Mexican Election 2012 In Some Ways No Different Than 2008

Enrique Pena Nieto

Victory goes to Enrique Pena Nieto, of the Institutional Revolutionary Party (PRI).

Although Andres Manuel Lopez Orbador once more claimed he lost because of electoral corruption, at least it wasn't a repeat of 2008, when for 48 days the former Mexico City mayor lead street protests and demanded that all votes be recounted.  

With the PRI back in power the question is, will the party once more place a stranglehold on the country, stuffing ballot boxes, bribing the poor for votes, using whatever means at its disposal to squash all opposition, and generally making a mockery of the democratic process?

Slightly buried is the fact that Mexico is politically divided. It wasn't a landslide victory, Pena Nieto had a 6 or 7 point lead against Mr. Orbador, and garnered only 38 percent of the vote.

In Mexico, the economy grows, at least in part, due to cheap labor. The poor have been left behind. Under the conservative leadership of President Felipe de Jesús Calderón Hinojosa, who leaves office in January, Mexico's economy has flourished, but the poor have gained no ground.

Has the old PRI been replaced by the new PRI? Old PRI cronies did much to put Mr. Nieto in power. He is first and totally a political animal who decided at a very young age he would be a successful politician. A proficient chess player, in truth he is a man without a specific platform, other than winning. What kind of president will he make? Why did people vote for him?

I think, because bribery is so common in Mexican elections, people were urged to keep their vote secret. Many took this seriously and would not discuss whom they voted for and why. PRI supporters who did discuss their vote had pleasant memories of the repressive regime that brought enduring social programs such as universal health care and old age pensions. Most believe this Mexico is more sophisticated than the Mexico of the 20th Century and that it is no longer possible to repress the people.

The future becomes the present, and so it is that in the future we will know what the return of the PRI to power brings to the Mexican people. Today's present accuses the PRI of vote buying and several recounts of ballots are occurring ~ nothing new, same old, same old.

Mexican Economy on the Upswing?

Originally, my plan was to write about Hurricane Carlotta, which struck Puerto Escondido on Friday, and brought a great deal of rain to the city of Oaxaca. However, an article in the New York Times regarding Mexico's economy turned my mind in another direction.

Photo Credit: Mexico Today

This past Monday and Tuesday, President Filipe Caderón, in Los Cabos, hosted the G-20 countries. Seventeen years of macroeconomic stability, low inflation, manageable debt and an open economy, so it was reported, helped Mexico move ahead of Brazil to become Latin America's fastest growing economy.

In recent years, Brazil was portrayed as a nation headed for greatness, while Mexico appeared trapped in its bloody war on drugs. One would tend to believe Brazil safer. However, Brazil's homicide rate tops Mexico's. The particularly brutal killings and the involvement of the army draws attention to Mexico's plight.

Mexico competes with China, meaning it is an exporter of manufactured goods, such as computers, televisions, and automobiles, exporting 78 percent into the United States. Its an economy that welcomes foreign investment, which more often than not means United States companies moving their plants south in search of cheaper labor.

Although I'm delighted that Mexico is doing well, it’s the same old story. Multi-nationals move their production plants to where labor is cheaper, and export the products made to affluent parts of the world, which of course means, more often than not, the United States.

If Mexico progresses, collects more taxes to create a sounder infrastructure, improves labor laws and unions succeed in ensuring the people receive a fair deal, will the economy fare so well? Should the economy depend so heavily on exports to the United States? How long can American consumer continue to buy products when they no longer have jobs and their credit has run out?

Noisy Mexican Tardiness

On Saturday, my friends Joan, Cheryl and I were going to an organ recital in Yanhiutlan.  Joan came close to cancelling. 

The scene through
 the archway

She lives in Huayapam and there were festivities going on last week. The thing is, there's always festivities going on everywhere and somewhere in the state of Oaxaca.  Granted, most Mexican like to party, but I suspect it is particularly true here because this is "the face of the nation."

Anyway, a drunken Mariachi band held an impromptu concert at 3 a.m., and decided to hold the concert right outside the property where Joan and Doug live.

Around 6 a.m. the concert ended, but all was not quiet because fireworks began.

"I forgot to write about the fireworks," I said, referring to my recent blog on the sounds of Mexico.

"How could you forget the fireworks?" my companions asked in unison.

"I don't know."

the organ we came to hear,
and didn't

The organ recital was scheduled to begin at 1:30 p.m.  We arrived on time.  The church in Yanhiutlan is a grand beauty, and I was particularly impressed with the view displayed through the archway.  We waited an hour, eventually giving up on the organ concert. 

The people of Mexico enjoy their beer, mescal and tequila, and enjoy their music.  What they refuse to be, outside of work situations, are people who pay attention to time.

When my friend Gandhi was married we were to be where the wedding was taking place at 2:30 in the afternoon, the ceremony would be at 3:00 p.m.  Well, even the bride and groom showed up some time long after 3 p.m.

Friday night Joan and Doug suffered the sounds of Mexico.  Saturday night it was my turn.   About 7 p.m. the party next door began, and continued until 6 a.m. the next morning.  I'm not sure, but I think university students occupy the apartment.

When I lived in Winnipeg, Manitoba, across the street there lived some frat boys.  Now my old neighborhood wasn't the kind of place where frat boys would be tolerated, and when they had a drunken bash the police were called to break things up.

My Oaxacan neighborhood is as up scale in a Mexican way, as my Winnipeg neighborhood was, but here noise is accepted.  In many ways the people of Mexico are very easygoing, or at least not confrontational.  And so, if a person lives here, there's really no choice but to adapt. 

Dead Guy in Chihuahua, Chihuahua, Mexico

This is my most dangerous Mexican experience.

City of Chihuahua - 2 1/2 hours
south of Juarez

When I lived in the city of Chihuahua, I lived close to Los Americos, which is a major thoroughfare.  At the intersection I walked to most days, there was a McDonalds Restaurant on one corner and across the street a Pemex gas station.  There was always a police car parked in the Pemex lot.

Across the street from the restaurant and gas station there was a drug store.  I went to the drug store almost every day to purchase bottled water, and frequently a small package of delicious chocolate covered cherry an alcohol mixture I've not found anywhere else.

I was on my way to the drug store when I noticed a man lying face down parallel to a vehicle. My first thought was that a traffic accident had just occurred.  But the vehicle he was lying along side wasn't damaged, and it didn't look like any other vehicle was involved in the mishap.

My next thought was that he had a stroke or something, and that had caused his accident.  But, the way he was laying, neatly parallels to the vehicle, didn't make sense if he had gotten out and had fallen on his way to get help.

My third thought, he had been shot.  I didn't have my cell phone with me, and so I couldn't call emergency.  Would anyone call emergency?  I sat and watched.  Two men with a cell phone got out of their vehicle and made a phone call.

I noticed, with interest, that the police car usually parked in the Pemex gas station wasn't there.  The street was suddenly empty.  Businesses in the area locked their doors.  The police arrived, cordoned off the area and asked me to leave.

For a while, whenever I needed a taxi I called a particular driver, I'll call him Philip.  When I told Philip about what had happened, he hadn't heard anything.  But, the next time we met he told me what he had been able to glean from his asking around.

He said that the man was an illegal after hours seller of alcohol.  There's a big alcohol problem in Mexico, and one of the solutions to the problem is to prohibit the sale of alcohol past a certain hour.  The dead man, who at first was only selling alcohol, was approached by one of the drug cartels.

 He was told that he needed to add drugs to his product line.  He had no choice.  Once he was doing business with one cartel, another cartel told him that he had to buy from them.  Talk about being caught between a rock and a hard place!  The man was a dead guy before he was actually shot.

There weren't any police in the Pemex station because they were informed that the hit was going down.

"How did the drug cartel assassin know he was going to be at that intersection at that time?" I asked.

"That's a good question, " Philip said, " don't know."

I came up with a theory.  Perhaps one of the cartels, the one that killed him, suggested a meeting at McDonalds. 

Philip thinks that the state of Chihuahua was better off before Calderon declared his war on drugs.  That's a story for another day.

Mexico Tightens Laws Regarding Cure All Advertisements

If you are living in Mexico, or you've vacationed here, perhaps you've noticed the abundance of television commercial espousing home cures for all sorts of ailments.

All that is about the end. This week Mexico introduced new legislation that will end "cure all" advertisements.

My brother, who had a rare and terminal cancer, died before his fortieth birthday. My father believed in naturopathic cures and discovered a clinic in Mexico that used coffee enemas to cure cancer.

Off went my brother, his wife, my mother and father to that Mexican clinic. At the clinic, my brother contacted dysentery and almost died. Nevertheless, upon returning to Canada, he continued the clinic's restrictive diet and coffee enemas almost until the day he died.

My brother was a dentist, and therefore had a better than average understanding of medicine. He knew he was going to die. His adherence to that cockamamie treatment was to please my parents.

When he asked my opinion on the treatment, I looked at the literature. It was 1987, and the literature was all from the 1940's. Well," I said, "it seems to me if this was a valid treatment there would be more recent literature."

Some of my Mexican friends, too poor to afford anything beyond bare necessities, spend, what for them, is a great deal of money each month on special concoctions. They believe these herbal mixtures will keep them healthy.

Mexico is a country that combines mainstream and alternative medicines. This isn't always a bad thing. I have restless leg syndrome and a Mexican doctor wrote on a prescription pad "walk one and one half hours a day." My blood pressure was a little high; an American trained Mexican doctor thought I should take medication. A Mexican trained doctor recommended losing a few pounds.

Medical advice that reaches beyond medications and surgeries can be beneficial. We don't always live healthy lives. But, when a person is really sick unproven cure alls are dangerous.

A Whole New Meaning to the Words Christmas Money

About three and a half weeks ago, I used the Mexican postal service to send cheques to Canada. I now realize that if the postal people knew I was mailing cheques, they wouldn't have allowed it. The cheques aren't in Canada yet. Perhaps, they'll never get there.

No problem, I went to MailBoxes Etc. For $1,400 pesos, they would gladly send my envelopes to Canada. It would take 2 to 3 days to reach their destination.

But, when the polite young woman found out they were cheques, she refused to send them. In Mexico, a cheque and cash are the same thing, sometimes.

My next attempt to get the money to Canada was by way of PayPal. I live in Mexico, but have a Canadian credit card. What this means is, a Canadian PayPal account won't work, because of where I reside, and a Mexican PayPal Account won't work because I don't have a Mexican credit card. After a long conversation with a very polite PayPal representative; who works in Mexico City. I came to understand that I can't be a PayPal customer. We were speaking Spanish. He was very charming, polite and long winded. I was cranky, and didn't have much patience for politeness. In case you've never experience overwhelming politeness, it's very time consuming.

I reached the tail end of my ideas. And so, I telephoned my friend Joan. She is a former New Yorker, who deals with the TD bank. She told me that her bank send cheques to family and friends for birthdays, etc. I'd add Christmas, but Joan is Jewish.

I phoned my bank. That service isn't offered. But, I could do an email transfer. The first bank representative I spoke with told me that I needed the transit number, institution number and account number in order to transfer money from my account to some else's account.

Since I have three people to send money to, I thought, at that point, I needed three sets of banking information. I tried reaching my son, my nephew's girlfriend and my cousin.

Neither my nephew's girlfriend nor my nephew have bank accounts. Strange, but true. But, my nephew's girlfriend's sister-in-law has a bank account. I told her the information I required would be on her cheques. She doesn't have cheques. She telephoned her bank and got the information. Are you lost, or are you following me?

I went online and discovered that the information the first online banking person gave me was incorrect. I don't need the transit, institution and account information. But, since I had the information, the second online banking staff person checked. Apparently my nephew's girlfriend's sister--in-law deals with a credit union, which may or may not be part of the system the banks are using to transfer funds between accounts utilizing different financial institutions. So far, I've been unable to reach her again to ask her to check with her credit union.

I'm not going to bore you with anymore details. Let's just say, I'm on day two of my attempt to send Christmas money to Canada. It's a learning curve, that's for sure. So far, no confirmation on whether anyone has been able to get their money. Each transaction is at a different stage.

Day three has arrived. No one is ever home when I call. No one seems to be checking emails or going to facebook.

Oh well, maybe I'll just keep the money.

Canada: The Country that Works

For those of you who regularly read my blog, you know that I’ve been travelling a lot, and generally I’ve been travelling on my own.

Because I’m alone, I get into conversations I would otherwise have not been involved in. I learn a lot talking to strangers. And as the saying goes: “They tell you, don’t talk to strangers, but once you’ve talked to someone they are no longer a stranger.”

In September, when I was in Rome, Italy I very much liked Piazza Navarone. In fact, it was one of the few relaxing places I found in the beyond words chaos of the central part of the city.

If it was at all possible, I ate my midday meal in the piazza. One day I got into a discussion with my waiter. He was a very interesting man, who, like me, considers himself a citizen of the world first and an Italian second. Well, not exactly like me. I’m a citizen of the world first, and secondly a Canadian.

“I’ve been to eighteen countries,” he told me. “And of all the countries I’ve been to the only one that works is Canada”

For eight years he owned a business in Cancun, Mexico, I don’t know what type of business, but I’m guessing a restaurant.

One day some thugs came into his business and told him he needed to pay protection money. “You’re strong arming me? I’m Italian, we originated this caper,” he said. Then promptly sold his business and headed for Canada.

When he arrived in my homeland he showed the Canadian Border Services Agency his Italian passport and his Mexican residency papers.

The whole thing looked pretty suspicious to the Canadians, and they held him for twelve hours before they were satisfied it was okay to allow him into the country, for six months, to visit. Then he had to leave.

He was impressed with the diligence of the people who guard Canada’s borders, he was impressed with how law abiding Canadians were, how clean the country was, how everything . . .well. . . .how everything worked.

At the end of six months he did what he had to do, he left.

It's Only Money . . .But

“Eventually all the Mexicans ask for money,” my friend Geri said.

“I have no money,” he told me.

“All right, I’ll do for you what I do for my son,” I said, and went to get a pen and a piece of paper.

“I need to tell you something. I’m not a sheep,” he said. The words that followed escape me, and so do the details because culture is a strong barrier to communication. What I understand is that he’s a teacher in the public school system. It’s a good job. The Mexican teacher’s union is the biggest and most powerful union in Latin American. Still, he has no money.

The newspaper union I was a part of for twenty-two years sought memebers and grew. There is strength in numbers. His union splintered, and he chose to go with the opposition group, and he’s paid a price. His hours have been cut in half. “It’s only money,” he tells me, and hopes I’ll give him some of mine.

It’s his cause, not mine. Pen in hand, I pry, ask for details, add up his expenses and his earnings, each month he is $830 pesos short, at a bear minimum.

“Perhaps you should join the other union.”

“You want me to be a sheep?”

“I don’t want you to be anything. You don’t have enough money and I’m not supplementing your income.”

“Give up your room in the city.”

“I can’t sometimes I have to teach early morning classes and it’s along way from my village to where I teach.”

The conversation goes on. His situation is impossible.

“It’s your problem, not mine,” I tell him.

I leave the room and go into the room that contains my cash drawer, and pull out a $500 peso bill.

“Here. This isn’t a loan because you have no money to repay me. It’s not enough. It doesn’s solve your problem. You’ll need to figure out how you’re going to do that.”

He tells me I’ve helped. He tells me he’s never sat and figured out his expenses compared to his income. If he had I’m sure he would have understood why he never has any money.

March 5 - Agua Azul

I’ve been paying to go to the bathroom, sometimes 5 pesos, sometimes 3, and at other times 2. Never any soap to wash my hands and only rarely a toilet seats. Oh well. I wish I’d remember to carry a bottle of anti bacterial gel for hands.

Water, water and more water with beautiful pools to swim in. Paradise with extreme poverty. What if there weren’t tourists? Would life be better for the people who live here?

March 4 - Palenque

One of the reasons I booked into the Mayabelle is because it is within walking distances of Palenque. I walked to Palenque’s museum, which is 700 meters down the road, and arrived fifteen minutes before if opened for the day, so I decided to visit the ruins first and then return to the museum.

I asked a man sitting on a bench in front of the museum how to get to the ruins. “Take the collectivo,” he said. pointing at the shelter at the road.

“I prefer to walk,” I say.

“No, don’t walk, there are robbers, it’s dangerous.”

I’ve seen people jogging, others walking I’m wondering just how dangerous it can possibly be.

I walked up to the shelter where a man wearing a blue shirt, carrying a clip board and looking official was busy working at something. I asked him if it’s dangerous to walk to Palenque’s entrance. He tells me it is. I take a collectivo, and give the driver ten pesos.

At the entrance there were an uncountable number of guides, each with identification badges around their necks, all shouting, pushing, anxious to get their first tour of the day. I don’t like taking guided tours. At first I just kept saying, “No thank-you, I don’t want.” But, I return to the guides. Their obvious desperation is poignant. Randomly I hire a guide. It costs $300 pesos. He walks fast, a one person tour lacks the profitability of a larger group. Along the way I stop to read the plaques. He obliges because he has no choice. After he left me to my own devices, I walk back to the hotel for lunch.

I return to Palnenque after lunch, this time I walk, no collectivo because I don’t believe it is dangerous during the day when there are many tourists, guides and tourist police milling about.

Palenque is many ways is no different than the ruins of Monte Alban or Chaco Canyon All tell the story of lost cultures that were great in their time. The great and lost cultures of North and Central America have much in common with Egyptian culture, tombs, valuables buried with the leader, including sacrificed victims needed to ensure servants on the over side.

Guiness Book of Records

Mexicans seem to like setting world records, the largest sweet bread, most people kissing simultaneously, most people dancing to Thriller - all recent Mexico city accomplishments.

Oaxaca has the world's largest tortilla.

Saturday Morning Grocery Shopping

The mercado opens at 8 am. It takes less than an hour to walk to the mercado, buy my fruits and vegetable and walk home.

I don't buy the chickens or the bread or anything else that's sold at the mercado, but I buy all my fruits and vegetables from one stall.

I have a crush on the merchant who operates the stall, he's handsome, helps me pick out my fruits and vegetables and understands my Spanish. He's a fine fellow.

It's fun going to buy my fruits and vegetables because when I leave my apartment I never know what I'm going to buy, and sometimes I ask what something is, buy it, try it, and most of the time like it. The photo is this week's supply. It cost me 80 pesos ($6.52 Canadian)

You have probably never tried sapote - it's the brown awful looking fruits you see in the photo. I've had black sapote last week, but this week he has brown sapote. The brown is sweeter, but doesn't have the interesting texture of the black. The black sapote is like eating pudding that nature made. It's a tropical fruit that doesn't ship well, so I doubt it would be available in the north.

The cactus like fruit is called Chayote. It is classified as a fruit, but replaces potatoes at a meal. It's boiled, peeled, sliced and fried with onions and cheese.
In the north of Mexico I could shop at either Al Super or Soriana. Here in Oaxaca I can shop at either Soriana or Chedraui. There isn't a Walmart, but there is a Sam's Club. I don't shop there. Mostly I go to the Chedraui, it doesn't have as many North American products, but I don't care about that. It is cheaper.

I never shop at Chedraui in the evening, it's insane. It wouldn't be so bad if the people who run the store didn't fill the busy aisles with boxes of stuff making it impossible for two carts to pass each other.

There are none of the small baskets that other supermarkets have, so no matter how little I'm purchasing if I can't carry it in my arms I need to negotiate a big cart down aisles piled with boxes of stuff. And then, when I've made my purchases, I have difficulty placing them on the conveyor belt because the fools who manage the store put more stuff where my cart ought to be.

The plastic bags they put the groceries in fall apart and I need double bags. To save plastic trees or something, I use cloth bags. Most of the time I have no trouble taking my bag into the store. Today the security guy tried to tell me I couldn't take my bag into the store. I told him I could. All he needed to do was tag it.

My grocery bill, and as you can see from the photo, includes wine and chocolate bars, came to $178.91 ($14.58 Canadian) It's a good wine. I've blogged about it previously.

Next stop - a marvelous french bakery - but they wouldn't let me take a photo.

All my jeans are falling apart. I bought three pair from my friend Ruth, who operates the boutique in front of the property where I live. In total, all three cost $735 pesos ($60 Canadian dollars)

After shopping I went to the Zocalo for breakfast. I ate my favorite, Ranchero huevos, a large glass of orange juice and a cup of coffee. It's an expensive restaurant so breakfast cost around $5 Canadian. Then I went to the museum that was once the governor's palace. It's always free. Has many temporary exhibits and many permanent ones.

Day of the Three Kings - January 6

Three Kings Day bread

I don't recall seeing anything like this in Northern Mexico, but then again I'm not the most observant person on the planet. But, if it exists in the north I don't know how I could have missed it. In the supermarket and in the bakeries there were thousands of large red boxes, with "tradiccion de reyes" written on them.  Inside the box was a sweet bread moulded into the shape of a wreath.

I asked the proprietoress at the lavanderia I do business with what it was all about because she had one of these sweet breads sitting on her counter. She told me there would be big fiestas in the city that evening. Why I asked. She didn't tell me, perhaps she didn't know, or didn't want to explain because my Spanish isn't very good and she doesn't speak English. I don't know and wasn't too concerned because I could always google to find out.

Google I did. January 6 is the day, so the story goes, that the three kings came bearing gifts to the manager. Another day to party, another day for children to receive presents.

My Family and how we communicate

For those of you who have been following my blog since its inception, you will recall it began with the idea of documenting the life of a woman in the last age of her life.

I haven't drifted far from the original premise because I'm still documenting my life, and I'm still in the third age of my life. However, I've made many radical changes, and that's what I've been writing about.

I haven't written much about my family, but the time has come to do so.

My mother died a few years ago, after being diagnosed with a grade four cancerous brain tumor. During her illness I was back and forth between the west coast of Canada and my home in Winnipeg. I was there when she died. She lived a long life, almost her four score years.

My father, a man who never liked me much, was impossible during her illness. He knew there were things wrong, and he consented to seeing a geriatric psychiatrist. The MRI indicated damage in the frontal lope of his brain, which explains the emotional outbursts he has always been prone to. Also, the psychiatrist suspected Huntington's Disease. The Huntington's research center at the University of British Columbia confirmed the doctor's suspicions.

My father was to go to the research center for annual check-ups. He refused. My father lost his driver's license. After a disreputable driving instructor took a ton of my dad's money my dad realized he would never get his license back. He blamed the people at the testing bureau. I won't tell you what my father called them, but my father is the most fowl mouthed person I have ever met. He drove anyway. Eventually the police impounded his car.

It's been a downward slope, but because he has lived so long with this devastating disease, most people with Huntington's don't see their fiftieth birthday, his slide into hell has been slow.

This July, when I was in Nanaimo, I contacted the community health services and requested they reassess my father. He promised he'd let them into his apartment.

Today I received a facebook message from my cousin Brenda Lea, "You should call me", it read, "everything is o-kay, but you should call me."

The communication system within my family is very disjoined, about as good as smoke signals. I pretty much knew what had happened. My Aunt Jeanette had some sort of contact with my father, Brenda Lea, who is in close contact with my aging Aunt Jeanette, found out what was going on and thought I should know about it.

I called Brenda Lea and she told me her story. My father's landlord called my Aunt Jeanette because she was the contact in an emergency, and there was an emergency. The trouble is, my Aunt Jeanette can't handle emergencies. My cousin Brenda Lea got involved when she paid Aunt Jeanette a visit. By the time Brenda Lea got involved my dad's landlord had been making desperate calls to my aunt's house for three days.

My father had a plugged toilet. He tried to fix the toilet but in the process flooded his apartment. The water leaked into the apartment below. My father wouldn't let anyone into the apartment. The landlord didn't know what to do. Brenda Lea convinced the landlord he should use his key to get in, after all my father might not be o-kay.

My father was o-kay, sort of. The toilet was inoperable, there was feces on the floor, my father had stepped in it and it was all over the carpet. As a business man the landlord was appalled, but from the human side of things he felt sorry for my dad.

The crisis center of the community services are now involved.

My cousin called my sister-in-law, my sister in-law called her son, her son called my son. My son called Brenda Lea and told her he had everything under control, because by the time the smoke signals had travelled village to village my son did have everything under control because when I left Nanaimo his name and phone number were listed with community services as the contact.

I contacted my son via facebook. We'll talk tomorrow. It's not easy for me to make international calls. I ought to download Skype. He sent me the link to the assisted living facility he's arranged my father to move into. He's also assured me he's working with assistance from the crisis center. I'm proud of my son, I'm sure he's handling everything very well. But, I wish he would keep me in the loop.

My son is a story for another day. He's had his shares of ups and downs, mostly downs, but anyone who can rid himself of crack cocaine cold turkey, without help and stay clean for over two years can do about anything.

And he has been clean because he's tested from time to time.

Mexico - The Good, The Bad and the Ugly

Lately I've been reading a lot of articles posted on an electronic magazine called Mexconnect. Generally, the web site is written by American ex patriots living in Mexico, and written for people who are either foreigners living in Mexico, or people thinking about moving to Mexico, or vacationing here. Collectively the articles have romanticized Mexico rather than giving a true picture of what it's like for a foreigner to live in this the farthest north, and dare I say, most North Americanized Latin American country. There's the good, the bad, and the ugly.

I'll start with the good. The cost of living is much cheaper. I pay $4000 pesos for a very nice bungalow situated at the back of a well maintained garden. Once a week housekeeping, a television with about fifty channels, high speed internet, and all other utilities are thrown into the bargain. $250 pesos, which is an exorbitant amount of money by Mexican standards, will buy a fantastic meal, two glasses of wine included, in Oaxaca's classiest, as far as I'm concerned, restaurant. Some things are more expensive like cosmetics and electronics, but with food and shelter being so inexpensive I can easily save enough to take a once a year trip up north to buy those expensive things at a cheaper price.

The weather is ideal.


Chihuahua


Although Chihuahua, where I first lived, has a harsh climate with cold winters and hot summers, it is not the bitter prairie cold of the north. So, when the Mexican people living in Chihuahua commented on how cold it was, on the cold January mornings when the temperature hovered around 0 celsius, my reply was always the same, "You don't know cold." After all, I spent many years in the harsh Canadian prairie climate where 30 below celsius is an almost typical January morning. Besides, in Chihuahua, I knew that by mid-afternoon the temperature would be a rather pleasant 16 celsius, and I'd be shaking my head as I walked by the school yard where children would be dressed in winter jackets, scarves, toques and mittens.

Zacatecas

Zacatecas, the place of cold, because it's 8,000 feet above sea level, was cold when it rained when I took my mid-May trip to this picturesque city of pink stone buildings and it's silver. But, it was cold like I needed a sweater, not a parka.

Creel


Creel, high in the mountains, was bitterly cold one day, the only day, so far, during my Mexican stay, when I wished I had the lining zipped into my Canadian manufactured winter jacket. But, for the two previous days of my February visit to Creel, I was comfortable wearing a light jacket in the morning and a short sleeved T-shirt in the mid-afternoon sun.

Oaxaca 


Oaxaca, where I now live, is the place of eternal spring. Well within the tropics but at an altitude of 5,000 feet, it's never too hot, and it's never cold. Right now we are in the throws of the rainy season, which means generally the day starts with beautiful sunshine, and then the clouds come. By about 6 p.m. we get a welcome downpour which cools and refreshed everything.

Friendly People


Another good thing about Mexico is the people, they're nice. They just are. In Chihuahua everyone offered a smile and a good morning or good afternoon. Here in Oaxaca people seem more serious, perhaps shyer. But always eager to help when the opportunity to be of assistance arises.

Friendly people, beautiful weather, cheap and comfortable living what more could a person want?

The Bad


Now for the bad. Dog shit. I try not to look at it. I try not to step in it. The other day I actually watched a man pick up after his dog, I clapped and shouted, "Bravo." He smiled. He's the only person in Mexico I've seen pick up after his dog.

Well on the subject of animals. Stray dogs and cats wander the streets, and it seems like every household has at least one dog. They bark. If you can't tune out the noise, it can be so annoying, it will send you packing. There's the other noises too. The gas trucks with their strange noise of identification, like nothing you'll hear anywhere else, the hawkers on bicycle with rigged up microphones loudly announcing what they have for sale. "Stom- bo - lee" is the cry of one. "Ag-ua" sings another. It's a jumble of sounds. It's the music of the street. It's Mexico.

Some people don't think the abundance of graffiti is a bad thing, but I do. I'd be very angry if one of these so called artists scrawled all over my nicely painted building. The graffiti is everywhere. It's a mess.

Narrow sidewalks, or no sidewalks, in Mexico pedestrians get little respect. Here in the south it's worse than in the north. The vehicles stop atop the pedestrian crosswalks seemingly oblivious to the dangers they are creating for those of us attempting to get across the street.

Limited infrastructure, ancient buildings left to fall apart, vacant lots full of garbage, weeds and I don't know what else, but if a person can look beyond the weeds and trash, there is beauty. The gardens, the museums, the art galleries, the well kept houses, the people who everyday go out and scrub the sidewalk in front of their place of business, or their home. Mexico is a paradox.

The Ugly

Now for the ugly. There's a serious drinking problem. Down the street from where I live alcoholic men lie in a drunken stupor under the trees that line the sidewalk. They seem harmless, but also pathetic. They are filthy zombies oblivious to everyone and everything. They aren't alive really. They are the living dead.

Beautiful, quick witted, little children, who ought to be in school, support their families by selling chiclets in the town squares. Elderly women with no means of support either sit and beg on the sidewalk, or wander the streets with their hand out.

I suspect some of the American and Canadian ex-pats living in Mexico, mostly us retired types, feel a little guilty because our lives are so privileged,  in comparison to the Mexicans  that are our neighbours and friends. Then there are the unspoken illegals from north of the border who seem to think it's their right to come to Mexico and criticize the country they are hiding in, but that's another story.

Chihuahua, Chihuahua Mexico

Being a homeless wanderer who takes airplanes and rents cars can be very expensive.  So is having grandchildren. In August, I watched my money fly out of my bank account.

I"m a conservative spender who doesn't like spending more than is coming in, and so, I sent out a couple of feelers, just to see how easy it would to find a job in Mexico.  The university with the name Canada situated in the state of Oaxaca  sent an application after I applied, but that was it.

While I was in El Paso Texas, getting ready to take the bus into Mexico, a small private language school in Chihuahua offered me a job after a twenty minute telephone interview.  I crossed the border into Mexico September 8, as planned, and I was heading for Chihuahua as planned.  The only difference was now I had someone meeting me at the bus station, and a free place to stay if I wanted it.

I've been here for one week and five days, I had originally planned to be here for two days and move onto Creel, a few hours to the West.

I have a pot garden, a room of my own with a bathroom and I've made a few friends.  

So far I'm teaching three classes.  My favorite is at Deloitte where my students are lawyers and accountants.  The children I teach are well behaved and cute but it's heard to say "listen and repeat" over and over and make it interesting.  I added a chant, marching song that seemed to go over quite well.  My third class is the most challenging.  Few of my students are on time.  The school is full and noisy when I'm teaching, and my classroom is the direct route to the kitchen.  

The kitchen is where testing is done, and where school supplies are kept, as other school staff walk through they apologize, but still continue to interrupt my class.  Oh well, I'll adjust.

Because the pay here is pretty good after I finish my year's stint I plan to travel through Mexico for a few months.  By then I'll be somewhat fluent in Spanish.  

Anyway, I'm now an expat living and working in the country of Mexico, in the state of Chihuahua in the capital city of Chihuahua.  Juarez is much bigger but the maquilas are what makes this town, and to be successful the Spanish speaking population must learn English.

Today Cela, our housekeeper/cook took me downtown by bus to buy a cloth bag because every time I go to the store I feel very guilty using plastic bags.  The bus cost 4 pesos and 50 centavos, approximately 45 cents Canadian money.

At one point an elderly man got on the bus with a guitar.  He played and sang  then walked down the aisle for money.  I'm wondering if he paid to get on the bus, if so the ride may not have been profitable.

The photos are of Chihuahua decorated for Independence Day, which was September 16.

Heath, one of the other teachers invited us to his church.  I took him up on the offer.  It was a great time with music, food and competitive mechanical bull riding.  After the party we went up on a hill to watch the fireworks.

Viva Mexico.