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!

Doña Juany gets a Headache

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

Stepping out, broom in hand, into the relatively cool morning air in front of her colonial home that had once belonged to her parents and who had gone off and died, leaving her in charge of taking care of the old, crumbling family home, Doña Juany paused for a moment to take a breath.

Fate. Yes, as fate would have it and thanks to her ungrateful and unhelpful brothers deciding to marry and move to el norte because God forbid that her sisters in law should have to live in Merida’s congested downtown – las wachas – she had been the only one left to live in what used to be a grand colonial home but which was now reduced to a dusty relic, complete with cracks in the walls and ceilings, vines creeping into the kitchen and rotting wooden door frames. She glanced – half angry, half sad – back at the sagging front door and grunted sharply, beginning to sweep the sidewalk with quick, violent movements.

Of course she had not gotten married; the love of her life had been Carlos Irigoyen but what had been a promising love affair was fatally interrupted by the constant neediness of her mother who was on her deathbed and had no one else to care for her. Juany’s father had died a few months prior and that prolonged illness and the news that Mama was also now sick, was the motivation her brothers needed and they had fled the family home to take refuge with aunts and uncles and in universities in Mexico City and Monterrey.

“Anywhere but here” she muttered to herself, sweeping a little more vigorously.

Of course while they were off enjoying life and improving themselves under the guise of ‘studying a career’, she was left behind with Mama Rita, as the servants – long since gone after her fathers illness dried up what was left of the family fortune – used to call her; bathing, feeding, changing her now baby-like mother and arranging for a priest to come visit once a week to keep up her spiritual health. Not that she minded of course – she had to remind herself sternly – but wouldn’t it have been nice if her brothers had shown at least some interest in helping out, in some small way. But no, not even a hint of interest let alone outright help. And then they started in with their girlfriends, some of whom eventually became their wives – las wachas – and they all moved back to Merida, but as far away from el centro as possible, to fashionable neighborhoods with pretentious names, like Monte Alban and Monte Cristo and Monte Fulano and Monte Mengano.

Her sweeping picked up speed to the point where she was now slashing the broom back and forth, not even seeing what it was she was sweeping.

And so here she was, unmarried, overweight and bitter, saddled with a responsibility in the form of a house that she couldn’t get rid of even if she wanted to, given the condition of the building and the drooping real estate market in Merida.

She stopped sweeping and her eyes suddenly filled with tears. Embarrassed, she quickly wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and muttered something about el polvo just loud enough to be heard, in case anyone was looking out a nearby window or door.

She could feel a headache coming on.

It was at this moment that Frijol, the neighbors dog, sauntered into her line of sight and stood before her, looking up with those big dark malix eyes and wagging his tail expectantly. He was a healthy, well fed, all-black former street dog who had had the fortune to be adopted by Doña Juany’s neighbor, a gringa who had moved in a few years back and with whom Doña Juany had come to be on speaking terms when they occasionally crossed paths on their street.

With a jerk of his head, Frijol turned to bark happily at his owner, who now also appeared in front of Doña Juany.

“Buenos dias, Juanita!” said Betty cheerfully.

“Buenos dias, Doña Beti” answered Doña Juany, forcing a smile and hoping her eyes were not too red. “Mucho polvo” she added with a quick rub of her left eye.

“Si” replied Betty “es muy seco todo” and with that she turned, waving, and sang out “adios Juanita!” while opening her front door and with the malix Frijol bounding happily ahead of her, disappeared inside.

Doña Juany looked after them for a moment, then took her broom and slowly stepped through the sagging wooden front doors back inside, closing them carefully behind her, making her way past the scratched petatillo rocker next to a small metal end table that featured a scene from a Disney cartoon, through the off-white, almost green square-tiled kitchen, making a beeline for the baño with the one naked overhead light bulb and finally reaching the stained wooden wall cabinet with the broken mirror, where she kept her headache medicine.

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Will Doña Juany find comfort in Aspirin? Will Frijol the Malix live happily ever after? Will Betty remember to call Pat?

Stay tuned for another installment of TihoTales, when inspiration strikes!

The Problem with the Muchacha

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

“I mean it’s not like she’s actually stealing anything” said Pat, holding the cup of decidedly watery coffee with both hands, feeling the cups smoothness and marveling at the fact that you could even hold a fresh cup of coffee in a porcelain – albeit chipped – cup with both hands. Shouldn’t this be hotter?

Betty nodded, completely in tune with the frustrated sentiments of her recently arrived friend from Baltimore, for whom Betty had procured a maid in response to Pats request because, as she had put it, “I need more time for my art.”

Blonde, blue-eyed and originally from Guelph, Ontario, Betty had had similar concerns when she first arrived in the formerly-white city of Merida some years ago but now had become accustomed to the locals way of doing things. She recalled the shock of finding her mozo, a young lad of about 22 with a limited command of English and decidedly Mayan features whom she had hired off the street, poking around in her kitchen when he was supposed to be watering her garden. “Que haces, Juanito?” she had asked and the mozo had simply shrugged and left her there, wondering if she should make it more clear what his job description was and seriously debating whether or not she should count the spoons.

Pat interjected with a sigh. “I know she is a sweet girl and would never take something without asking” she said “but I can’t shake the feeling that she has been through my things”

The waiter, a man in his fifties with a large belly completely inconsistent with his income, approached the outdoor table. “Mas cafe?” he asked, all the while checking out Betty’s legs, which were bare, muscular and tanned, thanks to her plaid shorts and a strict regimen of daily swimming and walking her dogs. “No, gracias” said Betty, while Pat just shook her head. The waiter retreated into the dark confines of the cafe.

Pat continued. “I mean there I was, in my studio doing some work with forks. You know I am working on a piece that involves forks, right?” Betty nodded. “And I look over at the kitchen and there is Seidy talking on her cell phone and putting something in her purse. So I put two and two together…” Her voice trailed off.

“Look,” said Betty soothingly, “you really don’t know what she was up to and I’m sure you’re just jumping to conclusions. Remember that I talked to Seidy’s mother before we had her come to work for you and she assured us that Seidy was very responsible and completely dependable.” Pat nodded. “Why don’t you ask her what she was doing?” continued Betty.

Pat shook her head, setting down the chipped cup. “I couldn’t do that” she said, “I would be accusing her of something and what if it is all a misunderstanding?”

Betty smiled gently. Pat had been through a lot in the last few years and her self-esteem was still somewhat fragile. After her husband had left her in yet another classic middle age crisis love story, Pat had spent much of her time depressed and only when she discovered her passion for art – and anti-depressant drugs – did she climb out of her funk and rejoin the living. Now she had managed to purchase a small home in Merida and was getting by on her savings and the occasional sale of her rather controversial art. There was not a huge market in Merida, it seemed, for abstract sculptures made of kitchen utensils.

Betty signaled for the bill to a passing busboy using that ‘writing-in-the-air’ motion she had picked up as part of her cultural conversion, who nodded and continued on to the cafe’s interior. A moment later the waiter emerged from within and asked Betty if she wanted the bill. “Si, por favor” she said and a few minutes later was fishing through her fanny pack for some pesos. Placing the money on the bill and mentally calculating the 10 percent she was leaving as a tip, she looked at Pat. “If you like, next week when I have a moment, we can sit down – together if you like – and talk to Seidy and find out what she’s up to these days. You know, sometimes when you talk to them, you get to know a little about what it is that’s going on in their lives and everything is really OK.”

Pat’s slightly worried expression seemed to brighten a few shades. “That would be great Betty” she said, “can I call you?”

“Of course” Betty replied with a smile. They got up and made their way down calle 62 until they came to the corner of 61, where they parted, with a peck on the cheek just like the local ladies of a certain economic and social background do it, and continued on to their respective homes in Centro.

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Will Pat resolve her doubts? Will Seidy cough up her secret? Will Betty adopt another street dog?

Stay tuned for another installment of Ti’ho Tales, coming soon, should the inspiration strike!

Here’s a Weird Fruit You Won’t Find in Publix or Safeway

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

In an ongoing conversation I am having with someone online one of the things he mentions is that he wants to buy some vanilla-flavored tequila on his upcoming visit. Not being familiar with flavored tequilas, I stop at COVI, our local specialty liquor store to see what they have available. There is no vanilla-flavored tequila, but there is tequila almendrado which means it has been flavored with almonds and tequila with membrillo.

What the hell is a membrillo anyway?

A stop at Walmart to check on prices for some Microdyn that another online acquaintance is asking for, I pass the newly refreshed fruit and vegetable aisle and what jumps out at me (figuratively, not literally) but a whole bin full of membrillo. So I buy one.

It’s a hard fruit, like an unripe pear and cutting it open is difficult and yields a hard flesh and stony seeds. I have seen dulce de membrillo here and there so I suppose that this is what it is best suited to; cooking the bejeezuz out of it with lots of sugar. It’s flavor is slightly applish but takes so long to chew that I don’t have a second chunk.

If anyone knows the story behind the membrillo, don’t be afraid to share!

Here are some photos of this strange and decidedly exotic fruit:

HSBC and their Screwy Online Banking

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

If you are unlucky enough to be dealing with HSBC in any capacity, you will no doubt be familiar with their lackadaisical service, their never-ending charges for all kinds of ‘services’ in dealing with what is essentially your money and their flaky online banking.

This mornings attempt to pay some taxes online was yet another incursion into their frustrating world.

The video below shows the popup window from hell; the one that never goes away and makes it impossible to close your browser window, necessitating a reboot of your computer. Thank you HSBC for these heart-pumping moments of throw-your-coffee-cup-at-your-monitor fury.

ARGH

New PhotoBook on Meridas Fabulous Doors Now Available!

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

My good pal and associate Ralf has published a new photobook of a very small selection of Merida’s beautiful doors, taken in downtown Merida one sunny afternoon! If you like reading this blog and have found some use for the information contained herein, you can support the effort and get an attractive Merida souvenir at the same time! Enjoy!

Customer Service – Steren Galerias – Parts I and II

Life in the Yucatan

Part I

Yours truly has an older model car which does not feature a ‘line-in’ plug for new-fangled technology such as an iPod or other portable MP3 player. Using a combination charger and FM transmitter, which sends the signal to your FM radio, has so far been the solution to getting the iPod to work in the car. A tip from my local car audio expert, whom I visited out of desperation when I became disgusted with the constant interference from other vehicles and local radio stations and asked to install a plug, led me to the Steren electronics shop in the Galeria Mall. This is the mall with the Liverpool store and an ice-skating rink for those who are only familiar with the ‘real’ Merida.

Steren is kind of like the Mexican version of Radio Shack, with equally oriental-made products of dubious durability at rock bottom prices and locations around the country and the Galeria mall location is their latest incarnation in Merida.

I was blown away when entering the store, the employee actually got up from his seat behind the counter and wished me a pleasant afternoon and asked how he could help me. I explained my predicament and he immediately showed me the product I was looking for (a cassette adapter with a plug for an iPod) and charged me a whopping $58 pesos (about 5 bucks).

Very happy, I returned to my ancient mode of transport and installed the item, which worked like a charm. Music sounded almost CD quality and there was no interference whatsoever. I was one satisfied customer, impressed both by the service at this store, the product and its ridiculous low price.

Part II

After a full day of driving to Cancun and back, my new little gadget balked at such abuse and started ejecting itself from my cars cassette player. No amount of inserting could convince the little Chinese gadget to remain in place and it was back to the FM transmitter option for the rest of the day.

The next morning, I returned to the same Steren location to let them know that the product was not working. Of the four employees seated around the counter, no one was particularly empathetic (I suppose they have low expectations for their product and the news that yet another had failed seemed like no surprise to anyone) and after looking at the item, which has a large STEREN emblazoned on it, the employee who I was dealing with said they could change it but only if I only brought in the receipt and the packaging. I said that I had thrown these valuable materials out (who keeps this stuff for a 5 dollar purchase?) and he sadly shook his head and repeated that this was the only way he could accept it and give me a replacement. It’s because we need to know where you bought it. I replied that I had bought it 48 hours ago in this very store and he went into the back where apparently there was another, 5th employee of the management sort, who invisibly confirmed the sad news. Sad for me, the customer, the four employees out front were not affected in any way.

“OK” says I “let me buy a new one”

Once I had paid the new item, I took it out of its packaging, handed the note and package to the employee and said “I would like to have a replacement, the product is defective”

They all looked at each other with concern, but realizing that their little rule had been followed to the letter, accepted the defective product and gave me a replacement.

This was possible with a 5 dollar product, but what if it had been a larger-ticket item?

As a customer, I could care less about the internal inventory concerns that Steren might or might not have if they replace my product that is defective, especially when there is no doubt whatsoever that it is indeed a Steren product. Having the customer jump through silly rules because it’s comfortable/easier for them is not customer service. Better to say that our products may or may not work, and there are no returns because we are not set up for the hassle.

Caveat Emptor.

Vivero Fun

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

One activity I enjoy here in the Yucatan is a visit to the local nursery; not the ones with the screaming babies but the ones with the plants, flowers and trees. I have always thought that it would be fantastic to have a nursery on each block (or every two blocks, like an OXXO) to provide a shady, oxygen producing oasis for the surrounding concrete misery that makes up so much of Merida’s new fraccionamientos.

These photos were taken this morning at the Verde Vivo nursery, albeit with a phone camera so they are not that great, but you can still get an idea of all the color and exotic greenery that is available out there.