Tierra de Tortugas

Perry's latest book: Under Torn Paper Mountains

We are very excited to announce publication of…

The author has used his virus lockdown time to finish a book he began decades ago. It’s now available in paperback or as an ebook at your favorite Local Independent Bookseller. 

The 300+ pages are filled with tales from personal experience in the desert Southwest, plus his eternal fascination with Mexico. And, as he says, much of it is true. 

This personal journey has been creatively recast with a storyteller’s flair. It was written for family and friends but will resonate with all readers. And please post a review with the seller!

Some of our favorite Independent Booksellers are BookWorks (bkwrks.com) in Albuquerque, The Writer’s Block (writersblockak.com) in Anchorage, and solar-powered Antigone Books (antigonebooks.com) in Tucson. They can ship any book that’s currently available online. You get personal service, from a real person, and they appreciate your business during these times when they can’t be physically open.

It’s also available at Barnes & Noble and Amazon.

— Carolyn Kinsman (June 1, 2020)

FABIOLA

by Perry R. Wilkes

 

Everybody in Playa Tiburones seemed to notice when Fabiola came to town, although it was hard to figure whether it was the women or the men who noticed her first. She was a strikingly good-looking woman, a bit younger than most of the retired ex-pat women in town, certainly too young to be 'retired' in the usual sense of the word, and everybody seemed to take an interest in her. The word on the street was that she was single, which seemed to generate a mostly negative interest on the part of the women. And among the men, the level of interest was something approaching the fascinated fear that a man might feel at the brink of a precipice where the mind is saying, "Crawl slowly back from the edge." while some primal bodily urge is screaming "Go ahead and jump! This could be your last chance ever to feel the exhilaration of living life to the fullest!" 

"Flabiola" is what the women would have liked to call her, so they could cut her to the bone with a simple nickname, but they couldn't call her that since she ran about five miles every morning on the beach and resembled a gazelle more than she resembled any of the other women in town. So "Fabulosa" was the name a few of the women branded her with. The word was that Fabiola was half-Mexican and half-'American,' whatever that meant, since the Mexicans also considered themselves as part of the 'Americas.' Ruth Cosgrove came from Iowa farm stock, and she said the name and everything else about her was "... pure made up." in the way they say things like that on farms in Iowa so that it comes out sounding like the 'honest-to-God truth.' The truth is, Ruth didn't really know any more about Fabiola than the other women, but that's what they were all thinking and she said it first, so it stuck as one of those 'truths' that live forever in small towns and are the reason many people move away when they graduate from high school.

    Fred Carson was one of the first of the men to notice Fabiola. He was a widower with a decent pension and enough money in the bank and his IRA to pretty much do what he wanted for the rest of his life, as long as he didn't waste it. He had a decent-looking house on the beach, although it wasn't exactly a mansion, and a older-model 28 foot fishing boat that he could take out to the islands for an 'overnighter' whenever he wanted to. He also tried to get down to the local 'Gringo Club,' as the Mexicans called it, for the morning "walking aerobics" session three times a week, when he wasn't out fishing, so he wouldn't be tempted to stay around in the house by himself for more hours than he should. He was determined to stay in decent enough shape to get the most out of his retirement years, and he enjoyed the company of his 'fellow-sweaters.' The majority of retirees in Tiburones did what they could to stay in semi-decent shape and make the most out of their final years. 

    The morning sessions at the Club were also popular because they were part of the informal 'Tiburones Telegraph,' where people passed on bits of information – call it gossip, if you have to – about the weather, other residents, changes in Mexican regulations, etc.. They also passed on tips about how to find Pancho the electrician, or Nacho the plumber, when you needed them, since neither one had a phone and they were usually working somewhere around town. The walking aerobics and the Club's friday night "Social Hour" helped Fred stay in touch with his fellow ex-pats. 

    He had seen Fabiola run past his place a few times while he was dressing for aerobics and he usually reached for his binoculars and watched her as she went by. Sometimes she would stop running and walk about a mile before running again. She looked to be in her late 40s to early 50s, as best he could tell from a distance. Fred had heard the old phrase, "There's no fool like an old fool," and she was at least ten years younger than he was. He knew that's what most of the women in town were thinking, especially a few of the single ones who'd invited him to dinner a time or two. He knew that many of the married women saw Fabiola as a threat to their husbands, and the widows would see her as unwelcome, and even unfair, competition for the few desirable men in town. But Fred hadn't met anyone else who had interested him as a partner in the four years he'd lived in Tiburones. 

    As he stood there by the window looking down the beach at Fabiola receding into the distance, Fred thought to himself, "I only just started collecting Social Security, so I'm really not all that old." "I'm a long ways from dead, yet." And, "If not now, when?" He also thought, "The hell with what those old biddies think!" 

    One Tuesday morning he walked down to the water's edge and tried to appear like he was just admiring the view. He looked up just in time to watch her race by and he just had time to shout, "Hello." She half-turned and said "Hi" over her shoulder as she ran onward on the flat hard sand margin along the waterline. He watched her race away for just a little longer than was probably decent as he admired the way her loose jogging shorts hugged her nicely-rounded body. He caught himself and looked away before any of the neighbors caught him staring. The whole beach was wide open and most people began their day with coffee overlooking the water, or going for long walks along the beach. He hoped he wouldn't already be food for the gossip mill, but he knew that was probably inevitable in this town. 

Velma Parsons took a sip of her margarita and studied her cards. She was one of the regulars at the Tiburones Ladies Liquor League that met for cards, drinks, and a bite of lunch at Jose's Restaurante y Bar every Wednesday. It gave her something to do after her husband Bart passed away. The Ladies' weekly 'May I' game helped to keep her sharp. She looked up just as Carol Birch discarded.

    "I'll take that one." she said. 

    "You're supposed to say 'May I?" said Rita Johnson.

    "Oh, don't be so formal." Velma replied, "Anybody else want it?"

    Glenda Thompson, the other player at the table, shook her head, so Velma pushed one of her chips to the center, pulled that fresh 7 off the top of the pile and drew two more cards. Now she had a group of sevens, a pair of eights, and a bunch of junk in her hand that she still didn't know what to do with. She took another sip off the margarita while Rita drew a card.

    "Did anybody else see Fred almost throw his neck out of joint yesterday when Fabiola ran by?" Velma was Fred's next door neighbor and had been enjoying her usual morning coffee looking out at the ocean when she saw him appear on the beach. She'd thought it odd when she saw him walking toward the water, since he was rarely seen on that side of his house. When he wasn't out fishing, he was usually on the street side working on his car, or inside checking the internet weather on his computer.

    The other three pairs of eyes at the table looked up briefly, and then went back to silently studying their cards. None of them wanted to appear too anxious, but all ears were now tuned toward Velma.

    "Well, it looked like he said something to her, but she just blew on past him. He stood there staring after her for a while and I think I even saw him drooling."

    "A lot of men at his age drool." said Carol, "And they're incontinent, too!"

    "Are you talking about Joe?" asked Rita, referring to Carol's husband.

    "Exactly!" said Carol.

    "No really, from the look on Fred's face you'd think he was afraid he forgot where he stashed his Viagra." Velma pressed on, returning the conversation to where she'd started it.

    "Oh, come on." Glenda chuckled.

    "No, really. Then he turned around to see if anybody was watching him. He looked just like a guilty little kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar."

    "Or someplace else, maybe." added Carol.

    They laughed, and Glenda said, "Maybe this is why they call us the 'Beach Bitches.'"

    "Yeah, probably." Said Rita as she discarded.

    "I'll take that card." said Glenda.

    Fred stayed inside his house the next few days, so he wouldn't look too obvious. But then, on Saturday morning, he saw Fabiola standing at the water's edge watching flocks of squawking pelicans and gulls diving into the water. From his porch, he could see the dark school of small fish that stretched for about a hundred yards in the water just off the beach. She was surprised when he appeared beside her and said "Hi."

    "Oh, hi." she said, and glanced in his direction, "What's going on? What are the birds doing?"

    "That's a 'bird pile.'" he said, "They're diving on that school of small fish you can see there in the water. It's that dark mass just below the surface."

    "Really?" she said, "That just looks like the shadow of a cloud."

    "Yes it does," Fred replied, "but there isn't a cloud in the sky."

    Fabiola looked up into the piercingly blue and empty Sonoran sky, and then studied the water where the bird were crashing headlong, dozens at a time, into the surface. The excited squawking of a couple of hundred birds drowned out almost every other sound. It was difficult to understand why they didn't break their necks crashing into each other. Probably some did, now and then.

"We look for bird piles when we take the boat out fishing." said Fred. "Wherever there's a large school of small fish, it usually means there are big fish below. See that flash of silvery little fish over there, leaping out of the water? There's a big fish underneath feeding on them from the bottom and the small ones break the surface trying to escape. They're the basis of the food chain here in the Sea of Cortez. The big fish attack them from below and the birds get them from the top. Life's rough here if you're a little fish."

    "You have a boat?" asked Fabiola.

    "He took her out on his boat." said Velma, as she arranged her cards.

    "Who took who out on his boat?" asked Brandy Hansen. 

    She was a new girl at the table this week, just in from Calgary, Alberta. In Canada. Velma wasn't looking forward to going through all the rules again. She'd also have to fill in all the background on that story too, so she sighed and looked a bit exasperated. Brandy looked startled as if she'd already said something wrong.

    "Oh, don't worry about Velma." said Carol, "She's always glad to have a new audience. And anyway, you'll catch up soon enough."

    "Harvey said he saw them at the boat ramp on Sunday." Velma continued, "They went out to the big island. He said they didn't catch much of anything."

    "You mean he didn't catch nothin'." said Carol. "That's what Harvey actually said. He doesn't think they actually planned to do much fishing out there in the first place. But it sounds like she's caught herself a big one."

    "Yeah," added Glenda, "Looks like that trap she laid worked."

    "What trap?" asked Brandy. This was sounding too juicy to fall very far behind on.

    "That phony running on the beach in the skimpy jogging shorts." said Carol, adding,     "Anybody want that card?"

    "Yeah," said Velma, "I'll take it."

    "Why you little vixen. That's the one I needed." said Carol, as she waited her turn to draw.

    "Too bad," said Velma, "Today's just my day. I can feel it already"

    "So what are the odds on them showing up at the Club together for Happy Hour on Friday?" asked Glenda.

    "Probably pretty good." said Carol, "If they can stay out of bed that long."

    "Sounds like something I could use a little of." said Brandy.

    The other three heads swiveled to study the new girl.

    "Sounds like you're gonna fit in just fine down here." said Velma as she turned back to study her cards.

    "How do you play this game, anyway?" asked Brandy, with a puzzled look.

    It had been years since Fabiola had been in Tiburones. As she sat by the window looking out at the Sea she remembered her first visit when her abuelos brought her to the beach from the old adobe casa in a valley up in the mountains near Banámichi. She had been born in the Sierra and had always played around her grandparents' old adobe casa that had been in the family for generations. She had learned to feed the chickens and tend the garden, and she knew exactly where her food came from. She even remembered the day when she went to a tienda in town for the first time. There was so much food on shelves along the walls. Things she had never seen before.

    Now she sat and watched the clean crystal clarity of the green-tinted waves as they curled and fell onto the beach, and she remembered seeing them for the first time. They looked like jewels, frozen for only a moment in mid-fall before bursting into shards of glass that scattered the light and foamed onto the sand. She was glad she had returned. It just felt simple. It just felt right.

    For the next three months there wasn't much seen of Fred and Fabiola in Playa Tiburones. At least not in the usual places, like the Club. Some of the guys who go in to Hermosillo every Wednesday to play golf at the fancy Club Deportivo 'Las Palmas,' said they saw them on the course, and afterward at the Club restaurant. Others said they made several shopping trips to Tucson. And Frank Wilson, who works in Hermosillo running one of the machiladores said he saw them at Los Toros Steak House, where the wealthy of Hermosillo are often seen.

    "How would Fred even know about Los Toros?" asked Carol, "Must have been her idea. I heard she cut a broad swath through Hermosillo before she settled here. Damn, I sure needed that card you just took."

    "Too bad." said Velma, "You weren't quick enough."

    "No, but she sure was." said Glenda, "Fabiola, I mean."

    "Yeah, we saw them at the "Blue Marlin" the other night," said Carol, "And she looked like she'd just scored the Trifecta."

    "You actually saw them?" said Velma. "They sure seem to find ways to use up their time. Well, if you're just gonna let that card sit there, I'll take it."

    "Oh, damn." said Carol, "I need to pay more attention to this game."

    "Harvey said that Fred seemed to spend lots of time nuzzled up to her on the golf course, helping her get her strokes right." said Rita.

    "Oh, I don't think she needs any help getting her strokes right!" laughed Velma. "I think she probably does just fine in that department."

    "And with all that running, she manages to keep the 'playground equipment' in good shape." said Rita. "That's why all the guys are always so happy to see her. They like to sneak a peak at the 'possibilities.'"

    "Yeah." added Carol, "There's a lot of wishful thinking goes on in this town. As if any of the rest of them had a chance!"

    "I think she's part Cherokee." Said Velma. "There's lots of them back in Oklahoma. That's where she gets her exotic looks." Velma always said that about any other woman who had "exotic looks."

    "Who's turn is it?" asked Brandy.

    People hadn't seen much of Fred Carson at the Gringo Club lately. He and Fabiola had taken a long trip, and spent a couple of months across the border, so the Regulars were surprised to see him show up at Friday's Social Hour. He was alone. Don "Harley" Jackson was leaning on the bar waiting for a gin and tonic when Fred appeared beside him and ordered a Tecate, in a bottle.

    "Haven't seen you in a while." Harley said, "Where's Fabiola?"

    "She's visiting her mother in La Paz for a few days." answered Fred. "She's thinking things over."

    "Uh oh." said Harley, "Thinking things over?"

    "Yeah, things started moving a little too fast for her. She just needed to slow down."

    "Oh." said Harley. He figured he better just let Fred talk. If he wanted to.

Fred took a big sip off the cold bottle. "Yeah, she ran into a guy with a bigger one. Boat, that is. You remember that 80-footer that was anchored out here a couple of weeks ago? That's the guy. He keeps the boat at Cabo and flies down to use it. Got more money than all us put together. It's hard to compete with that."

    "Yeah, our thirty-year-old 25- to 30-footers look a little musty up beside that kind of shiny Gold-Plater." said Harley. "Sorry to hear it."

    "Yeah." said Fred.

Harley continued, "The girls was saying over cards the other day they thought she had been mixed up with that drug guy down in Sinaloa. The one in the papers about a month ago. The dead guy."

    "She didn't talk a lot about that, but she seemed pretty shaken by the news." said Fred, "I couldn't tell whether he was her ex-husband, the abusive one she talked about, or maybe a relative. That's why we took that long trip up the West Coast. I wanted to show her some things she hadn't seen before."

    "I bet you did." said Harley, with a grin. He took a long sip off his drink.

    "Oh no!" said Fred, "She saw that long before we left. I mean a few of the museums around LA, the Bay Area, the Redwoods, picking raspberries by the roadside in Oregon. That kind of stuff. She really liked the art museums, and picking those raspberries, while we watched out for bears. She's a country girl at heart."

    "Did you go to Vegas?"

    "No, we avoided Vegas. Her ex-husband took her there a few times, and she said she never wanted to go back. Said it was an empty place. No values. No meaning." said Fred, "I have to consider that a mark of character."

    Fred decided to continue, "Look Harley, overall, I had a good run. With a twenty year age difference for starters, I didn't really think it would last. As I got to know her, I realized she was coming out of a real bad spot, and I just tried to be decent to her. We had a great time together, and she's a really great lady. I didn't come out one bit smarter, and I don't regret a bit of it." 

    Harley nodded and studied his drink.

    Fred took a long sip on his beer. "When you gonna replace that Born To Be Wild tattoo on your arm with something more age-appropriate?"

    "Like what?" Harley asked with a sidelong glance.

    "How about Born To Be On Medicare?"

    Harley laughed. "Yeah, the 'wild' days are gone. I can't hardly walk anymore without this cane. Did you ever think it would come to this? A bunch of old guys on Medicare trying to live out their fantasies on a beach in Mexico? I thought we were gonna be "forever young.""

    "I feel your pain, Harley. I have to go back up to the VA every three months for more heart medicine." added Fred, "Say, what's the weather report for tomorrow?"

    "Seas are flat and the dorado are biting."

    "I'll see you at the boat ramp early" said Fred as he finished his beer and turned to leave. "It's good to be back."

    "I'll see you there." said Harley.

    Mid-afternoon a month later, Fred was home after another good morning of fishing. It was Fall now and the water had cooled enough that the dorado had left, but there were a lot of hungry yellowtail out there now, and they were good fish, worth going after. He pulled a cold Tecate from the fridge and stepped out onto the veranda to look across the placid Sea of Cortez glistening beautiful, and yet still mysterious in the brilliant Sonoran sunlight. He knew the Sea would always be a mystery to him, and that seemed to make life worthwhile. He could see just a bit of the Baja way out there, now that the air was drier with less sea-haze above the water. 

    Fred really liked that about the Fall and Winter here, when the temperature dropped and you could turn off the air-conditioner, and just listen to the Sea. It just felt more meaningful than most of the babble of life. And in the Winter you could look all the way across the Sea at those distant headlands, and the islands out there stood in such crisp bold relief it was hard to believe they were so far away. He leaned on the railing and took a long cold sip from the bottle, and reflected on how good life had been to him and how lucky he was to have some sort of decent pension that would allow all this. Then the phone rang. 

    "It's Fabiola, " the voice said softly and a bit tentatively, "Fred, can we talk?"

Hank and Thelma visit Huatabampito

by Perry Robert Wilkes

November '08

Hank unhitched the car and parked it at the side of the road, then he put the RV into reverse and carefully backed all 40 feet of it into the slot they'd been given for the night. He'd gotten pretty good at maneuvering the huge, bus-like vehicle since they bought it last year and this time he'd nailed it right down the center of the slot. He kind of felt he ought to get a gold star or something each time he did it perfectly, but that was childish and he knew Thelma would be quick to point that out if he ever mentioned it.

With the rig parked, it was time to explore the area a bit. This was their first visit to Huatabampito. There were only two other RVs in the place. The whole area was quieter than they'd expected. They got into the car and drove down the long sand road that led onward from the RV park, with the wide Pacific Ocean thundering onto the broad beach that lay to their right. The afternoon sun sparkled across the water like a million liquid diamonds and the November onshore breeze felt refreshing and cool after a long summer. Thelma stared at the diamond-like surface of the water while Hank drove, and wished again that she could capture it in paint. She'd tried many times but it just wasn't that easy to do. It was one of those things that separated the Masters from the beginners. She wondered if she'd ever get water right.

They passed a stand of coconut palms that swayed gracefully in the wind as only coconut palms can do. There were no more trees as far as they could see, nothing but a long sandy road stretching toward the horizon. They knew there was an estuary up ahead someplace at the end of the road, but they didn't know how far it was. Thelma had brought her sketch book, in case they found it. As in most places in Mexico, there was little signage. The local people didn't need signage to find the estuary, and they didn't think there was enough tourist interest to justify the cost. And even in places that were overrun with tourists, there seemed to be little interest in signage. It was one of the things that Hank especially liked about the country. In Mexico you had to be more self-sufficient and flexible than tourists who stayed north of the border.

Up ahead they noticed a vehicle on the road, coming in their direction. It was a white Jeep, that sped toward them and then past. It looked new, with Sonora plates. A youngish man was driving, with three girls aboard. Hank winced a little, to himself. He'd never had a new Jeep when he was that young. Especially one with three girls aboard. He'd been a working stiff who'd done things, more or less, as society had expected. He'd spent the requisite time as a rebellious young man, but he'd never had the money to be a playboy. Like that guy in the Jeep full of girls. He felt a twinge of jealousy.

The road led onward toward the estuary somewhere up ahead, and they drove toward it. Or somewhere in that direction. Hank glanced toward the ocean, broad and blue, and remembered his Navy days. For an Arizona kid, the Navy was a lifechanging experience. He'd never seen so much water before he arrived at boot camp in San Diego. And when they shipped out to Hawaii that time, and on to the Far East, it was days and days of nothing but water. And now, every time he saw the ocean, he still remembered the overwhelming vastness of it. It's impossible to understand the ocean, he thought, unless you've crossed it by boat or ship. 

They drove onward, through scattered leaves. Or something.... Wait, thought Hank absently to himself, that's a twenty dollar bill lying there on the sand. And another one, and another one. The road was covered with them. Hank braked to a halt as he and Thelma looked at each other with their mouths hanging open. What the...?

As they got out, Hank started picking up bills by the handful. He and Thelma looked at each other again, each searching the other for answers. Thelma picked up a blue zipper cloth binder containing a notebook that was lying open amongst the bills, and she thumbed through pages of carefully noted expense records. The cost for a hotel in Ciudad Obregón, a meal in Los Mochis, probably a couple of months of records, in spanish. By now Hank had counted about $6000 in twenties, which he arranged in piles on the back seat of the car, and he was still scooping up handfuls of them. After topping out at a bit over $10,000, Hank stood there and looked at Thelma.

"What do we do now?" he asked, as he glanced up the deserted road.

"Whose money do you think this is?" asked Thelma.

"How would you know?" asked Hank, "Who could have lost this much money?"

Hank realized he'd never had ten thousand dollars in his hands before. Actually right there in front of him. Right there, literally, in his hands. He realized he was breathing quickly, less from the effort of scooping them up than from the sheer adventure of the discovery. It was a heady moment that Hank was completely unprepared for. And neither was Thelma. A hundred thoughts went through their heads. Probably a thousand. Was it drug money? I mean what else could it be? OK, it could be somebody's vacation money. Or construction money, if they were gringos building a house in Mexico, like Hank and Thelma had done. But the notebook was all in spanish. What are the chances the notebook had fallen out of someone's car entirely separate from these piles of twenties lying all around it? If it's drug money, it probably has cocaine all over it. If we kept it, we'd be busted at the border by drug-sniffing dogs, if we tried to cross with any of it. Maybe they're all marked bills. And should we even keep it? Are we that kind of people? And if we were, would it put us into situations we couldn't begin to handle? Are we way over our heads here?

Thelma stuffed all the bills neatly into the notebook and zipped it shut. She put it on the back seat and threw a towel over it. They looked around. There was nothing but sand except for those palm trees in the distance. The road was deserted. Still, had someone seen them? Is there a reason why someone jettisonned the money?

They got in the car and drove on toward the estuary. They looked at each other for answers, for a plan. They drove for a while in silence.

"We really don't need this money." Hank finally said, "We don't know where it came from. We're doing fine without it. We don't need the trouble."

Thelma was relieved. That much loose money had scared her from the start. Had anyone seen them? They and that white Jeep were the only cars on the road. If it belonged to those guys, and they wanted it back, they'd have no trouble figuring out who got it. 

Hank and Thelma had retired to a modest house overlooking a beach in Sonora, about half a day's drive north of Huatabampito. They had a reasonable pension and Social Security to live on. Their living costs, when they stayed in Mexico, were only about half of their income. That left enough extra to travel on, now and then. They really didn't need anything else. They had a good life.  In fact, the whole experience had begun to turn a pleasant day's drive into a nightmare for Thelma. She suddenly felt the need to get rid of the money somehow. But how? If they gave it to the local Policia, it would likely disappear into a pocket or two. And worse, they'd probably end up in some kind of long-term legal hassle with the local cops. Every instance they'd heard of where a gringo had gotten involved with the Policia had turned out badly. Their Mexican friends and neighbors didn't trust the police either and avoided contact with them. It was a Pandora's Box they didn't want to open. They drove onward. Where was that damned estuary, anyway?

Hank slowed the car to a stop and stared straight out the windshield at the empty sand road ahead. "Do you want to see the estuary?" he asked.

Thelma took a breath and softly said "Not right now." Neither of them could focus on anything other than the $10,000 sitting on the back seat in the zippered notebook under a towel.

Hank turned the car around. So far neither of them had a plan. Maybe they'd just keep the money until they could figure out what to do with it. There didn't seem to be any other possibility. Other than just pitching it out the window where they'd found it, and letting somebody else deal with it. Maybe one of the poor local fishermen would find it and start a new life. Or maybe it would ruin his life. Like those idiots who win millions in the lottery and end up bankrupt a few years later. Having all that money sitting on their back seat had suddenly seemed like a very bad idea.

They drove back in the direction they'd come. Neither of them knew what to say. Hank noticed a car far ahead, driving slowly down the road toward them. Soon he could see it was the white Jeep. The girls were walking beside the Jeep, searching for something, while the young man drove.

"Pull up next to them." said Thelma.

Hank stopped next to the Jeep. "What are you looking for?" he asked.

The driver answered in a torrent of excited spanish, and Hank heard the word "azul," and he thought he heard a word he recognized as meaning "notebook," a word that Rosa, their housekeeper had used in reference to school supplies for her kids. Then the driver looked around at the empty sandy landscape, and added reluctantly and tensely, "¡Y mucho dinero!" 

Thelma needed no more translation. "Is this it?" she asked, and held up the blue notebook. Hank and the young man both looked toward her, their mouths hanging open.

"¡Oh sí, sí!" the young man answered and quickly opened it, noting with obvious relief that the money was still there. "¡Muchas gracias!" he said and paused for a moment in thought, eyeing the old retired gringos. Something about the way he looked at them made Thelma swallow hard. She wasn't sure why. She heard Hank take a deep breath. Then the young Mexican man quickly pealed off 5 twenties and handed them to Hank. "¡Muchas gracias!" he repeated. The girls climbed back into the Jeep and they drove quickly away.

Hank and Thelma sat there staring down the road at the disappearing Jeep, a thousand thoughts racing through their heads. Thoughts about what could have been. What they could have done with all that money. Whether they should have kept the money, after all. Yet recalling that steely look in the young man's eyes. But it was over now and the whole thing just needed a rest. There was still too much left to think about. They needed time to digest it. It had all just happened too quickly. Hank felt something like a chill deep in his spine. Slowly, they each breathed a sigh of resignation. Heavily mingled with relief. 

Hank finally broke the silence.

"You want to go see the estuary?" he asked.

"No." said Thelma, "I think I need a drink."

Adventures in the Gulf Stream

I've been "mining" Perry's writings from over the years and think there are quite a few you might enjoy!

For example, back in 1990, we did a bareboat charter in the Caribbean — our first real bluewater sail. And what an adventure it turned out to be! Perry wrote about it, and here it is in PDF form. Just click the link for it to appear on your screen. Enjoy! Download Adventures in the Gulf Stream There will be more to come. -- Carolyn

Jonathan

I was driving east away from the Mexican coast with the rugged outline of sun-blistered mountains rising above the sand dunes in my rear view mirror. I was on my way to the closest ATM which happens to be inland in Los Campos, about 50 kilometers away. It’s the nearest place to get a good rate on money exchange, so about every two weeks I drive thirty miles to get money. So do most of the other gringos who live here.

It was a bright sunny Sonoran morning in January and the sleepy fishing village of Playa Tiburones was awake and busy with the day’s chores. As I pulled away from the only stop sign on the main road through town I saw a slender Mexican man standing beside the crumbling pavement with his thumb out, waiting for the Costa bus or, better yet, a friendly ride. His clothes were old and worn, and not too clean, as is usual among working men here. I slowed and stopped just past him and he ran to the van. I don’t mind the thirty mile drive and I don’t mind driving alone and trying to understand the rapid spanish on the University station located an hour away in Hermosillo. But usually the morning programs discuss education, or health issues, or other topics I can’t follow well. So I often pick up hitchhikers on the way to Campos. They need a ride and I need to practice my Spanish at a more basic level. 

I leaned over to open the door and he jumped into the passenger seat.

“¿A donde va?” I asked

I asked the question in Spanish so he’d know I had some familiarity with the language, although the question itself was superfluous. Unless he worked at one of the farms or ranches down some side road, there really isn’t much of anyplace else to go on this stretch of highway except to Campos.

“Campos.” he replied with a friendly smile.

After he settled in, I pressed on the gas pedal and asked another question to keep the conversation going. 

“¿Vive usted en Tiburón Viejo?”

I assumed he lived in the old Mexican settlement and not along the beachfront where the rich gringos live. He looked at me quizzically and asked, “Do you speak English?” He had a raspy, cigarette and whisky kind of voice. He had no trace of an accent, and it was clear to him that Spanish was a second language for me.

The surprise must have registered on my face. I glanced over at him and briefly studied his dark weatherbeaten face, his stubbly chin, his dirty hat before turning back to watch the road. 

“Yeah. Some.” I said, stating the obvious.

“Well I couldn’t tell if maybe you were French Canadian or somethin’.” he replied.

He resembled another guy that I’d picked up a few weeks back, a scrawny Mexican farmworker who was dressed about the same. The farmworker was looking for a job in the fields of Sonora because they paid 100 pesos (about $9.00) a day, and they only paid 70 in his home state of Sinaloa. He had walked from Los Campos out to the coast to see about finding work with the fishermen, and he’d found nothing. When I picked him up he was walking back to town to ask around the large farms in the area. 

He was surprised and happy that a gringo would give him a ride, and that I was interested in his story. As we rode along he showed me a picture of his wife, his six beautiful young daughters, and his mother-in-law back in Culiacán. After six girls, they had finally given up trying to have a son. He loved his family and wanted to be back in Sinaloa, but had to leave to find decent work so he could feed them all. He was grateful for the ride in a clean passenger seat and not in the back of a dirty farm truck. He asked for nothing, but when we got to Los Campos I handed him 50 pesos to get some food.

At first glance this new hitchhiker had looked almost like the same guy. He was dressed in an old plaid cloth jacket, worn dirty jeans, and a dirty hat. He was wrapped tightly against a slightly cool breeze although the temperature was moderately warm, by gringo standards.

But this hitchhiker was different. His name was Jonathan and he lived in a little rented shack somewhere in Old Tiburón. He didn’t offer to say where and I didn’t ask, although as we spoke he was very forthcoming on most other aspects of his life. Surprisingly forthcoming, in some aspects. And when he said anything in Spanish, there was no gringo accent. I was puzzled.

“What brings you down here?” I asked.

“Well actually,” he paused and laughed tentatively, “I’m on the lam for a DUI in San Diego. They were gonna give me two years, so I split for this side of the border. I always liked the people here in the village. I didn’t think I could handle being in jail for two years.”

Surprise registered again on my face. I’ve heard my share of bullshit artists in my time, yet I detected none of that as I listened to him. He sounded like he was on the level with me. I was just surprised at his openness about things most of us would rather keep to ourselves. 

As we spoke, his story unfolded. He had lived his first ten years in the dirty mining town of Cananea in northern Sonora and then in an Hispanic neighborhood of San Diego. He was completely fluent in Spanish. He’d been back to Mexico many times over the years, and now he was living a minimal existence on a meager inheritance from his late parents’ estate. He had no money for a car, and barely enough for food and shelter, but he was getting by alright.

I told him my wife had once been hit by a drunk driver, so that DUI stuff didn’t sit well with me. He nodded and stared at the road ahead. It was my call. Would I stop the car and throw him out, or not? He patiently watched the road, waiting for an answer to the question not asked. After a pause, I said that at least he wasn’t driving down here, and maybe this was a good place for him to do penance instead of wasting the taxpayers’ money back in California. He wasn’t a big enough criminal for the authorities to waste time on him, I surmised, so they’d probably just leave him alone, unless they caught him on the other side of the border for some reason or other.

He stared at me for a minute, listened, and said nothing. We rode in silence for a while. I got the sense that counselors far more proficient than I had failed to reach him in the past. Since I don’t think I need to ‘save’ people when they seem to be making it by themselves, I also stopped talking, and stared at the road ahead.

In my travels I’ve noticed that Mexico is dotted with unfinished projects and failed enterprises. This part of Sonora is no exception. They show up here and there on the road to Campos. Due to his long association with the area, I thought Jonathan might be a reasonably well-informed source of answers to questions I had about a few of them. 

“I’ve been wondering” I said, “what the story is with this old empty building on the left. Do you have any idea?”

“Actually no. I really have no idea. It’s been there a long time, though. Looks like it’s probably been empty for the last five years or so. I sure wish I could tell you, but I just don’t know anything about it.”

It seemed to be the first time Jonathan had ever noticed that vacant dilapidated building standing stark against the empty desert. It almost screamed to be seen, for the efforts of the builder to be not so easily forgotten. I remembered it clearly from our first visit here ten years ago and it looked old then. I tried again a few miles down the road.

“This place on the right looks like someone had some grand plans, don’t you think?”

“You know it sure does. I don’t know what they had in mind there. Maybe a restaurant or something. It’s really too bad. It looks like it could have been nice if they had finished it. But I just don’t know.”

Still no luck. I tried again a few miles later with a different subject.

“Those plants beside the road look a lot like castor bean plants. I suppose they could be left from a time when castor oil was in demand and a lot of these abandoned-looking fields were probably planted with them. What do you think?”

“Well you know that probably does make sense. I bet that’s probably true. I just don’t know what those plants are. Could be castor bean plants, I guess. I don’t know too much about plants. Actually I never noticed them before.”

Every couple of miles for the rest of the trip I’d ask a question or venture an opinion just so I could hear Jonathan say, “You know, that’s probably true. I just don’t know what the situation is with that, and so on...” I was fascinated by his apparent complete lack of interest in his surroundings. Over the years he had managed to perfect a long and circuitous way of saying, “You know, I actually don’t know anything about that, and I really don’t even care.” I have rarely encountered another individual who seemed so totally devoid of innate curiousity, who lived so completely in the moment.

Jonathan was on his way to the bank in Los Campos to see if more money had been deposited in his account. He needed to make a withdrawal at the ATM to pay some bills. The lady at the local farmacia in Tiburón could provide him with small amounts of money on his credit card, but she didn’t keep much cash around. None of the local merchants did. It was also far less expensive to withdraw cash at the bank ATM.

When we arrived, the dusty main street of Campos was abuzz with activity, as it always is. Heavy trucks carried produce from the fields, peddlers wheeled taco carts along the shoulder of the road, groups of school children wearing Catholic school uniforms and multicolored backpacks walked to or from their half-day sessions. We stood in the ATM line with workers, peddlers, and small merchants drawing out just a few pesos for the day. The contrast between rich gringos and poor Mexicanos is nowhere more apparent than in line at the only ATM in a small Mexican town. 

On the first of each month there’s always a very long line of retirees drawing their monthly allowance, their Seguro Social. A good photographer or novelist could read the history of Mexico in the creased faces and gnarly hands of the people waiting for their payments in those long ATM lines in every city and town throughout the country. I once made the mistake of being in line on the first of the month and had to wait about an hour to get to the machine. The old campesino just ahead of me was a handsome man, wearing a clean, if frayed, shirt and simple straw hat. We struck up a conversation. He told me he gets 1500 pesos a month for retirement. Most Americans have a hard time living on a social security payment of 1500 dollars a month, about ten times what this man had to look forward to. 

On the way back to the coast I heard more of Jonathan’s story. His dad was a successful engineer who installed ore crusher equipment at the mines in Cananea. He had four brothers who were all successful businessmen. One of them has a vacation house on the beach in Tiburón, although he doesn’t appreciate Jonathan’s infrequent visits to the house. 

Jonathan was clearly the black sheep of the family. His brothers don’t approve of his friends, but to hear him tell it, that hasn’t had much of an effect on him. The money he was expecting hadn’t arrived in his account. I left him at the stop sign when we returned to Tiburón and he headed down one of the dusty side streets for home.

On another day and another trip into Campos, I see Jonathan standing by the road again waiting for a ride. He doesn’t seem to recognize me when he gets into the van, but at the sound of my voice he realizes who his ride is. He explains that he doesn’t see well without his glasses, which he managed to lose recently. 

“I can’t find them anywhere. I was telling one of my buddies” he explained, “that I needed to get to Hermosillo and get a new pair of glasses. And he said, ‘No you don’t. They’re at my house.’ And then I remembered that’s where I was when I passed out from drinking last week. The problem is, I don’t know his name. And I don’t know where he lives. And without my glasses, I can’t find him. I walk up to guys who look about like him and I squint at them, and they think I’m weird until I explain the problem.” 

I begin to think that maybe his brothers have a good point about not liking his friends. He rides to Charrito to see if his money has arrived yet. It still hasn’t.

A week later, on a bright Sunday morning, I ride my bicycle over to Old Tiburón to watch a baseball game between the local “Bravos” and the “Mayos” from Los Campos. The Bravos used to be the Tiburones, or sharks, but they got a good deal on some shirts that read “Bravos” so they changed their name. When the Mayos don’t show up, the Bravos use the afternoon for batting practice, and I leave to ride along a few dusty back streets and pause at interesting little homes I don’t see when I drive a car through the old village. Some of these people have done wonderful things with a little concrete and a paint brush. I realize how much respect I have for their ability to make a decent life, and keep their kids in clean clothes for school, while they live in cardboard shacks. And some shacks, crudely decorated with cheap painted designs, show the undefeatable spirit of an artist within.

Then I start the long ride back to our place on the beach. It’s a sunny day and there’s a slight headwind. The azure sea is topped with small waves that break gently on the shore. After a few miles of hard peddling I stop to study some of the houses that line the road. I rest in the shade of a well-proportioned entryway fashioned of cantera stone, trucked up from Jalisco in large pieces and carved by local backyard craftsmen; in the next block I pass a nicely planted courtyard with tall coconut palms, their long graceful fronds clattering in the light breeze; a few blocks later there’s a bold red wall that resonates in this land of strong primary colors.

Once in a while I pass someone walking along in the parking lane or waiting for the Costa bus to come by. The parking lane is safer than the crumbling sidewalk where you could easily break a leg or run into a low tree limb. I pass a dark, wiry fellow who looks vaguely familiar but continue on for half a block, until I realize it’s Jonathan. He’s standing by the road again waiting for somebody, or something, or maybe nothing, really. Driven by, I guess morbid curiousity, I can’t help but wonder what he’s waiting for. I pull up and circle back. 

Turns out he finally figured out where he was when he passed out last week and lost his glasses.  

“I talked to the guy and he said he’d be here in half an hour, and that was an hour ago.” he says with an exasperated laugh that has now become familiar. It sounded like the nervous laugh of the perpetual victim —victim of his own devices and many years of poor choices. Life’s a bitch when you have no money, no prospects, little respect, and there’s no good reason anyone’s going out of their way for you anymore. At least anybody who knows you well. 

So I share a noncommital laugh with Jonathan, wish him luck, and make my way onward down the road back to my house. He doesn’t need my help. He has far more highly developed coping skills than I’ve ever managed to acquire. He’ll be fine.  I realize that, deep down, I’m envious of his multi-cultural agility, his well-honed ability to transcend social and ethnic cultures, and survive. As I ride away I have a feeling I’ll see Jonathan again, waiting for a ride somewhere along the road to Campos.

The Paleontologist

Nacho was not the first to notice the strange vehicle that entered the village that morning as he was in his workshop carving a delicate design into a headboard for a wealthy lady from the city. It was Pablito, son of Pablo the gardener, who had first seen the mud-encrusted truck with the placas from ‘Meecheegan.’ Pablito was not sure where that was, but he had a feeling it was far away from the village. He watched as it turned down a dusty side street and stopped in front of the casa where Rosa Marquez lived.

A young, bearded gringo stepped from the car and stretched his arms, then he stood for a moment before walking to the heavy vine-covered gate into the courtyard. A large tree inside the courtyard provided some welcome shade as he stood for another moment studying the heavy gate, almost as if he was afraid to touch it. Then he inhaled deeply, reached up to grab the bell cord, and gave it two short tugs. The loud crisp sound of the old brass bell broke the morning quiet and seemed to announce his arrival to the entire village. He swallowed nervously and glanced at Pablito and a few of the other kids standing together under a tree on the other side of the road. They all stared back at him.

This scene, of dark brown children in ragged clothes against old adobe walls, was one he had imagined many times, and now he was actually here, in the heart of it. He couldn’t help feeling there was something so, well, ‘authentic’ about it, but he knew that would sound terribly naive to his professors. He smiled self-consciously and nodded before turning back to face the gate. On the other side, he could hear Señora Marquez set down a heavy skillet and make her way slowly from the kitchen. The gate swung open and a tiny woman gave him a quizzical look.

“Perdoname Señora, yo soy Matt Cohen.” he said in his best college Spanish.

Señora Marquez said nothing and studied him as he nervously continued. He explained that he was sent by Professor Jackson of the University of Michigan Department of Anthropology. Do you remember Professor Jackson? He was here last year and spoke to you about me coming to interview you?
Señora Marquez pursed her lips as she tried to remember. There was a gringo here last year, but she didn’t recall his name, and she wasn’t clear about what this new gringo wanted, but he seemed to indicate he’d like to come into the courtyard and talk. She beckoned him toward a chair under the tree and closed the gate behind him.

The casa of Señora Marquez was well-known to Pablito and his friends, but they had never been inside it and they stared past the open gate, which was rarely ever opened, into the secret courtyard. It was said, some of their aunts had said it, that she was a bruja who mixed strange potions in her kitchen, and they should stay away from there. Pablito suspected they just said those things to keep kids from going far from home after dark. But he couldn’t be sure, and so he always stayed a safe distance from the casa de Señora Marquez. And he never went down that street after dark.

After the gate closed, Pablito walked on down the street and turned at the corner, to his job cleaning Nacho’s workshop and helping to build interesting pieces of furniture. He worked there every morning and attended school in the afternoons. There was always lots of sawdust on the floor, mingled with those small and delicate curls of wood that fall from the work of carving. He swept and dusted everything to start each day, and he mixed it with dirt and kitchen waste to put on the garden later in the year. Nacho was a wise man who believed in using everything.

This morning as he worked, Pablito told Nacho about the strange gringo in the dirty truck from Meecheegan. Nacho continued to carve and asked him to describe the gringo and he proceeded to tell about the very light skin, the reddish beard, the clean bluejeans, the heavy lace-up boots. Pablito was used to Nacho’s endless questions and he tried to be thorough. Sometimes, when Pablito was describing a scene or event, it seemed as if Nacho had been there instead of Pablito.

“Was he left-handed?” Nacho asked.

Pablito paused searching for an answer until Nacho smiled and winked and prompted him with another question.

“Which hand did he ring the bell with?” he asked quietly.

“The right one!” grinned Pablito.

“Was he wearing a belt? Tell me about the buckle.”

“I didn’t see the belt.” Pablito admitted defeat. He’d been beaten at this morning’s game.

“Ah well. It’s probably not an important detail, anyway.” said Nacho, “Except that, if it had a big shiny buckle, he’s probably a boisterous person.”

Pablito thought for a moment that this gringo was probably too quiet to be boisterous, and so his buckle was probably not big and shiny.

Pablito returned to work, thinking quietly to himself. The morning passed quickly, Nacho handed Pablito his usual 20 pesos, and he went off to school. He knew that Nacho didn’t really need him to work there, but Nacho believed in education and told Pablito that as long as he stayed in school, he could keep the job. It was a good job, too, that gave him enough money to buy a new book now and then, and an ice cream cone sometimes after school. On the way to school he noticed that the gringo’s truck was still parked in front of the casa de Señora Marquez.

In the morning, Pablito was surprised to see the gringo’s truck parked in front of Nacho’s workshop. He entered quietly so as not to disturb the discussion, but Nacho saw him and said, “Ah, this is Pablito, my helper. Pablito, this is Matt Cohen from Meecheegan.”

Matt Cohen put out his hand and said, “Mucho gusto en conocerle.” in a very strange accent.

Pablito smiled shyly and shook his hand before beginning his duties for the day. Nacho spoke his Spanish slowly and clearly so the gringo could understand and he seemed to be speaking just loud enough for Pablito to hear every word. Pablito felt he was meant to listen closely to the conversation, so he did.

It was late morning when the gringo thanked Nacho for his time and left in his truck, and this time Pablito was filled with questions. Nacho began slowly carving the headboard again as Pablito gave him a puzzled look. “I can see you have many questions.” Nacho told his young helper. “That is a good thing.”

Pablito asked why he told the gringo those things when he had told Pablito something very different. Nacho continued carving while he spoke.

“Señor Matt Cohen has come a very long ways to study our indigenous culture,” he began, “and he should not go away disappointed.”

Nacho carefully explained the term ‘indigenous culture’ to his young friend and Pablito replied, “But you’re not from this area originally. You’re from Mexico City, aren’t you?”

“Yes I am.” Nacho replied. “Did you hear me ask what Señora Marquez had told him?”

“Yes, she said that she has seen you often gather shells and seaweed by the full moon,” said Pablito, “and that it’s an ancient custom of the people because the good energy is concentrated then. She said you return to the house to make magical potions while everyone is asleep. That you have some of the strongest magic in the village and that she knows she’s safe as long as you continue to collect the shells and seaweed in the moonlight, just as the old ones did.”

“And what did I say to him?” Asked Nacho.

“You told him it was true. That it was indeed the way of the ancients.” said Pablito.

“That is all true. And what did I tell you, my friend?”

“You said you go out under the full moon because of the incredible beauty you see there when the light is reflected from the waves. You take a bucket and gather shells and seaweed in the quiet time. You call it ‘a gift from the sea.’ Then you rinse it well and dig it into the garden for added calcium.”

“That is also true.” said Nacho.

Pablito was puzzled.

“My young friend, each of us is our own indigenous culture.” Nacho continued, “When I studied anthroplogy at the National University in Mexico City, I collected much data about ‘indigenous peoples’ and I put it all down on paper. When the stack of paper was thick enough, they filed it away in a large library where it will never be seen again, and told me I was an expert with the right to place important titles after my name. But later in life, I found that much of the information was untrue. Although it was not purposefully wrong, it was slanted by individual viewpoints, and did not apply to the entire culture I had spent all that time studying. Suddenly I felt that I had only earned the right to study life perpetually. The more I learned, the less I became an expert on anything. Each question I answer leads to a dozen more. It’s all simply part of the beauty of life.”

“Shouldn’t you have told the gringo that Señora Marquez is wrong?” asked Pablito.

“But Señora Marquez is not really wrong, although that’s not the way you or I might see it. She is old and needs to believe those things in order to feel safe. Who am I to say she’s wrong?”

“But what about the gringo? He’ll go away with strange ideas about us!”

“Yes, and he’ll put it all down on paper, they’ll file it in a large library, and they’ll call him an expert, too.” replied Nacho, “But he needs that title to continue in his carreer and why should I deny him that?”

Pablito sighed and looked away, deep in thought. Then he returned to sweeping the shop.

©2005, Perry Robert Wilkes

The Strange Saga of Frances' Tile Saw

I hope Frances doesn’t find out what happened to his tile saw. At least not soon. I know it’s inevitable, but I need more time to get my explanation together.

It all began when Frances, our seasonal neighbor two doors to the east, was kind enough to lend us his saw for our major remodeling job. It’s one of those big things that sits on a platform and uses water to cool the blade. It’s the kind of saw real professionals use, and it made our tile work far easier and more, dare we say it, ‘professional looking,’ than we ever expected.

Over the course of several months, we had cut a large number of tiles for various floors, walls and countertops, and were about halfway through tiling the beachside veranda when the saw began to make some surprising and discomfiting noises. It sounded like bearing problems, and we suspected that maybe a few other things were going wrong deep in the bowels of the beast. There was also the issue of the floppy blade guard held by a carriage bolt that had worn a groove into the aluminum housing; it now tilted precariously to the right and the nut was rusted solid to the bolt making it impossible to tighten. It leaned over so far that the blade was eating a long arc into it, adding yet another note to the increasing noise level. We finally jammed a small piece of word into it in an effort to keep it more or less level and free of the blade, but the time had come for some basic repairs.

It’s a blistering-hot Friday morning in July when we decide to load it into the van and drive the 110 kilometers to Hermosillo on one of our many hunting-and-gathering trips for construction supplies. We buy as much as we can in the ferreterias (hardware stores) of Kino, but we keep a list of things we need from the big city. With a population over 1 million, Hermosillo has most anything we can imagine we might need, although there are exceptions. And there’s always something we need to add to the list – usually on the way back to Kino after we forgot to get it in Hermosillo.

This particular hot Friday is another in a long string of record-setting days. Outside the windows of our air-conditioned van the daily life of Sonora continues under a broiling desert sun. Vendors stand at major intersections in long pants, long-sleeved shirts and hats, trying to hide from the sun as they sell nopalitos (chopped cactus), duraznos (peaches), abanicos (fans) or whatever else the market will bear. A friend of ours who works for the local gas company told us Hermosillo is the eighth-hottest city in the world, only slightly behind the other seven. It’s the main reason they don’t sell much gas for heating down here. On this Friday, a temperature of 46 degrees C° (about 115 degrees F°) is predicted.

We pull into a tool store to see if they repair large tile saws and are given the name of Juan Carlos at Taller ‘Fimbres.’ He seems to be the “go to guy” for repair work and they recommend him highly. We call his number and find that his shop is at 72 Callejon Nogales, near Avenida Jose S. Healey (named for a prominent person whose family owns the daily newspaper). We head in that general direction while scanning the map to locate this particular callejon, or alley. Although it’s listed in the index, it doesn’t seem to appear on the map. We finally locate a short, un-named alley that runs for two blocks just south of, and parallel to, Avenida Healey, but we arrive to find it named Callejon ‘Healey.’ We drive the entire area with no luck, and I joke, “Oh, everybody knows that Callejon Healey is really Callejon Nogales!” We have actually heard that sort of explanation before.

After more fruitless driving, we stop at a local tienda to ask the whereabouts of this elusive alley. Shopkeepers know their neighborhoods well; they sometimes need to make deliveries, and they know where their credit customers live. Carolyn goes in to ask while I wait in the car with the air conditioner running. Heat waves are shimmering above the street several blocks ahead of us. She emerges a few minutes later smiling wryly. “He said ‘Oh, everybody knows that Callejon Healey is really Callejon Nogales!’” Seems the name was changed a few years back and nobody has put up a new sign. In the scheme of budget priorities here, replacing incorrect or missing street signs ranks near the bottom. Add to that the custom of changing street names at the boundary of each new colonia, or neighborhood, and it makes for some interesting excursions in search of an address. But this is the sort of thing that never seems to strike the local people as unusual. It’s just the way things are.

We finally arrive at 72 Callejon Nogales, which we had actually passed a few times before in our search. Juan Carlos is sitting in a broken chair with a large spool of bright copper wire on the floor beside him, hand-winding an armature out of an electric motor. He’s a young man, sporting a small pony-tail, and there is some very good latin jazz on the stereo. A large fan is blowing hot air across his sweaty body. There are used electrical parts and pieces scattered on the floor and covering several shelves that line one wall. A pair of old couches and a sort of kitchen stand across a large room just beyond several large boxes of old, worn-out drills. To the far left there is a makeshift bedroom. He turns off the music to take a quick look at our saw, saying he’ll need a day to get it apart and give us a price for repairs.

We leave it with him and, after a few more errands, it’s time for lunch. Often we’ll go to one of the little sidewalk taco stands for some delicious fish tacos, but today we’ll splurge. We stop at the ‘Boulevard Café’ on Boulevard Kino near the Zona Hotelera (the Hotel Zone), a nice little place that would stack up against most restaurants in the US, and it’s also well air-conditioned. I order the huitlacoche crepes and Carolyn has the quiche of the day. It doesn’t get much better than this. Outside, a man washes our car for 30 pesos. In this dusty environment, it needs washing. And he needs the money.

We go on about our errands, including the purchase of a pricey new saw blade to replace the old one that wore out and started chipping the edges of the tiles. There are also problems with the water cooling system, but we think we can fix that. The little plastic ‘y’ connector that directs water to both sides of the blade has fallen apart after many years in the sun, and Carolyn duct-taped the 1/4” plastic mangueras (hoses) together to keep the water flowing. It was ugly, it leaked badly, yet it worked – after a fashion. But it was time to look for a replacement. We take the pump and the taped-up hoses into a ferreteria and ask for a replacement ‘y.’ We’re not surprised there’s no such little plastic part available locally. But Mexicanos are very resourceful. The counterman pulls out a 1/4” copper elbow and a copper connector – the kind used on swamp coolers – and suggests we have a soldaduria (welding shop) weld it all together. He laughs and calls it a ‘Mexicanada’ just as a young woman walks by. She reproaches him for using that term, and he looks properly contrite as she walks away frowning. But he smiles and winks as we leave.

We look for a place that might specialize in such connections, and end up at Mangueras Ponce. They have every imaginable kind of hose or tubing and they’ll make up almost any kind of connector we need, but they don’t have any little plastic ‘y’ fittings. Instead, they suggest using an inexpensive 1/4” copper ‘tee,’ and it fits perfectly. We buy one and a few extras for spares, along with a couple meters of 1/4” plastic tubing for further repairs. Frances’ saw has done a lot of hard work for us and we’re ready to repay the favor by putting as many things as possible right again. After a long hot day of assorted other errands, we head for home.

On Saturday, Juan Carlos calls with what he assumes is very bad news. The saw needs new bearings and brushes, and the armature needs cleaning. And yes he can fix the wobbly blade guard that was also causing problems. But the cost will be, he hesitates to say it, 600 pesos (about $US55.00).

We’re relieved at what sounds like a reasonable price for a major reconditioning job, and tell him to proceed. Juan Carlos is pleased that we’ve taken the news so well. The saw will be ready on Monday, and he’ll be at the shop at 4 pm, after finishing various ‘on-site’ jobs around the city. The timing works for us. It will be our last stop before heading due west on the narrow Kino highway well before sunset. All is well.

Over the weekend we find any number of jobs to keep us busy – we work in the early morning and late afternoon to avoid the exhausting heat – but are very much looking forward to getting the saw back so we can continue working on the veranda. The details are coming together very nicely and we’re anxious to see it finished. After eight months of continual construction, we’re anxious to see anything actually finished.

On a very hot Monday we head back to Hermosillo. Besides picking up the saw, we’ll take care of a few left-over errands from the previous Friday. The heat wave continues and we’ve heard that this is the hottest summer since they started keeping records sixty years ago. By early afternoon, the A/C fan is at its highest setting. At four o’clock we pull to the curb in front of Taller Fimbres to pick up the saw. Juan Carlos’ wife is at the stove, trying to fix dinner in the heat as several fans move hot air through the room. With a flip of the switch the motor surges quietly into life. A set of new bearings and brushes and a reconditioned armature have worked wonders. The saw is spray-painted and looking better than we’ve ever seen it. And the blade guard no longer flops to one side. Juan Carlos proudly shows us that it is now welded to the frame to eliminate any further such problems. It’s a very simple solution and I briefly wonder why they hadn’t done that originally, back at the factory. Then I remember that the blade guard is hinged in order to change the blade. Now there’s no way to install our costly new blade. I gently explain this to Juan Carlos, and he is crestfallen.

We realize that somehow cutting the blade guard loose again will mess it up pretty badly and create other problems reattaching it. We study the situation for a better solution, or at least just a workable one. Hacking off the lower part of the guard to allow the blade to tilt and slide outward seems to be the only way to accomplish our goal, but we’ll need to leave the little nipple where the water hose attaches. It suddenly appears likely that instead of returning this tool in better shape than when we got it, we might instead be buying Francies a brand new, and very expensive, tile saw after we get through butchering this one. An old saying goes through my mind, the one about the road to hell being paved with good intentions.

To my surprise, Juan Carlos sets to work with a drill. He drills a number of holes on an arc and attempts to cut sideways to connect them. After he’s created a god-awful mess, and broken two drill bits, the word Mexicanada comes to mind. I suggest we go to the guy who did the welding job in the first place. At least he’ll have some proper metal-working tools. We hope. Juan Carlos calls the welder on his cell phone, then gives us the name and address, and he discounts his price by 50 pesos in an attempt to make amends. There is a palpable look of relief on his face as we drive away on the next leg of our latest adventure.

The welding shop is a small metal shed and a shade structure. The yard is filled with car parts, motorcycle frames, and various other detritus. A huge Freightways semi-tractor sits astride the driveway. Reluctantly, we leave the cool comfort of the van to discuss our problem with Horatio, the welder. The air outside the van hits us like a blast furnace. Horatio agrees the only solution is to continue cutting away the blade guard with a metal grinder. While there is no way the saw is going to look even as good as it did just a few days ago, at least it now has the possibility of not being left with jagged and dangerous edges.

Horatio’s brother José Luis, who owns the semi truck, sits under the shade structure enjoying one ice cold cerveza after another. As the afternoon temperature hovers at well over 100 degrees F°, it looks like a rational way to deal with the shimmering heat of Hermosillo. He offers to share his chilled liquid provenance, but we decline. We still have a long drive back to Kino after this ordeal is over. Over the din of Horatio’s grinding, José Luis tells me that he used to haul loads “en el otro lado,” (on the US side of the border) but now he prefers to drive the Hermosillo to Mexicali route, through Caborca. Other than beer, driving is the love of his life. He also owns the brand new, and very large, Suzuki motorcycle parked beside the truck, and enjoys riding it through the streets of Hermosillo after downing a few cold beers. Horatio, who is sweating over the saw while we talk, is a motorcycle racer, and the trophies on the back wall of the storage shed are his. He’s modifying a motorcycle frame clamped onto the workbench to get ready for the next race season.

Horatio grinds and shapes the edges, but the blade still won’t clear the water nipple. There’s some discussion of shortening the axle that carries the blade but that sounds like a bad idea. Instead, he grinds an angle on one side of the axle to allow the blade to clear. It appears to be a safe solution to the problem, one that still allows plenty of attachment for the blade. We finally load Frances’ now significantly-modified saw into the van, Horatio wipes the sweat from his face, and I pay him 150 pesos (about $14US) for his time, plus another 50 pesos to buy José Luís some more beer. The sun draws near the horizon and we begin our long drive home with the sun in our faces, obscuring the road.

In the morning Miguel, our builder, has a couple of his strong young workers lift the heavy saw onto its platform. He looks at the butchered blade guard and shakes his head. After we tell him the story, he smiles wryly, as he often does, and mutters the word ‘mexicanada’ as he walks away to deal with the morning’s construction-related problems. A couple of his crew took yesterday off, a practice referred to here as ‘San Lunes' (Holy Monday), and there’s much work to do today.

We remove the battered blade that came with the saw and it comes off easily now, thanks to the angled axle. Then we carefully unwrap the pricey new saw blade and fit it to the axle. Well almost. There’s a one-inch diameter hole in the center of the blade but the axle measures only 5/8.” This is not normally a problem as saw blades always come with inserts of various sizes so they fit a variety of tools. But not this one. There are no inserts to be found in the package and there’s nothing around the house or garage that will suffice. There may well have been a little baggie containing inserts in the package at one time, but the package was not sealed and the baggie was probably “liberated” by someone with a similar problem.

At this point, I do the most logical thing. I ask Miguel if he might happen to have something that will fit. Mexicanos generally assume that this is how the world works, that there will be no inserts in the package, and I think I already mentioned they are very resourceful. He replies that he probably has something at the house that will fit, and indeed, when he returns that afternoon he has a suitable insert. With the insert in place the saw works as well as it probably did when new, and the replacement blade makes beautiful cuts. We are ready to finish the veranda.

Except that the heavily modified blade guard now throws out considerably more water than before. Carolyn duct–tapes a piece of heavy plastic along the side to extend the edge down to where it was before the butchery began, and the water again behaves itself. The new water skirt isn’t pretty, but it works just fine.

We call this final ‘improvement’ a “gringanada.” I can’t wait to hear what Frances calls it.

©2005, Perry Robert Wilkes

(This is a sad, but true — if somewhat amusing — tale. You might also want to read Perry’s latest fiction piece, The Palaeontologist, just posted. – CK)