Mexico and Ode to Television
January 12, 2002
The lyrics to some old WWII song went something like:
“Nights are long, since you went away.
I dream about you all through the day.
My buddy, my buddy, your buddy misses you.”
And, that is how we sometimes feel about our satellite TV reception – which we don’t get deep in Mexico. Yes, for what it's worth, we have a satellite dish on top of our motorhome. Having seen no English-speaking news for a couple of weeks we wonder what is happening in the world. What we understand of Mexican news leaves us wondering what is happening outside of Mexico. “Futbol” (soccer) on Sunday afternoon TV provides some brief respite. The recent murders, governmental corruption, and auto accidents in Mexico City or the “Novellas” (soap operas) cannot hold my attention for long. Once you get behind the introduction by some young thing with protuberances that put the Sierra Madres to shame, there does not seem to be much there. So I pick up the book that my son Brian gave me for Christmas. I read and wonder exactly what of enduring value we get from most of TV anyway. I conclude that most is only mind-numbing entertainment. But when my mind is numbed by a long day and the almost 25,000 days I’ve spent on this earth, it seems soothing to turn on the TV and watch something that requires little or no mental activity. I remember Uncle Richard Heacock in his home in Harlingen a few months before his death. He could no longer communicate verbally but obtained some comfort by watching TV. I understand. But, of course, there is some good stuff on TV . . . .
I wondered why Brian would give me a book titled “The Masked Rider” by somebody named Neal Peart. Reading the brief synopsis, I find that Mr. Peart is a biker. Well, Brian is also a biker, so maybe his motive is to encourage Pat and me to ride bikes and camp in foreign countries instead of lazing about in a motorhome. But then one of Brian’s favorite rock bands during his youth was “Rush” and I read that Neal Peart is the drummer and lyricist of the band. Now, Pat and I are not great fans of “Rock” music, so what is the message here? So, I start reading and an almost instant connection is made with Mr. Peart. It’s not so much the story of his bike ride through West Africa -- the people he meets and his adventures. It is about the way the guy thinks – a sort of openness and integrity that blends so well with his finely honed communication skills. Brian was likely attracted to this book because of the similar interest that he shares with Neal -- music and biking. But apparently, he enjoyed the read and simply guessed that I would like the book too. If so, Brian you are correct. Thanks for the book!
Matanchen RV Park.
There was no sign in front of the park to identify it when we drove by. But a couple of motorhomes were seen next to the beach, so I pulled off and stopped. Art, the manager, came running out to greet us before we could get away. “It is a new park and we have lots of space,” he claimed. It did have nice open sites, a great view of Matanchen Beach and the new electrical connections suggested that we might have ample electricity – often in short supply in older RV Parks. The ground was bare and the park was adorned only with a few very small coconut trees which had recently been planted between the RV sites. But the view of the ocean and the mountains was exceptional. We hooked up and met our distant neighbors from Alberta, Canada. I tested the electricity and found that the electrical polarity was reversed. Art quickly remedied that problem. The water pressure was minimal, but it usually is at RV parks where the water comes by gravity from a plastic tank that sits on top of a building. So we would take showers from a showerhead where water dribbles instead of spraying. As always, there is some price that must be paid to live in paradise.
“What happens if it rains?” I asked Art. Because the ground was bare and dusty, I figured a rain might turn it into a quagmire.
“No problem,” Art said. “It never rains here this time of the year.” He was very believable because we had seen only sunny skies for two weeks in Mexico. Three days later we watched the rain squalls form offshore and come, one after another over us. Our dusty park turned into a well-drained lake. It settled the dust – at least for now. The rain filtered the smoke and dust from the air so that the view of ocean and mountains was spectacular.
In chatting with Art, it turns out that he had learned English in Los Angeles 30 years ago. Then he spent most of his life in the Mexican Army. He is now retired and lives on his pension. He manages this park only “as a hobby, not because I need money.” A few half-built motel rooms can also be found in the park. But, the mayor of San Blas (a beach town north-west of Guadalajara) recently refused to honor the permit that had been obtained for the motel unit. Art claimed that the mayor wishes to have the land for himself and is trying to drive off everyone else. A look of triumph came over his face when he said, “But our RV Park permit was obtained from the federal government so the mayor cannot take that away.”
I have decided that I have some sort of love/hate relationship with Mexico and its culture. As in most cultures, they often greet us with a disinterested or even slightly hostile look when we enter their territory. But if we smile and wave, they almost invariably smile and wave back. Yes, the folks here can be very warm and friendly. We have yet to meet anyone who was overtly hostile. Their food is some of the tastiest in the world, although sometimes hard to digest. The countryside and towns can be very charming and nobody chides me for taking a siesta here.
However, the drivers seem to have taken their training in Los Angeles and try to drive the small country roads at the same speed they drove on LA freeways. To be fair, most are careful, courteous and skillful drivers. But yesterday, I feared for our lives. We were driving a small, dirt road far out in the countryside. I stopped in the middle of the road to scope out some birds. I looked in the rear-view mirror to see a truck closing rapidly behind us. He was likely going about 50 mph on the rough and rocky road and was not slowing. Obviously, he had already decided to give us a good scare. I had a second or two to decide which side of the road to move onto to avoid a collision. Before I could move, he zoomed by on our right with only inches to spare between our vehicle and the ditch. “Damn fool,” I muttered. “Pinche Gringo,” he may have said.
For a culture that seems to work at snail’s pace most of the time, their personality sometimes changes when they sit behind the wheel of a motorized vehicle. Suddenly, they become drivers on some Grand Prix racetrack and with the machismo of a bullfighter trying desperately to prevent anyone from blocking the road ahead. So maybe I exaggerate. Maybe! Yes, I know. There are crazy drivers all over the world and only another damn fool would park in the middle of the road to watch birds. If it was his intention to scare the hell out of us, he succeeded! His priest would be proud.
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