a tree, or a sidewalk skirt it; why is it necessary to sacrifice a large, healthy tree for the sake of a ‘straight’ road. Cars have steering wheels do they not? People can walk around a tree can’t they?

This little tale is also a reminder that it’s healthy – and in your interest – to love thy neighbor, or at least tolerate them; as my Better Half points out, if you have a problem or some sort of emergency, it is much more likely that your neighbor will be around to help you well before any friends or family can get to you. A point which she also stressed to the AN’s and which hopefully sank in so that they will feel free to come over and discuss any future tree trimming with us before asking their employee to undertake said trimming on their behalf.

From Quince to Pitaya

Life in the Yucatan, , , , , , , , ,

The Pitaya, also known as the Pitahaya, among other things (Google it – I did!) is now available at your local Walmart or mercado de frutas favorito. When you see the mass of purple, fuchsia and yellow piled in spiky heaps next to the poor regular-looking grapefruit you will surely be inspired to buy one or three or at least take a photo.

Oftentimes (is that a word I wonder?) people of the expat variety will look at me in horror when I tell them that a great many Meridanos shop for their groceries at Walmart or any of the other large supermarkets. I think I will write a post on the subject!