Power of the Language

Eight years ago a street merchant in San Jose del Cabo tied a macrame bracelet onto my wrist.  As a gesture of gratitude, he gave me one of the bracelets his daughter makes for him to sell.  We had had a short and simple conversation in Spanish which ended with him expressing his joy for a visitor who had bothered to learn a few words. Bruce gave him his asking price just the same and I keep the bracelet as a reminder of the importance of valuing another's language.

In El Sargento we stayed with friends from Oregon. They have been spending five to six months every year down here for longer than we have made this our annual journey.  Our friend Vince has topped off his high school Spanish with his socialable gift for gab and years of practice speaking to the locals.  Through his efforts to build a house and to enjoy successful fishing ventures down here he has quite a bit of vocabulary and phraseology.  During our three days spent with this couple in El Sargento we shared the fruits of our sociable host's knowledge of the language and watched how that opened doors. 

This year, our friends met us in La Paz, picking us up at the bus station the day we left El Pescadero and taking us with them to a beautiful hotel where they had reserved a suite, complete with breakfasts, private Jacuzzi and swimming pool included. We enjoyed living like high-rollers for a day and a half in a hotel that had once been owned by Ingelbert Humperdink. And that bit of information was feretted out by Vince's Spanish and persistent questions!

We chose to meet in La Paz on this particular date as it was the last day of Carnaval.  Timed to coordinate with Ash Wednesday, it seems to translate to the last day to "live it up" (and "sin") before the big day of confession for Catholicss. Yes, that meant drinking and dancing in the streets, a parade complete with scantily clad young guys, gals and everything in between.  (Think: Livingston's Fourth of July on steroids).  It's not as wild as the storied Mardi Gras in New Orleans, but that is what comes to mind when watching the colorful floats and street vendors wandering in between, dressed in their wares.  

The whole pageant of Carnaval takes place on The Malecon,  a calm two lane paved street with an extra-wide sidewalk and occasional seaside viewing benches paralleling the quiet harbor around which La Paz was built.  At Carnaval time, the wide sidewalk fills with booths and pop-up restaurants on both sides of the street. A few hours before parade, The Malecon is closed to cars allowing pedestrians free rein to bounce back and forth across the street in search of favorite goodies. Our party searched for our hosts' favorite El Sargento taco stand. The usual taco stand at its home location in El Sargento is boarded up for the duration of the week-long Carnaval celebration allowing the owners to enjoy the more lucrative Carnaval street business. As luck would have it, we found the place about 20 minutes before parade time. The owners were so happy to see their friends, they led us to a special table:  all four of us got a rare ring-side seat for the parade!  0Again, it was use of Spanish and Vince's easy sociability that paved the way. Introductions were made, giving each of us an opportunity to use our bits of Spanish knowledge. Before long, owner Patty and her waitress served us the biggest Margaritas I'd ever seen. As she set them before us I asked how our timing was, would we be able to sit here long enough to enjoy the parade?  "Of course!" she responded .  "This special table is just for my special friends."  And we offered a toast to Patty:

A few days later and we all met up again in El Sargento.  Our friends took us on a driving tour to several area beaches: one great for shell-gathering and another perfect for catching returning fishermen.  We had good luck at both: found nice shells at one and caught a boat load of fishermen just as they pulled in. Vince had met the captain before, shouting greetings even before the boat pulled in close enough for retrieval by trailer.  Once trailer was in place, Vince's friend immediately released the trailer's winch and stretched to attach its end hook to the boat's bow. The captain pulled the slack out of the webbing to attach the hook, the hook fit snugly into the bow just as the webbing broke loose from the hook!  Vince attempted a solution, but the captain readily laughed at his attempy and quickly tied a length of line connecting hook and webbing and exclaiming, "Mexicanado!" to a chorus of laughter.  I stepped in to ask if he said "Americanado" and he explained, "Mexicanado," and repeated the mending motions with his hands saying "muy rapido!"  I found myself wondering if years ago the ears of a Southern California gal whose friends called themselves Chicanos had misinterpreted the landlady's term for the Mexican way of making do. It wasn't long after the boat was on the trailer that we stood watching in awe as the captain made short work of cleaning his client's catch and Vince set up a fishing date with the able captain!

Our last stop on the El Sargento beach tour was to a place once known as Bay of the Dead. In recent years there has been an attempt to rename it Bay of Dreams. Rumor has it that someone thought the tourists would find it more pleasing. Either way, the name of the relaxing resort and restaurant at the end of a quiet road to the bay translates to  "Of the Dreams." We decided to sit in the courtyard restaurant and enjoy a beer and nachos. During the course of ordering, sociable Vince soon made friends with our waitress. And we were treated to an explanation of a special fly repelling candle and a complimentary dessert!

Vince gets a detailed explanation of the candle: apparently the burning of coffee beans atop a Sterno-like fuel does the trick. 

The candle explanation and the yummy dessert topped off our short three day visit. Every time we go to El Sargento we get to share in unusually wonderful experiences all results of Vince's enthusiasm to speak the language. 

When Bruce and I departed from our El Sargento friends in a rented car, we felt a new insurgence of confidence in our Spanish.  We decided to pick up the neatly clad hitchhiker on our way to Cabo Pulmo. This fellow worked in private security and was fairly patient, or maybe polite is the more correct term, with our flailing Spanish. I told him we wanted to stop in La Riberia at the grocery store as I'd heard (from one of the fishermen) that they had great ready-made burritos. Not one to pass up a Mexican's food recommendation, I thought it'd be fun to get a few either for beach lunches or maybe heated up for a light dinner. The hitchhiker must have thought me crazy to want to stop at a grocery store for burritos, but nonetheless he directed us to the grocery store with the best deals. As we pulled to a stop where directed, Bruce realised this was a store with the same name, but wasn't the one the fisherman had described. The hitchhiker then directed us to the other store, somewhat confused by our refusal to use the store offering better prices.  It took quite a bit of confused errors before we pulled in front of the described store. By then, our hitchhiker had about had enough of our confused conversation, thanked us for the ride, told us he was going to a nearby home and bade us farewell.   Ok, so maybe we don't yet have the "power of the language" down pat,  it was a fun attempt, and we learned a few more words. 

Stick-carrying Member

That's what I've become: a proud stick-carrying member of the San Pedritos Vecinos community.  That is the name I've given our little neighborhood down here near San Pedritos surf point. And I did see that name used to refer to this area of Pescadero when reading about the arrest of a couple from whom we used to rent. But I've gotten ahead of myself. News of the arrest, which took place last fall, came to me after I had a need for the name of our little neighborhood.  And it does fell like a community.  I know the names of most of our immediate neighbors, have socialized with many of them and know most of them well enough to stop and converse when we encounter each other on the road or on the beach. How I became a stick-carrying member is the result of the saga I'll give you in this post.

As many of you know, I am a runner and I love to run down here.  What's not to like?  Nice dirt roads at sea level with little traffic. It's a perfect place for an old lady to "crawl back into her game," shaking winter's forced confinement and regaining endurance and stamina. A phone app measures the distances I run so I begin with a comfortable distance and build back up toward my annual spring goal gradually changing my route to slowly increase the number of miles. Over the years of coming down here I've found some routes more favorable than others.  Some get crossed off my list when dogs, traffic or scenery become less than optimal.  By now I have a fairly regular set of routes I find both entertaining and safe. The dirt is the right consistency, the traffic manageable and the North Americans sparse enough, I rather like it.

About 20 days ago I earned my stick-carrying membership. I was happily running along, pretending I moved like the wind, deep into my run and it's rhythm.  I was calculating how much distance I'd gained and feeling good about entering the home stretch of the morning run when I became aware of a dog running behind me. Aarrrggghhhh!  Although I'd never In my life felt it, I knew a dog's teeth had raked my right ankle.  Having become a runner in cowdog country, I'd formed the habit of walking and breathing deeply when confronting threatening dogs. (Cow dogs, heelers and such, like to nip at running things, right?).  Out of habit I dropped my left foot to walk. Aaaarrrggghhhhh!  Really?  I felt a chomp into my left ankle!  Feeling more anger than pain I turned to face my offenders. Although there were two dogs chasing me, I felt that only the white one had done the chomping. I've never felt so helpless and vulnerable! There I was on a very lonely stretch of road with two dogs on my heels. Rocks and stout sticks being a rarity here, I had no hope of locating even a makeshift weapon. "Just continue walking, I told myself, "Get away!"   Wait. They've stopped following me!  What made them stop?  Grateful blessings!  I was just relieved they stopped!    Had I crossed the invisible boundary of their defendable territory?  I didn't hesitate to figure it out, I  just kept walking away, quickly.

My first thought as I walked was of rabies. The skin has to be broken, right?  Maybe he didn't break my skin; I didn't feel much pain.  A quick glance at my moving feet revealed new pink streaks on each of my white running sox. That answers that. Now I feel certain I at least need medical advice. I checked my phone, not for distance, but for the amount of time before the morning bus left for Todos Santos. I had time to walk to town and make the next bus, if I hustled. But first go home, get more money. Bruce had already headed on his way to town. I knew I'd have to go not just to sleepy little Pescadero where we went to replenish supples, but another 15-20 minutes by car on the Transpennisular to Todos Santos, and I really might not make it in time for the bus.  Better to get a ride, if I could.  As I walked to our house I started a mental list of those on whom I could call for help.  (Later, I counted the names on my list and discovered I'd named five households. I'm not sure I'd come with many more in my own home town and found that a very positive statement about this place.) Once back to our house I cleaned myself up, applied Neosporin, silly little bandaids and clean sox. I grabbed my credit card, all cash and passport. I chose the closest neighbor on the way to town. I'd never been to her house, having only visited with her on the road as she walked her dogs. Following Baja protocol, I stood at her gate, calling out her name and a greeting. When I heard her answer I let myself in the gate and she scolded me saying, "Don't ever stand at the gate!  Come right in.  What are you up to?"  I said I needed advice and showed her one mark on my ankle. Oh, was she angry when she learned it was a dog bite!   Before she got very far into her angry tirade she stopped, gathered me into her arms, gave a much appreciated hug before directing me to the nearest chair. I was never so grateful for such a heartfelt hug from a casual acquaintance!   Within minutes she confirmed that I needed medical attention, maybe even a stitch or two and she arranged a ride for me all the way into Todos.   Her renter was going there to pick up a few things for a dinner he was preparing for 20 people that night. He had just finished a run of his own. While he showered,  I called Bruce and told him the situation.  Then my neighbor quizzed me about which dog and where I was when it happened and even took photos of my ankles!  On the ride along the highway my chauffeur confided that he too had been threatened by a white dog in the same area.  Being a soccer player, his instinct was to pick up his feet high and run fast. He escaped. So comforting to have a sympathetic driver!  Once in Todos he walked me to the hospital door, made sure I put his number in my phone and told me he would check back in about 30 minutes after he'd finished his errands.

One of the reasons I'd picked the closest neighbor was because I knew she had a good command of the language. I was concerned that my knowledge of Spanish and my mental state would prevent me from understanding all the doctor had to say.  Now I figured Google would have to help me translate. I approached the check-in desk and wonder-of-wonders, the receptionist spoke English clearly and handed me a form (also in English) to fill out.  In my addled mental state I started out just fine: name, email, phone, emergency contact , but I had to think about birth date ( here they put date ahead of month) at which point I was beginning to realize how upset I was. Address?  Here? Or at home?  Bruce and I have great fun putting the words "The Stick House" on immigration forms asking for the same information, but somehow I doubted that would be appropriate here.  The serious receptionist patiently explained that "none of us down here have addresses.  I really need the name of your neighborhood. We might have 40 Alverezes in Pescadero and a neighborhood helps us identify which one received care."  Figuring there couldn't be too many Goodman's in Pescadero and she wouldn't appreciate The Stick House humor, I just listed Pescadero and wondered what the name of our neighborhood was.  I handed back the completed form and she explained the fee for the visit and that I would also have to pay for things like gauze, gloves, whatever the doctor used.

I had barely settled into the waiting bench when a nurse greeted me in English. Hallelujah!  He directed me to a room and the examining table. While I removed shoes and sox he cranked the head of the table so I could lean back in a sitting position. The doctor entered and she, too addressed me in English!   Already I was feeling all kinds of relief!

With doctor looking over his shoulder the nurse gently and thoroughly began cleaning my wounds. When he turned for more supplies,  I noticed my knees were shaking uncontrollably.  Up until then I knew everything depended on me keeping it together. Once I knew I was in competent medical hands I must have relaxed enough to let the trembling show.  Focusing on my ankle wounds, the two medical people ignored my shaking.  And I, who have come close to fainting while giving blood, thought about how there'd be no molly-coddling here. Their Mexican clients must be used to taking care of themselves. I directed my attention away from my ankles and tried to relax and let my mind go to some quiet and calm place. I knew if I had to watch them put in stitches, those walls would close in on me pretty quickly and I'd have the embarrassment of fainting.

The doctor then began speaking to me, asking  if I knew the dog, did I know if he had owners.   I responded shaking  my head in an embarrassed "no."  She then immediately addressed my unspoken fears. "We have no rabies here."  My mind reeled. How can this be?  Have medical personnel been instructed to protect tourists' perception of safe Mexico no matter what?  "I can't stitch these up because our biggest fear here is infection from bacteria within the dog's mouth."  There went my faith in the old tale that a dog can lick a person"s wounds clean.  "Do you have a current tetanus vaccination?"  That much I knew for sure, having asked my doctor the same question before leaving Montana.  As she supervised the nurse dressing my wounds I pressed the doctor for more details on the rabies situation. She explained that their last case was in 1970 and involved a wild coyote. She gave a very detailed explanation of the rabies eradication campaign they ran and then she gave me care instructions.  This type of infection may take as long as three days to manifest and she told me the symptoms which would demand immediate medical attention.  She told me I'd have to rest, no running for the next four or five days because some of the wounds would continue bleeding for a few days and would need to be covered with gauze. Yes, walking would be fine. Then she gave me a list of things to buy at the pharmacy, including oral antibiotics, an antiseptic spray, disinfecting ointment and pain pills.  The nurse then prepared a syringe, instructing me as to which body part I needed to expose (my butt-cheek).  He warned of a pinch and, I swear it was for one full minute that he emptied the syringe before instructing me to press lightly on the positioned cottonball.  The syringe contained yet more antibiotics.  When I returned to the receptionist to pay my bill, I noticed I'd only been in the clinic for 30 minutes!

My kind driver was nowhere in sight. So I stepped inside the next door pharmacy and gave the young girl behind the counter my list. I stepped out again so as to be visible from the street, and here came my ride. Things could not have gone more smoothly!

My ankles, 24 hours later, after home cleansing very ugly wounds and re-dressing.

Now it's twenty-some days later and I'm happy to report that all my physical wounds are closed up, having shown no signs of infection. My heart, however, still gets to fluttering when I approach an unknown dog.  I've had to force myself to leave our yard.  I know I have to begin anew gathering positive dog experiences to override the terror I felt when the dog hung around for a second bite.  Smiley, the neighboring dog who has adopted us  contributes his huge share of positives for me. We've become quite attached.  Taking a cue from a woman I've seen walking the neighborhood carrying a 9-iron with her on her walks, I scavenged up a discarded dustpan handle which feels just right in my hand.  I wasn't sure how effective a weapon It would be, but it made me feel brave enough to leave the yard. It wasn't long before I got to test my stick. On one walk, three dogs filled the road from opposing sides. One looked alarmingly like the one that bit me.  All were barking in a way I interpreted as threatening.  When I laid eyes on the white one, I suddenly understood the phenomenon called "flight or fight" response. I immediately adopted a defensive stance: stick poised in front of my ankles at just the right angle where I could get in a good whack, if necessary. Whitey showed me teeth and I felt myself dare her to go for my still leaking ankles. She backed down and the others followed suit. Wow!  I'd discovered the power of the stick!

Grateful for that rather unpleasant testing situation, I now feel like my seemingly little stick (I mean, it's a lot different from a 9-iron) proved its value. So while I no longer have those morning walks where I view each dog I meet as a potential friend and temporary companion, I am able to bravely leave my front porch as a proud, stick-bearing member of the community.  And I like to think that I now travel with a wiser wariness knowing most dogs are friendly, while others can be unexpectedly mean.  Sometimes I wonder if my stick is a crutch or a sensible precaution.  That's probably a matter of interpretation. I can already feel my fear lessening from what it was, and Smiley is doing her part.  I believe I'll be able to use my new fear to begin enjoying dogs again, while knowing that some dogs can be unexpectedly dangerous.  It's something I'll just need to work on for awhile.  But hopefully, in the very near future, I'll be able to generally trust dogs again while maintaining a necessary awareness.

Smiley, my stick, and I three weeks after the attack

Form, Function and Chicanado

Chicanado?  The first and only time I ever heard that term was on one of our first trips to Baja. We were staying in a neighborhood of Los Barrilles know as Spa Buena Vista and had summoned our landlady when the shower head quit working. Our landlady managed the rental as part of her real estate business and in a few hours appeared in our casita dressed professionally right down to high heels.  At the time, she spoke about as much English as I did Spanish so we began our usual method of communication trying piece together meaning between the two languages.  Soon, she and her high heels were standing our shower.  She examined the showerhead, pulled a bobby-pin from her hair and with that as her only tool, she had the shower working. She turned to me, smiled and snapped her fingers saying, "Chicanado!"  Seeing my puzzled expression she soon explained that is how Mexicans fix things, with whatever is at hand: chicanado.

I've thought of that word several times in our travels, like the time we bought grapefruit right out of the tree. The owner fetched his picker, a large empty tin can with just the right crimp in the edge and nailed to a long straight stick. With this tool he picked the fruit from the highest branches. Often we see signs hand painted on the lids of now defunct plastic tubs. Sheet goods like plywood and chip board are nearly non-existent here. Then there are the dog dishes fashioned from the bottoms of large plastic bottles. Whatever is on hand is used to solve the need.

Homemade dustpan (Chicanado style)

Since dimensional lumber is scarce down here, the rules of chicanado dictate that most of the buildings are made of cement and cinder block. We once watched a construction artist at work. He deftly placed and punched perfectly round holes in exactly the right place of the block. (I later examined his blocks to see if they came with perforated holes; they didn't).  He wielded trowel and mortar handily, lining the block's edges with mortar as easily as a baker frosts a cake. Often, even the roof is made of cement making these buildings nearly impervious to the ravages of a hurricane.

Surprisingly durable and unique to Baja are the versital palapas: thatched roofs made of palapa palm fronds. Palapas vary from standing on a solitary center post providing shade on a beach to a complete structure or even a complicated roof complete with dormers.  The neighborhood yoga studio is a palapa

As is the roof on our house:

A view from the inside hints at the construction method

Now, can you tell which type of palm is 

used for Palapas?

And the final Mexican form that serves many architectural functions is the palo de arco.   This shrub grows everywhere and produces many branches about the diameter of a person's thumb.  Mexican builders know how to incorporate its harvested branches into attractive fences, walls or shade-providing roofs for outdoor decks. The shrub is easily recognized by its yellow blossoms. 

The walls of our house are made of palo de arco sticks woven into an attractive pattern. 

More often, the sticks are intertwined to form a fence or a shade

And most often of all, the sticks are simply woven into a barbe. d wire fence to create a barrier. 

Those three commonly sourced building materials are used in 90% of the structures we see around here and define the urban scenery: cement, palms and palo de arco. 

Town Time

The nights cool easily here and hold their coolness until just after the sun peeks over the interior mountains east of us. That is the perfect time to begin our hike to town: when night's evening chill drops away and before the heat of the morning builds.

We decided to walk the road closest to the arroyo as we'd not been on it yet this trip.  To get to it we walk along the beach. The surf cabanas look empty this year, and the surf camp has migrated away from the point; some of the camps are now at the mouth of the arroyo, South of the point.  Makes me wonder if the surf break has migrated south as well..

We turn up the road grateful for the new footpaths that have emerged connecting beach to road, making it easier to get there.  The large new houses we watched under construction last year are now complete and appear unoccupied.  I am happy to note that their  cement pools remain empty.  As the road bends away from the arroyo it gives way to large farmlands. Workers the field of basil take advantage of the cool morning air.  They've started their labor long before us As the farm hands toil we freely enjoy their release of the sweet basil's  scent.  We have chosen this road for the novelty and for the purview of the year's changes. We also know will arrive at a spot in the highway very near the agricultural cooperative where organic local produce is sold. The co-op raises its own giant strawberries and beautiful mixed salad greens. We've not found these prizes anywhere else in Pescadero. It's worth the short walk along the highway to fill our bag with tastey tomatoes and cilantro in addition to the strawberries and lettuce.

Finished at the co-op we walk along the Transpennisular highway which stretches the entire length of  Baja . It is four lanes wide and traffic moves along swiftly. Apparently many of those traveling too fast are not local. Both the life-sized cardboard police cruiser "parked" along the shoulder and the cardboard mule poised to cross at the other end of town either slow down traffic somewhat or are a nod to the Mexican sense of humor.  Either way, it gives us a chuckle as we, like the proverbial chicken, cross the road.

On the other side we are grateful for the wide grassy shoulder despite its plethora of  litter .There is a two track dirt road we can walk along. Soon we are passing the spot where Fidel had his vegetable stand last year. We visited him so often during previous Baja visits that we felt like he was a friend.  We even exchanged gifts with him a few times. This year, another favorite stop, "the barbecued chicken guy," has moved his grill to Fidel"s spot.  Apparently the city chased Fidel away because he didn't have the proper licenses.  We miss his happy presence.

We stop at the bus station and check the schedule for Todos Santos, a town 20 minutes north, for there is the closest cash machine.  It helps to know ahead of time when the buses might run. We also stop in the tiny grocery store where we buy limes, fresh tortillas and what seems to be a locally made cheese. It sits in a case, on a tray and we ask for the quantity we want.  It's so good and melts so nicely in a quesadilla.

Back to our side of the highway we stop at Oxxo which seems to be the Mexican version of our Town Pumps: gas station and convenience store. We were surprised when we learned that it is the cheapest place to refresh our El Jimedor (tequila) supply!

Shopping complete we head back toward home on our usual road. We've decided to try a new cafe about halfway between our place and town. But wait!  There they are in the Oxxo parking lot: two women selling fresh tamales out of the back of their truck!  My favorite. Nothing will do but to buy two and try to wait until lunchtime to savor the yummy things. Knowing a new breakfast spot awaits makes it easier to resist eating the tamales on the spot.  In another 3/4 mile we arrive at the new cafe.  I order a cheese omelette which, surprisingly comes with refried beans ladled over the top. It tastes good and as we finish our walk I feel my tummy fairly purring with contentment.  Something about that combo sits well on a person's tummy.

We make it the last 3/4 mile to home and find that Rosa has left the place sparkling clean with fresh sheets on the bed.  Feels like such a luxury!  After emptying our bags of produce we head to the beach before the heat gets too brutal. So comfortable to rest on our backs in warm relaxing sand after our nearly five mile walk. And the sun warming our topside is something I can't seem to get enough of. We cool down at our own private happy hour on the porch. Neighbor Peter stops by to invite us to their house for happy hour tomorrow at their place.  Peter and his wife hail from Canada and Peter always has an intetesting perspective to share on local (Pescadero) current happenings in the neighborhood. It's also fun to seek his opinion on American politics and education.

After our friend's visit we have time for an early dinner and a trip back to the beach (which is basically in our front yard) for sunset.  A town day down here, even without a car, really isn't too bad .

Morning Pescadero Walk

Happy to have lugged binoculars in a second-hand carry-on, I turn to study the rosy colored bird sunning himself on the roof of our bungalow. Two steps out of our drive already brings a reward to a morning's wandering .  Later, my battered old bird book reveals a simple name for the cheery visitor: house finch.

The pulverized dirt of the Pescadero road feels soft on my feet; sun warms my shoulders and another Baja day begins living up to its promise of beauty and ease.  Down a narrow footpath I hear the approaching steps of an early surfer. The tardy surfers man their chosen observation point judging the break of the surf. Those who have already made their decision hurry along the path or are already perched in the sea like a flock of pelicans just past the breakline.

The surfers' eagerness mocks my idle wonderings.  I wonder whatever happened to Dr Roberts?  His normally warmly inhabited vacation oasis sits strangely quiet, a chain across the drive and two unused vehicles guard the grounds . My gaze, usually answered by Dr. Robert's gregariously hollered greetings falls on freshly painted, empty buildings.

A solitary wave cracks above the rest and calls my attention. I use the surfers' path to the beach. The high tide crests the beach's ridge wetting my feet. Tumultuous shore waves dare me to enter and answer the call to play amongst them. But I, who know the current's treacherous ways have already made my decision to turn a deafened ear to their call.

I watch a solitary line of pelicans skimming the water's surface. Like the surfers, they eye each wave's crest; are they fishing, or merely playing " who can get closest without wetting a wing"?

As they turn
rising above the horizon,  .

I see words on the page
of a single haiku