Mexican life

The patio with no name

bench1

bench2

whole

bench

THROUGHOUT MY recent struggles with a head cold and a very bloody nose, the guys continued toiling in the yard. They have finished.

The scraggly, 15-year-old, stone-and-concrete Jesus Patio has been replaced with a sleek, sturdier surface that includes a concrete bench topped by talavera tile. The labor ran me the peso equivalent of about $600 U.S., and the material totalled about $350.

But the old name, the Jesus Patio, inspired by a zealous workman’s unsolicited placement of a Christian cross on the patio’s surface, no longer applies. The cross is gone. Forgive me, Jesus!

I need a new name, and I’m open to suggestions. I’m leaning toward something that has to do with Buddha.

The Odd Pot

Stark raving mad

THINGS HAVE flown out of control above the Rio Bravo since I departed. I hope I am not to blame, the lack of my stabilizing presence.

Every morning, on reading the Gringo news online, I get one new shock after another, and it seems to be worsening.

A few days ago, a teacher in California banned holiday candy canes in her class because they’re shaped like a J, and that could stand for Jesus!

Oh, dear.

thThese loony events are legion in the United States, but you do not encounter them in Mexico.

Of particular note is the sex insanity. A subset of that is letting men who are posing as women play in women’s sports. Of course, the fake women always win, and the real women always lose.

Muscle matters.

The most recent example is a guy named Hannah Mouncey who is playing for Australia’s Women’s Handball League, whatever that is. Yes, this happened in Australia, but similar things occur in the United States.

Hannah Mouncey is 6 feet, 2 inches tall and weighs 220 pounds. The women he plays against are, well, not even close.

This lunacy is almost, or probably entirely, confined to the historically white world, the United States, Canada, Australia and Western Europe where, not coincidentally, political correctness runs amok.

Latin America does not do this, nor does Asia or Africa. It’s a mental disease of the White Man’s World.

The ability to think rationally is necessary for a functioning society, and rationality is vanishing where it matters most. This must make China very happy. Don’t underestimate the importance of that.

 

Edición dominical

Ride to Ucazanastacua

It’s also the road to Cucuchucho.

WE LIVE IN a beautiful area, and some spots approach spectacular, but you have to know where they are.

One is the road to Ucazanastacua.

Yesterday, while my child bride was gossiping downtown with visiting relatives, I decided to take a jaunt.

As you may know, we live near a huge, high-altitude lake. There’s a two-laner that circles that lake, and it’s a nice ride.

But there’s a nearby route that’s relatively unknown. It does not circle the lake, but it abuts it for a spell in a spectacular manner. It reminds me of Route 1 along the Big Sur coast.

Up until about eight years ago, this road was primarily unpaved, consisting of dirt and potholes, only marginally usable. In the rainy season, it was mostly mud.

Then it was paved. It remains, however, little used even though small restaurants are appearing along the way.

I snapped this through the Honda windshield. Lake is to the right.

What the above photo doesn’t show clearly is that along much of the drive, it’s a deep drop-off down to the water. And look! No traffic. On a major holiday weekend.

I did not notice the post till I got home and downloaded the photo. Silly me.
Somebody’s home down thataway.

Being Easter weekend, I spotted a number of crosses along the way. They were decked out in purple crepe paper. The below is not a cross, but it was there for Easter.

Not a cross but an arch.

I stopped at an overlook, rolled down the Honda window and shot this brief video. Bob Dylan was crooning on the car’s music machine and competing with the sound of stiff wind.

I never did get to Ucazanastacua. A sign pointed down a steep road to the water’s edge. I did go through Cucuchucho, however.

And that’s your brief tour for the day. Leave tips in the jar on your way out. A joyous Easter to you Christians. To you Jews, shame on you for what you did! Tsk, tsk, tsk.

No Easter eggs for you people.

Edición dominical

The bedroom

bedroom

THIS APPEARS to be a bedroom. There’s the antique bed that’s been neatly made up. There’s an armoire to the right.

And an apparatus to repair flat tires rests in the foreground, and an electric welder sits between the bed and the armoire which has a picture of Jesus attached.

Someone repairs auto tires and does welding to boot. It also appears to be Home Sweet Home.

The bedroom/business is open to the street. The only thing separating it from the sidewalk is an old, chain-link fence. There’s a makeshift roof overhead. A good night’s sleep would be a challenge beneath rain, lightning, thunder.

Strung vertically is a line with cloth that can be pulled down to make a curtain to hide the sleepyhead from people passing by on the sidewalk late at night.

I snapped this photo through the chain-link fence. There was no one home at the time. Or at work either. It was late Friday afternoon. Perhaps he was out for a beer.

Odds are that this fellow is not married. He appears to be a hard worker. Neat too. He makes up his bed.

And he believes in Jesus.