Paloma Goes Dancing

Paloma's love of dancing started about four years ago when she followed me to the Marlin on New Year's Eve.I tried to park her outside the main door but it didn't work. Every time someone entered the restaurant so did Paloma. "Annetta, Paloma," Lucy would say and she'd show me where Paloma was making herself small under some table somewhere. I'd lead Paloma out only to have the process repeated. Finally when the meal was over and the dancing started, Lucy gave up. "Okay, she can stay." Thus a dancing dog was born.

There are not a lot of dancing opportunities in Kino. San Diego, a puta bar on the beach, is now closed but Paloma and I did go dancing there a couple times. She stared longingly as the girls climbed the scaffolding then slid seductively down the pole in the middle of the floor.

Not too long ago we went dancing at the Costa Azul, the only cantina in Kino. It is not a place frequented by respectable Mexican women. However, gringas can be counted on to do things out of the Mexican norm so one night I went there with two women friends. We had a blast but had not been back since. On this particular night a group of us had been at an event at the Hacienda Hotel (Paloma waited outside; the security guard kept her distracted with food). We weren't ready for the night to end so we thought we'd see if anything was going on at the Azul. When we arrived the place was empty but the call went out, "Americanos here," and soon the bar filled with locals. Then some businessmen from Hermosillo came in.

The Costa Azul is ugly. It smells like piss. The jukebox recycles through the same six songs, Mexo-techno of some sort. The only alcohol is beer sold in big bottles - caguamas.

Paloma became a royal pain in the ass as she nipped at the ankles of my dancing partners. One of the men from Hermosillo (that guy in the plaid shirt sitting against the wall) tried to keep her out of the way by petting her but that lasted only so long. Her favorite target was this guy:

The belly-rolling man. We met him our first night at the Azul. Instead of saying, "My name is so and so. Do you remember me?" he just lifts up his shirt. Even when I run into him on the street, he'll start to lift his shirt in greeting and I'll say "no, no, it's okay. i remember you."

If you're gonna dance at the puta bar, you better bring attitude.

That's our bodyguard against the wall back there. He was called when we showed up and immediately set to work keeping an eye on things. Beer splatters on the camera lens.

It wasn't until the next day that we realized the reason for our popularity. The caguamas. We'd order bottles of beer, get up to dance, return to the table, the bottles would be empty, we'd order more, we'd dance... You get the picture.

I saw our bodyguard the other day. He asked when we were coming back to the Azul, said the place has been hopping lately. Maybe we'll go tonight after we celebrate the Muslim Mexican marriage of our friend. We'll be driving to the party so, sadly for Paloma, she'll have to stay home.

Paloma's Friend

No one knows exactly how old Paloma is. Best guess is 12 to 14. She's one of the park dogs although people think she's mine because she shadows me. Or they think she hangs out with me because I feed her. For the record, I'm probably the only person here who DOESN'T feed her. I think Paloma hangs with me because I'm alone - people- and dog-less - and she feels I need someone.

A couple days ago I almost killed Paloma. She followed me too far up the beach. I was quite a way ahead of her and thought she'd turned back. Apparently she kept plodding along, her short legs carrying her big arthritic body for nearly two miles. Later at the park she had a massive nosebleed, caused by over-exertion and high blood pressure.

Now I close the gate behind me if I'm going for a long walk. Short walks do her good.

There's this man I see on the beach all the time. He's old and very dark. He gathers cans and anything else of value. In years past he was accompanied by three dogs but now he walks the beach alone. I don't know what became of his dogs but Paloma and Osa always ran up to him when they saw him. He's got that kind of a spirit. So Paloma and I were on the beach when the old man showed up.

Now that's a happy dog.

Things Gringos Expect

Besides decapitations (untrue), police shakedowns (true), kidnapping dogs for ransom (sometimes true), gringos also expect to be ripped off. I guess that's common at Pemex stations although I've not experienced it.  If Joe Blow is given the wrong change at Chubby Chicks (his name for the fruiteria because the women who work there are, um, robust), he'll assume it was done on purpose.

I think mistakes are made. I think if you expect to get ripped off, you will.

A few days ago I took a friend to one of the chicken places, Pollos Asados de Ebenezer. When we walked in, I thought I was in trouble with Maria, the owner. Gosh, she had such a stern look on her face and then she started in.

Remember that Gary Larson cartoon "What we say to dogs: sit Ginger, good girl. What dogs hear: blah blah blah Ginger." Or something like that. Anyway, that's how I am with Spanish. "Blah, blah, blah, muchacha, blah blah blah, mesa..." grabbing one word out of ten. It took a while to grasp what Maria was saying but finally it all sort of came together. The last time I was in - a couple months ago - Maria charged me for a whole chicken when I'd only had a half. I made some lame attempt to explain the mistake but finally gave up, not wanting to offend Maria. After I'd left that day Maria asked Enselmo, her husband, what I'd had and he confirmed it had only been a half a chicken. Poor Maria. She fretted for two months over the error. To make it right, she asked if I wanted money or chicken. Are you kidding me? I'll take the chicken any day. She was so relieved. At last she could feel "muy tranquila." Warm hugs and warm chicken all around when we left.

It's very simple. You reap what you sow. Like attracts like. Blah blah blah Ginger.

The Mexicans are coming!

If you're a snowbird or ex pat living in an RV park or a condo, you can pretty much go about your day without interacting with a Mexican unless it's the clerk at the Super T where you buy your El Presidente brandy or the women who work at the park scooping up mostly gringo dog poop. If you're a snowbird or ex pat more than likely you don't eat at the taco stands or fish stalls. You go to Club Deportivo for pig roasts or you go to the Marlin for the Friday night special - stuffed crab or sauteed pork chops. You go en masse, reserving tables for twenty or more. Rarely an odd number as it's mostly couples. Jorge's does a Mexican food special on Tuesdays which includes a margarita chica so you'll probably go there. The only Mexicans at Jorge's on Mexican food night will be Jorge, his wife and staff. Same is true at the Club and the Marlin. The poor people in this village do not eat out unless it's at a carne asada or fish taco stand.

But bring on the beginning of spring when it is blazing hot in Hermosillo and this little town gets invaded by Mexican tourists. It's the best time to be here.

I can go to the estuary on a Saturday and be the only person there. But this past Saturday the place was packed with tourists from Hermosillo. The atmosphere was festive. The guy who plays music around town - not Xavier with the crappy voice but the other guy - showed up with his guitar but no one likes him much because he charges too much for a song (50 pesos) and he's got a bad attitude. Still, any man with a guitar adds to the party-like atmosphere.

Yesterday we walked to the beach with the I-don't-know-how-many palapas. Fifty? Nearly every palapa sheltered a picnicking family. The beach was lined with kids digging in the sand and building castles. The ninos were even in the water which is muy frio, the sea not warming up until at least May.

What I was hoping for most happened: the mariachis from Hermosillo showed up!

Then a school of sardines must've been traveling along the shore because pelicans suddenly began falling from the sky.

This is when I enjoy Kino the most. Yes, I love the quiet fishing village atmosphere but I look forward to the return of the Mexicans. I can hardly wait for Semana Santa!

The Town Wanker

Two gringas from this little RV park were followed as they walked the beach - on separate occasions - by a public masturbator. I'd been dog/cat sitting on the other end of town and missed all the excitement.

When I returned home I was talking to a woman friend on my porch when I looked toward the wall which separates the park from the road behind it and there was a guy looking at us. I couldn't be absolutely sure I knew what he was doing but there was a certain movement to his hand and hips that was suspect. I said to my friend, "is that guy jerking off over there?" I walked over to the wall yelling "hey, go away. vamanos" but he just grinned and kept it up. When I shouted something about calling the policia, he moved away from the wall.

Just then the police showed up on one of his regular rounds through the park. I walked to the driver's door and the cop extended his hand and we shook. I said, "Hombre..." then I turned to my friend and said "how do you say jerking off in spanish?" So I just made the motion and the cop understood. We described what the guy was wearing and that he'd just taken off on a bicycle. The cop took off after him.

Later, I got to hear both stories from the women who'd been harrassed by him on the beach. He followed one woman on her whole two-mile walk. Finally a man saw her from his condo and escorted her home. Back at the park her husband jumped in the truck and took off looking for the guy, going to bash his head in or something macho like that.

The other woman had a more humorous tale to tell. The masturbator was totally buck naked. When she got back to the park she told our neighbor who's a bigwig with the mayor's office and they called the cops. She described him as a thin naked guy with a big dick. He was pretty easy to find.

Turns out the guy is mentally retarded and harmless. The cops couldn't keep him in jail forever so they let him out after a couple nights. We haven't seen the wanker around, figuring he's probably been shipped off to Calle Doce, the next town over.

There's something about this little village that even its perverts are rather endearing. Or to be pitied. I don't know, I mean what do you do with a guy like that? Jeez, you can't stick him in prison. I picture him as a lone desperado, penis in hand, wandering from town to town...

Signs Your Husband Has a Mexican Girlfriend*

Let's say that for years your husband has gone to Mexico to fish. He's got a little trailer and fishing boat down there and he'll be gone weeks, even months at a time. He loves to fish. He lives to fish. It's no big deal because you have a job you like and you like having the house to yourself. But then after a particularly long trip he comes home and...

1) His eyebrows, nose and ear hairs have been trimmed. Just last month his eyebrows rivaled Andy Rooney's from 60 Minutes. Surely you noticed they had been tamed. And that when you kissed, your lips were no longer tickled by his nose hairs. Or that when you whispered in his ear you didn't have to spend 15 minutes spitting out hair balls.

2) On his next trip home he speaks Spanish. And not just typical words us gringos throw in our normal conversations like, "excuse me, I'm going to the banos" but he'll use big words and nearly complete sentences. For instance, instead of asking if you'd like him to cook dinner for you tonight he'll say something like "quiere que mi cocine la cena esta noche....

3)...mi amor?" Mi amor! He's never called you "my love" in any language. If you missed signs one and two, surely this one should set off those alarms. If you even care. Because maybe you don't. Maybe you've got your own amor on the side. I, for one, hope you do.

*this is re-posted here from my "secret" blog

Homeland Security Part II

I fear I’ve also scared off Daniel, the night watchman who took Martin’s place.

For some only God knows why reason the people at the end of my row started letting their high-pitched yappy dogs out at five in the morning. I’d been meaning to talk to them about it but the opportunity never arose until the fourth morning.

My daughter was visiting and I was sleeping on the sofa, this time in an oversized tee-shirt that says “trailer park trash: their love was as mobile as their home and as carefree,” when the dogs let loose. I didn’t hesitate. I jumped up, pulled on my flip-flops and went out the door where I met poor Daniel with his flashlight, lit up by the neighbor’s motion detector light. I marched past Daniel to the dog owner’s door.

I knocked. He answered with a “what’s up?” Okay, so it’s like four o’clock in the morning (I know because my neighbors with the Radio Shack alarm aren’t up so it’s got to be before five), so what does he think is up? My voice is calm. I’m not even shaking with anger. I say, “This is the fourth morning your dogs have waked me up.” (wake, woked, awakened, fuck, who knows) He says – and I thought this was priceless – “Wouldn’t you rather be woken by my dogs than robbers?” Uh, no. Besides it’s Daniel they’re barking at; not robbers. Anyway, I couldn’t have scripted this any better. Sitting calmly next to me is my guarda espalda – my bodyguard – Paloma. I point at her and say “I don’t need your dogs, I have Paloma.” With that he says, "Okay, I’ll take care of it."

Back in the trailer Stef says “Mom, did you go out there?” I said yep. Then I burst out laughing as I recounted the perfectness of having Paloma beside me.

Later that day the dog owner’s wife (who also owns the dogs, I might add) says her husband is going to come down and apologize. But he didn’t and he hasn’t. Seems he was on his way to do that but he asked my neighbor with the Radio Shack alarm – my DEAF neighbor – if his dogs woke him and he says no so there went my apology.

Since then others have heard the story and thanked me for saying something. Well no thanks to any of them for backing me up. But that’s okay. Given all those dogs, there’s still room for one more bitch in the neighborhood.

Oh, and Daniel…I haven’t seen him since.

Homeland Security Part I

After a rash of burglaries - shoes, vodka, steaks - the gringos took security into their own hands. They insisted on a nighttime watchman (which worked great the last time we had one because our guard was a speed freak who had no problem staying awake all night), so the park put Martin on night duty. My neighbors attached a three-dollar alarm from Radio Shack to the back of their rig and ran fishing line to the fence. It set off an annoying chirping sound when tripped. The women across the way put up a motion detector light aimed so that any dog walking by would trigger it. Subsequently, the light goes off and on all night. I despise motion detector lights. They belong in the suburbs; not in a trailer park in Mexico.

On this particular night I'd been in bed for maybe fifteen minutes when the Radio Shack alarm went off. I got up to turn on my porch light so the burglar would...well, I'm not sure what but I felt the need to show some presence. I went into the living room and flipped on the inside light by mistake. I'm standing at the window in all my naked glory when I hear "It's me Martin, Martin" and as I reach for the light switch I say "Oh, hi Martin, okay." I flip the inside light off and hit the outside switch.

The alarm's still chirping so I go back to bed. I hear one of the women with the motion detector light outside telling Martin to stick around so the owner of the chirper alarm will know it's Martin and not some burglar. It's taking a while for my neighbor to get up. When he does I hear him yelling at Martin to go away all the while the woman's telling Martin to stay. Then I hear the neighbor telling his wife to shut up because he can't hear what she's saying when really it's not his wife at all but the woman with the motion detector light. The neighbor is deaf (and of course he takes his hearing aids out when in bed) so he's lost in a fog of chirping noises and voices.

I lie in bed and laugh at the absurdity of it all.

Poor Martin. We never see him again - I'm not sure if he was embarrassed by setting off the alarm or by seeing me naked - so when Manny gets out of jail the park owners rehire him and Daniel is put on night shift.

As far as I know, the burglaries have stopped. But the gringo drama continues...

Rumors*

We were sitting at the seawall watching the sun drop over Isla Tiburon in the Sea of Cortez. A mini happy hour gathering, just the two of us.

"I hear the police found your stuff."
"Nope."
"Nope? It's not true that the police found some guys at an abandoned shack barbecuing your steaks and drinking your vodka?"
"Nope. All day people have been stopping me on the beach saying hey, I hear you got your stuff back. By the way they took all my vodka - all 22 liters."
"Twenty-two liters!"
"Yep."
"Okay, so I also heard all you had to do was go to the police station in Calle Doce and sign some papers and you'd get your grill back and whatever was left of the steaks and vodka."
"Nope. Not true. None of it. Nada."
"Well shit, how could a rumor be so detailed?"
"The only thing I can think is someone overhead us at breakfast joking about that scenario - the cops smelling those grilling steaks - and someone took it as gospel and ran with it."
"And given that most of these old farts can't hear too good..."
"You got it."
"So where'd the part about going to Calle Doce come from?"
He just shrugged.

For days I dug but could not come up with the root of the rumor. I finally chalked it up to just another day among snowbirds with too much time on their hands and not enough battery power in their ears.

*rumors is the subject for the February 1st deadline of the readers write section in The Sun magazine

full body press

Chapo stops by. We do not speak the other's language although we make an attempt. He tells me that Manuel (his son in prison) needs shoes. I see a pair of tennis shoes strapped to the back of Chapo's bicycle. Chapo says Francisco gives him the evil eye when he comes into the park. Those two things I understand but that's about it.

The purpose of today's visit is obviously not to chat; it's for a hug. Chapo is drenched in cologne - Axe which all the men here wear. When we hug, he holds me a little too long, a little too tight so that my breasts are pressed to his chest. I don't mind. He's got a nice chest. And for the first time in my life I'm able to hug a man breast to chest.

After our two-sentence conversation we sit in silence for a few minutes. Then Chapo says adios, jumps on his bike and rides off.