deuceorama

Tuesday and Wednesday of this week I drove from the US across the Mexican border and through three states – Sonora, Sinaloa and Nayarit.  It was about a 20 hour drive over two days.  Arriving at my destination I felt a sense of relief, but not the usual sense of relief one would have driving from say, Wisconsin to Florida.  This was a more a sense of victory, like I had just won the game.  Yeah, the last two days were like living an elaborate game blending Chess, Monopoly, Hide-and-Seek and myriad video games of the 80s. 

The three states I traversed couldn’t be more different.  Sonora is a very regulated state of permits and laws.  It begins at the border where customs and immigration do their thing.  Here’s where you hide expensive items or declare them and pay 19% import tax.  I actually imported two very expensive generators for a friend.  I declared them and paid about $200 in taxes.  Here’s where you get your tourist visa.  Here’s where you bond your car, meaning that you have to return it to the US rather than sell it.  Driving in Sonora is a pleasure as most of it falls under a “hassle free” zone whereby the police will not stop you for inspections (a.k.a. bribes/mordita).  All-in-all driving in Sonora is much like driving in Arizona.

Most Americans hold-up in Navojoa, Sonora, just north of the state border with Sinaloa.  Here’s where the game begins.  Ahead lie 22 toll booths that require about $150 cash.  The crux is that you can expect to be stopped and searched several times, which is a pretext for robbing your cash stash.  As I am moving to deep Mexico permanently, my cash stash was about $500.   The Chess game begins.  I placed $150 in my pocket.  They expect you to have that much for the tolls ahead.  I placed $150 in a new money belt – the kind with a zipper built into the underside.  This old fashion item is mail-order, kind of expensive and I doubted the local yocals would be aware of such trickery. 

While on eBay for the belt, I ordered a Coke Can safe.  I placed my last $150 into this safe and mixed it into a regular 12 pack of Coke.  No way anyone could find this stash! 

I’m ready to enter Sinaloa, which is probably a kin to the Texas panhandle – hot, ugly, lawless and not really part of the Union.  Immediately after crossing into Sinaloa, I’m stopped and searched.   A big-bellied slob of man comes to the car and rudely tells me to exit for a search.  Let’s call him Bowser.  I’m culled away from the heard, a little out of sight and there are no witnesses to what’s about to happen.  He’s an asshole from the start, trying to rattle me.  He demands I hand over all my money.  I take the wad from my pocket and hand it to him.  He asks “Is this all you got?”  He asks three times, each more aggressive and intimidating.  He huffs and puffs and hands the wad back to me and sends me on my way.  I pull over a few miles down the road to take a leak and realize he’s stolen $40 from me.  Oh well, he got me.  His sleight of hand was better than David Copperfield.  I’m pissed but philosophical about it.  No inspection of the car meaning no hours of unloading and reloading and I still have the $1500 generators. 

Less than an hour and another checkpoint.  This time it’s a group of about 10 uniformed agents.  I’m hoping that the grift doesn’t happen because there are so many witnesses.  Plus these guys all have “FGV” patches on their shirts, representing their agency authority.  Funny thing is, google “FGV Mexico” and nothing comes up.  I think it’s a bogus agency only found in Sinaloa, fabricated to give Americans some sense of security and trust.  Remember, Sinaloa is home of El Chapo’s cartel; there is no law here.  Not even the Federal government has power over what goes on in Sinaloa.  Anyway, this is a full-on inspection.  They spent 30 minutes going though my car.  It was packed so full and so tight they didn’t dig deep enough to see the generators.  They were looking for money and drug stashes – under the floor mats, in the air vents, in the cup holders, in my suitcases and backpack.  Finding nothing, they sent me on my way.

Another hour down the road and another FGV checkpoint.  It’s now about noon and the temperature has reached 95 degrees with 95% humidity.  Two guys approach and just hang on my window breathing in my AC.  They’re friendly and so I reciprocate.  We make small talk in English and Spanish.  They’ve visited Tucson, specifically Casino Del Sol, and they’re intrigued and respectful that I taught ESL in Nogales.  So then I say “Listen, boys, your guys up the road just robbed me of $40 and I’ve got only enough cash to finish with the tolls.  How about you do me a solid and accept two cold Gatorades and let me pass?”  They do.

So that ends the Chess and Hide & Seek portion of the game.  Now the video game portion.  Because of the corruption in Sinaloa where everyone involved with the Toll Road system is stealing money, it appears that no money is getting to its purpose of maintaining the road.  The pavement is a fucking disaster, as if it were the bombed landing strip at Bagram Airport during the Gulf war.  The pot holes are as big as my Camry so it’s a good thing I was driving the Yukon.  The thing about Mexican 2-lane highways is that they are actually 3-lane highways.  It’s customary to have each side drive on the shoulder and both sides use the middle space for passing. Solid and dashed yellow lines mean nothing to anyone.  If you aren’t paying attention and you rely on the painted lines, you’ll be facing a Volvo passenger bus barreling toward you at 80 mph.  This Mexican driving custom is insane!  Mix in the pot holes with the randomly placed, unmarked speed bumps and speed humps and you’ve got a legitimate Nintendo video game simulation.  For me it brought back memories of Mario Kart and Peaches dropping star spikes in front of my kart.  The road from the Sonora border to Culiacan is an absolute shit show.  With the added stress of three corrupt checkpoints, I’m white knuckled at this point.

Ever play Frogger?  Well this International speedy highway toll road sometimes isn’t.  Sometimes it slows to a crawl and people – window washers, vendors, little children and dogs are darting in front of you like a game of Frogger. They are the “frog.” I literally saw a stray dog get slaughtered before my eyes in the oncoming lane.  Sad for sure.  Challenging for drivers to say the least. 

Only about half of the toll booth stops have facilities. Bathrooms are hidden at gas stations.  I usually fill up with gasoline while I use the head.  The thing about Mexican gas stations is that they run various scams at the pump.  One scam is to not “zero out” the pump before filling you up.  So you start with $10 on the pump which is added to your bill and then they pocket it.  Another scam is to say that your credit card was declined.  So they run it again.  What they’re actually doing is running it twice.  This one you can win on appeal with your bank, but what a hassle.  Or worse, they say it was declined so then you pay cash but it actually wasn’t declined, so you pay twice. No recourse for this clever trick. There’s yet another scam involving them filling up a portable plastic can near their pump but I cant remember the details because I’m getting old and forgetful.

Sinaloa, well the northern part anyway, is a shit hole of a state with pinche Banditos at every turn.  I’ll be taking an airplane over this state as often as possible.  Late in the day I finally arrived at the Nayarit border. 

Nayarit, my home, is a lovely state with nice, honest people.  There are no checkpoints, no inspections, no banditos.  It’s probably most like our Vermont or New Hampshire.  It’s a live free or die kinda place. The tiny, two-lane roads are well maintained, but curvy as hell.  It was like driving up Pike’s Peak in Colorado, but at 60mph.  Hands at 10 and 2 for hours.  Plus I was pelted with sideways rain all the way. Plus my Yukon is 25 years old. It decided to mentally torment me with wipers that didn’t work properly, the AC acted up and the door ajar buzzer was buzzing most of the time. But I arrived at my destination intact and with most of my money and all my possessions.

As for other video game parallels (Mario Kart, PacMan, Missile Command, Donkey Kong and Frogger), the game I played this week had a little bit of each one. I needed to watch for kids and dogs, watch my gas, watch my money and seek out hidden bathrooms.  While being hunted, shot at and thwarted at every turn, I maintained a positive bank account, jumped hurdles, slayed dragons, went to jail, passed go, reached the castle and got the gold coin. And that’s why driving through Mexico is the Ultimate Game.

Mexico is not for the weak my friends.  May I suggest if you visit me that you fly.  I’ll personally pick you up at the airport and put a Michelada in your hand. 

Fuertes abrazos, Bruce

Look. No apologies. I’m a white, American guy who was born into a middle-class, Midwest, nuclear family. I had two parents and four grandparents. My love and appreciation for them would be considered normal, I think they’d say. My love for your parents and grandparents, also, would be considered normal …in the States. 

Today’s blog isn’t my usual stripe. It doesn’t have the typical distribution of 200 men and I promise to not mention cigars, booze or partying. There are only a select handful of you reading this post. I simply want to share a few observations from living abroad. As it relates to family roles, responsibilities and respect, the American culture is not necessarily the world culture. 

Mama Mia!

Today I’m talking about mothers and grandmothers. Nearly 15 years living among Latino families in Brazil and Mexico has opened my eyes to some dramatic cultural differences in how madres and abuelas are regarded. Indulge me a momentito.   

Latino men get a bad rap for being macho or acting with machismo towards women. The closest English translation would be chauvinism or piggish behavior. Well I’m here to tell you something… I’ve known hundreds of Latino couples, and have known them well-enough to have detected any such mistreatment. And I haven’t. Never. Not once. On the contrary, I’ve observed a culture of complete and total respect for women. Respect for all women of all ages and all nationalities. Not a conversation happens without my friends asking about my mom and sending their blessings to her.  Some have met her, most have not. The sending of well-wishes is rooted in their culture. They assume I have a mother and they assume she’s important to me. They’re right of course, but it dumbfounds me how much attention and concern they extend, through me, to her. 

Mama Mia!

Did you know some Mexican fathers work for an entire year to provide a Quinceañera for their daughter’s 15^th birthday?  Adjusting pesos to dollars and for the 5:1 difference in wages, providing a Quinceañera makes providing a car for an American Sweet 16 look like chump change. Then there’s the daughter’s wedding. Not unlike Americans, when at all possible, the Mexican father of the bride hosts his daughter’s wedding. And Mexican weddings are not small affairs. The few I’ve attended had several hundred guests, had live music, served amazing food and hosted an open bar. Here again the father of the bride is forking over nearly a year’s salary. Holy guacamole, a year’s salary each for the Quinceañera and the wedding! Cherishing the women-folk starts at a young age and continues in perpetuity.

As for a Mexican mother, well, without any doubt and without any exception – mama is the Queen. Seems to me that the women are the actual heads of the household. Mothers are significantly more important than fathers. There might be a couple of reasons for this. One is that more and more the father is just a biological credit, out of the picture, and children are being raised by single moms. I’d venture to guess that the percent of single moms is equal to the percent of two parent couples. But different, I think, than white America, Mexican kids are very often raised by the grandmother. And not just casually babysat, but really, really nurture-raised.  “Nana” is washing and feeding, providing daycare, walking to and from school and shepherding the homework. Nana is teaching the culture, instilling the values and dishing the discipline. Ask any Mexican about “the chancla” … Nana’s flip-flop sandal thrown across the room or lashed across the ass when needed.

With Nana playing such an important role in every Mexican child’s life, the bond is strong – even stronger than with mom.  This bond carries into every child’s adulthood and consequently Mexican grandmothers are deeply respected and highly regarded. There is nothing a grandchild won’t do for their grandmother.

Whenever I enter a Mexican home, I am expected to greet every member of the household. Even upon a first visit, I am expected to warmly greet the grandmother with a double handshake or a hug and air-kiss. It is considered very rude to leave without repeating the process and saying goodbye to each member personally. I’m afraid to admit that my American ways have been scrutinized and criticized on more than one occasion.

Mama Mia!

I’ve never seen an “old folks home” in Mexico. Well, I’ve seen homes and apartments for wealthy retired Americans in Mexico, but to be clear – Mexicans don’t put grandma in a home. No. They keep grandma in their home forever. No matter the affliction, no matter the financial or spatial resources, no matter the age, no matter for how long – grandma is part of the nuclear family. In my opinion, the Mexicans get it right.

In a couple of weeks I’ll be vacationing with my American family in Mexico. Eight of the people closest to me. The nearest and the dearest. By design the itinerary centers around food and drink, communal living and miles of van travel. There’ll be no place to hide, cry or fart. We will laugh and we will bond. Among us will be several women, a few mothers and two special grandmothers. I can’t help but think how lucky we are to get this opportunity. It cuts both ways – elders get to bask in the glory of what they’ve produced and the youth get to thank them – all via unsaid subtleties, but that’s what will happen. Priceless memories will be made – good, bad or ugly.

And so I’ll wrap with this. If you’re not already Mexican, maybe try to be more Mexican. Respect your elders. You’d be nothing without them. You’ll miss them one day so make the most of every minute.

Bendiciones a todas las madres y que vivan todas las abuelas!