Places – Page 6 – Pat the Expat

Manzanillo, Colima

We decided to take short trip (this week) out of lakeside to see the Pacific Ocean, and we chose the port of Manzanillo (Mahn-zah-NYEE-oh) in the state of Colima. Mexico’s Pacific coast is full of promising locations to visit, from Los Cabos on the tip of the Baja Peninsula to Mazatlan, Puerto Vallarta, Manzanillo, and finally Acapulco. While Acapulco was the first of these to breakthrough as a tourist destination in the 1940s, Puerto Vallarta is undoubtedly the most popular today. Why Manzanillo? Why not?

What makes Manzanillo different from the other tourist destinations mentioned above is its status as Mexico’s largest port, and the main hub for Mexican trade across the Pacific. This gives the town a working-class patina that probably would never let it turn into a full-scale tourist town. Still, it does have a fair number of tourists, especially Canadians and Mexicans (we arrived on Constitution Day, a federal holiday in Mexico, and many Mexican families were ending a long weekend visit at the condominio where we stayed).

What’s the draw? It is easy to reach from Guadalajara, with only a four hour drive from lakeside (assuming I’m driving! “Your mileage may vary” as they say.). The weather is beach classic: averaging around eighty-five degrees Fahrenheit in February, with lows in the mid-sixties. It is much less crowded: no cruise ship stops, and fewer direct flights from the States (four) or Canada (only one), and more than a days drive from the border. For these reasons, Manzanillo is far less expensive than other Pacific resorts, especially Puerto Vallarta. Both have restaurants, resorts, hotels, and attractions across the price range, but generally they will be less expensive in Manzanillo.

We’re not big on water sports, but Manzanillo is. It fancies itself as the sail-fishing capital of the world, and holds an annual contest to back up the claim. There’s a near-shore shipwreck for scuba and snorkel fans, plenty of public beaches (all are in Mexico), and fishing and whale-watching boat charters galore, with options to drink enough to see whales whether they’re there or not!

As one would expect, the food in general–and the seafood in particular, has been very good:

Two large appetizers, two full main plates, two glasses of wine ran us under $50 USD (beats Red Lobster, no?). We regularly drove out of our condominio and visited places along the main drag in town and found it easy to navigate and perfectly safe. We especially liked a small local restaurant called Juanitos, which was packed with locals for breakfast.

One final note. If you’re like me, you might have confused Manzanillo with La Manzanilla (both are named for the Manzanilla tree, used by Spanish explorers in Mexico to build ships to cross the Pacific as early as 1522!). La Manzanilla is a much smaller fishing village north of Manzanillo. If you’re trying to get totally away from the tourist vibe, you’ll want to try La Manzanilla. Both are worth a visit, based on what friends have told me.

Final verdict: Manzanillo is budget-friendly, easy to reach (for expats), with great beach weather and ample beaches, and excellent water sports. I would recommend it for those who find large tourist destinations too crowded or expensive, but who still seek the classic Mexican beach vacation on the Pacific side.

What Just Happened: Kenosha

Where to begin? I watched long portions of the jury trial of Kyle Rittenhouse, and then followed-up with segments on various partisan media (Fox News, MSNBC, etc.). I don’t know whether to confess these sins or demand your appreciation. Either way, we’ll start with the facts of the case.

Back in August, 2020, Kenosha (Wisconsin) erupted in two nights of violence after the arrest and shooting of Jacob Blake. Blake, who is black, was arrested and shot (seven times, in the side and back) as he wielded a knife and attempted to enter a car with his girlfriend’s children in the backseat. His girlfriend called the police when he entered her home, as he was already charged with sexual assault, trespassing, and domestic abuse. Instant video analysis and widespread media coverage claimed (incorrectly) that Blake was unarmed and shot in the back while presenting no threat. Subsequent coverage debunked these claims, but not till long after protests against police brutality erupted in Kenosha.

While daytime protests were initially peaceful, at night violent groups seized on the police’ reluctance to intervene, engaging in looting, property destruction, and general mayhem. It was on this second such night that seventeen year-old Kyle Rittenhouse decided to go to Kenosha (he lived just across the State line in Illinois) to “protect (this) business.”‘ He took a medic bag (although he was not a trained EMT) and borrowed an AR-15 for self-defense from a friend who was keeping it for him in Wisconsin.

The Times version is incomplete and biased, but a useful synopsis

After standing watch with other people at a car dealership, Rittenhouse walked over to a nearby crowd where a group had gathered to destroy vehicles and light fires. Joseph Rosenbaum, who had just that morning been released from State mental care, had spent most of the evening threatening those you had arrived (like Rittenhouse) to ‘protect against the looters.’ Rosenbaum seemed to take special interest in Rittenhouse, and began following and harassing him. At one point–immediately after someone else discharged a firearm in the area–Rosenbaum charged Rittenhouse and reached for his rifle, whereupon Rittenhouse shot him in the chest, killing him.

The gunshots initiated a chase sequence with Rittenhouse calling a friend to admit he shot someone and needed help, and a crowd forming and following Rittenhouse as he attempts to run away. Different people in the crowd shout “he’s the shooter” “get the m*therf*cker” as they follow him. One man runs up behind Rittenhouse and hits him in the back of the head before running off. Rittenhouse trips and falls to the ground, as he rises, another man does a running drop kick, glancing off his head. Rittenhouse shoots and misses him. Anthony Huber takes his skateboard and hits Rittenhouse in the shoulder; they struggle for the rifle, and Rittenhouse shoots and kills him. Finally, Gaige Grosskreutz, who was armed with a handgun, approaches Rittenhouse; he stops and backs away, then raises the pistol toward Rittenhouse, who shoots him in the arm, gets up, and heads towards the police vehicles two blocks away.

What we have here is immaturity, stupidity, and rage–multiplied by weapons–resulting in unnecessary deaths. Rittenhouse as a teenage boy is automatically guilty of immaturity. His impulse to go “do something” is misplaced, and where is the parent/guardian saying “no!”? This parental stupidity is trumped by the friend who gave him his weapon: yes, he had a Second Amendment right to carry it, and the laws in Wisconsin permitted public carry of a long-rifle. But as a conservative, I believe rights come with responsibilities, and Rittenhouse was not trained to defend a property. His friend should have told him “no.” If Rittenhouse insisted on doing something, he should have been armed with nothing more than a medic bag and a phone-camera. More properly, he should NOT have gone to the site of previous violence; what did he have to offer?

More stupidity! Rosenbaum had a long history of mental illness, as did Huber. Who among their friends thought either would be a useful, stabilizing addition to the volatile nightly mix in Kenosha? Where were their now-grieving families when they needed to keep them home? And all these people were not just at the afternoon protest; they attended the subsequent evening arson and property destruction, for reasons that remain unclear. Grosskreutz also brought a pistol to the scene, but at least he had the sense to back off. For that momentary sanity, he saved his own life.

Finally, it all goes back to, and ends up in, rage. Why did so many people need to fan the flames when Blake was shot? This was just after the police brutality case of George Floyd in Minnesota, so activists started building a narrative, but it was false in this case. That narrative led to the protests, and the violence, and the shootings. Listen to the mob after Rittenhouse shoots and kills Rosenbaum, if you want to hear vigilante justice in action. It is pure, unadulterated hatred. If they could have torn Rittenhouse limb-from-limb, they would have on the spot. The only thing that stopped them was the AR15.

So what’s the verdict? Well, the jury had little choice. Wisconsin’s self-defense laws (which are mirrored across the United States, and have nothing to do with “stand your ground” laws) draw from hundreds of years of English common law. The defense can assert self-defense, and must provide reasonable facts. These could (and did) include a statement by the defendant that he feared for his life, as well as video evidence he was chased by people with intent to do him serious bodily harm. The prosecution has to prove beyond a reasonable doubt he did NOT fear or the others did NOT present a serious threat. This was an impossible task given the video evidence. The only chance for conviction lay in the initial shooting of Rosenbaum (who was unarmed), but that went out the window when other witnesses testified to his erratic, confrontational, and threatening behavior. No sane person–armed or not–would have been unafraid when confronted by the mob, and the mob’s intent to do deadly violence was evident in the video.

Kyle Rittenhouse is not a hero. We can only hope he learned from this experience and isn’t permanently damaged. He was guilty of extreme immaturity and was let down by several adults who either failed to prevent–or actively supported–his immature actions. Several other adults on the scene were guilty of gross stupidity. Two paid with their lives, and one was injured (shot in the arm). Several others (if you watched the trial, drop-kick man, or the guy who hit Rittenhouse in the back of the head) sneaked back into the shadows, but they participated in the mayhem and deserve our disgust. The activists and media who poured gas on the flames have blood on their hands, but of course they walked away scot free.

Make no mistake: Rittenhouse should have stayed home, or should have left his weapon with his friend. You don’t go to a riot looking for trouble, because it will find you. How overmatched and unprepared Rittenhouse was for what unfolded on the dark streets of Kenosha is evident in the video.

Your rights (to weapons or assembly) come with responsibilities. Ignoring that can be detrimental to society, and deadly to the individual.

Mexico is Changing

Mexico is always changing, just like everywhere else. The changes here in Mexico seem to be ones which would be most evident to expats, and they involve some of the quintessential things that make Mexico, well, Mexican. And therein lies a story.

Ask people who have visited extensively (or expats who live here) what qualities about Mexico are unique, and you’ll quickly find some common themes: the friendliness of the people, the slower pace of life, or the incompetence of the bureaucracy, for example. And in most of these areas, change is afoot.

Take friendliness. Mexicans as a rule remain eager to help and often greet you on the street, regardless of whether they know you or not. Except in big cities like Ciudad de Mexico and Guadalajara. There, you might greet neighbors you know, but if you start “buenos dias“-ing every passerby, you’ll get a mix of responses from greetings to odd looks to being ignored. The larger cities have imported some of the the urban mindset from elsewhere, where you just can’t talk to strangers.

Put on top of that the curse that is the cell phone. Mexicans have taken to their cell phones wholeheartedly, and it’s not unusual to surprise people–even in small towns–by greeting them when they are walking, face-down in their phones. They will startle and still respond, but clearly cell phones are winning the battle for eye-balls.

The slower pace of life is experiencing some acceleration, too. Over the last thirty years, Mexico has developed a sizable middle class, and with it, widespread automobile ownership. Which means traffic, and the delays that come with it. Now Mexicans normally aren’t in a hurry to be on-time, but that’s changing, so when some hit a traffic snarl, they start driving around it in, shall we say, innovative ways. Like creating extra lanes where there are none. Or ignoring traffic lights or turn lanes or even traffic barriers. Some of that is a carry-over from Mexico’s fundamental lack of concern for laws which appear arbitrary (“I only need to go one block the wrong way down this one-way street to get where I want to go.”). But some is an attempt to hurry-up, which is something new.

Finally, many expats comment about changes in taxes and regulations, with the main theme being more enforcement. Many of the small mom-and-pop vendors in Mexico (which can mean nearly every family) operate on a cash-only basis and avoid taxes and regulation. The federal government is gradually tightening its control of money flows, so as to capture the lost tax revenue. There is an growing web of identification which ties people and their income to the taxes they owe. For many larger or recurring transactions, you need a CURP number (Clave Única de Registro de Población), in effect a Mexican Social Security Number. Once you have that, you may also need an RFC (Registro Federal de Contribuyentes) code or clave, a personal/unique tax identification number. We’ve noticed an increase in information required to directly transfer money to Mexican accounts (for example, to pay for our recent home renovations) that have come from Mexican banks, responding to Mexican government directions. Over time, this results in fewer off-the-books transactions and more revenue to the federal government.

Likewise, expats speak of less flexibility in border crossing and immigration enforcement. For a long time, some expats came to Mexico on the automatic 180-day visitor’s visa and simply stayed. They never left the country, never became a temporary or permanent resident, which requires a payment and has financial eligibility requirements. Later, expats with more means came and went every 179 days, in effect renewing their status and avoiding the costs of legal residency. Mexican immigration officials (INM) have started random checks on mass transit hubs (like big city bus stations), arresting and sometimes even deporting those long-time overstays. And border officials sometimes now ask for a departure date (e.g., return flight?) and only renew another visitor’s visa for a set length of time, much less that 180 days. Deportation remains rare; most overstays are offered the opportunity to legalize their status, but again that requires dinero.

As hard as these changes to the bureaucracy are for expats who arrived in the wild west days of yore, they are part and parcel of Mexico becoming a more efficient country. That means making and neutrally enforcing laws, taking control of its borders, collecting tax revenue and distributing it effectively. It won’t be quick, and it surely isn’t painless, but it is necessary.

Most Mexicans will continue to greet and respond to greetings. Most will kindly let you cut in line in heavy traffic. I firmly believe that even after all these changes work out, Mexico will remain Mexico. After all, it will always be full of Mexicans!

Money . . . Get Back!

A challenge for expats anywhere is how to access your funds. This is especially true in most of Mexico, where credit cards may not be accepted or come with a handy processing fee (the same fee usually paid by the vendor elsewhere) tacked on. Luckily for expats, Mexico does have many cajeros automaticos, or as you know them: ATMs.

Expats become accustomed to knowing (and sharing) advice about banks and their ATM machines: for example, which ones have both ingles and espanol options, which banks charge what as a transaction fee, what the various per day and per transaction limits are, which machines “swallow” your card whole versus holding it where you can retrieve it manually (important where power might suddenly fail).

Lately, expats have had to master the bank-managed “service fee” scam called dynamic currency conversion. This is where the bank machine “offers” you to convert your peso request to dollars at the point of conversion (how helpful) but gives you an incredibly poor exchange rate. The trick is the “offer” seems to be like the transactions fee, in that it says you can accept or decline, but most people assume that if they decline they won’t be able to get their pesos (like the transaction fee, which if you decline, the machine ends your transaction). Untrue! If you decline, you still receive your pesos, but the bank or financial institution you use at home does the conversion, usually at a much better rate. This service has been a standard rip-off among restaurants and retailers in Europe for years, but it has recently migrated to ATMs worldwide: avoid it! I would note that if your domestic bank has a really bad reputation for its currency conversion rates, you might be better off using the ATM conversion rate. But you probably would be best off changing banks!

Some expats go the extra step by getting a Mexican bank account and credit cards, allowing them to transfer money from their previous home to here. Mexican banks are, shall we say, picky. Sometimes just opening an account can involve some of that famous Mexican bureaucracy, such as “no, that’s a color copy, we don’t accept it” or “(today) we’re not opening accounts for gringos.” Oh, and writing checks? Every item must be letter perfect, including your full name and day/month/year (not month/day/year) and the spelled-out sum in español, por favor. Oh, and most importantly, such accounts are not federally insured, so there is always the possibility your money could just disappear.

Not all of this is Mexican banks’ fault: Americans should know that the US government applies its own rules to foreign banks, making them responsible for various reporting requirements! Some banks and brokerages–even American ones–now shun American expat accounts as not worth the trouble. If you’re an American expat, you must report foreign financial accounts if (1) you have signature authority on the account and (2) if the aggregate value of all your foreign accounts exceeds $10,000 USD at any time during the year (there are exceptions). The important document to file is called a Report of Foreign Bank and Financial Accounts (FBAR) on FinCEN Form 114. It is only a report: it is not used to check whether you owe taxes, which of course you must pay on any income received via these accounts. And don’t try to get cute by intentionally hedging just below the $10,000 USD limit; one recent court case found such activity to also be against the law! You can see why some American expats never bother with foreign accounts.

What about the need for larger sums that would never be available via ATM, like to buy a car, furniture, or a down payment on a house? There are a growing number of options. Our American bank allows us to do a direct wire transfer to foreign recipients for around $50 USD ($25 for any wire transfer, an additional $25 for international recipients). If the transfer is not going to a financial institution–for example to a private individual–the bank sends us several warnings letting us know it can’t verify the recipient and it is not responsible once the money goes out, which just means we have to make sure we have the account info correct on our end.

We’ve also used Xoom (pronounced the same way as the videoconferencing service), a division of PayPal which facilitates international financial transfers. We’ve used Xoom to pay for some services like home repair or contracting. Most often we have not been charged a transaction fee, and the exchange rates have generally been good. There is a transaction fee if you’re using a credit card, not a bank account as the source. It takes a little time (and info) to add a new recipient, but once “in the system” the transactions are immediate (hours, not days). One extra (and very nice) feature is Xoom allows you to request confirmations (text or otherwise) for both the sender and recipient, so you get a running series of money sent/received notices. Also, if the transfer fails for any reason, Xoom will notify you of that, too. I know there are other international transfer services with similar features, but Xoom is one for which we can personally vouch.

Some brokerage accounts (like Charles Schwab) also allow international transfers without extra charges, so that is another way to have money secure in one place but still be able to move it where you need it. There are exceptions, so make sure you read the fine print!

Finally, a related issue with financial transfers (of any sort) could be the need for notarization. I knew of expat friends who were forced to fly back to the States to get notarization of financial documents. We recently had a similar situation, and discovered online notaries who could meet all our requirements for about $30 USD and ten minutes of online consultation!

Some expats get all wrapped up in exchange rates and trying to game when they transfer larger sums to gain an advantage. Sometimes this is because they are on a budget and a few pesos matter; sometimes it’s just the thrill of getting a deal. In any event, there are myriad ways to move money internationally these days, and more coming along every day. While having money is a key factor in being an expat, getting your money shouldn’t be.

A Family Visit

There are few joys more profound for an expat than when family comes to visit. Especially when family is skeptical about the whole “why are Gramps & Meemo living in Mexico?” story. So my dear wife and I were very excited when our younger daughter, her husband, and their young son and daughter decided to join us on our return trip from a family visit to South Bend!

They came for a solid week, and of course, we had the first full week of rain I can remember in four years. We got a lot of ribbing about “unlimited sunshine” and where was it? However, when reminded that back home in the Mid-Atlantic it was ninety degrees and ninety percent humidity at nine o’clock in the morning, they admitted it was still better here.

We went to the pool & the club and hit several local favorite restaurants. What was surprising to these first-time visitors to real Mexico? Not much. They were a little surprised by how inexpensive things were, especially booze and food. They noted the prevalence of barbed wire and broken glass on the tops of the walls, and the amount of roadside trash and shrines, all sad things we had to explain. Pick-up truck loads of standing laborers, families on scooters, and people riding horses while talking on cell phones brought surprised smiles.

We took a day trip to the Guadalajara Zoo, which I highly recommend. It has a variety of passes for different sets of exhibits, is nicely laid out with abundant shade, and the animals seem well-cared for. We also used the services of Mex-ECO tours for a private visit with friends to the town of Magdalena, near Tequila, for a afternoon of opal mining. Kids, hardhats, and pick-axes: what could go wrong? I asked about dynamite, but none was available. We did find a few opal and quartz stones suitable for polishing and great as keepsakes of the day. We also spent a fine Sunday visiting Juan Diego and his wife Laura at the goat farm (Galo de Allende) near Mezcala, where the grand-kids got to milk a goat and mix with the herd.

The kids and grand-kids got to experience that overnight tropical deluge along with prodigious thunder and lightning, eat from a molcajete, and try the Mexican versions of their favorite American cereals (“not quite right” was their considered opinion). After a week (the approved limit for all family visits), we took them to Soriana for the ritual covid tests and they flew back to the States.

We missed the opportunity to get fresh chicharrónes, go horse-back riding, attend lucha libre, or see downtown Guadalajara, but they did get to see our new home (more on that later). Most importantly, everybody stayed healthy & unhurt and had a good time. They’ll be back, although it may be difficult to pry them loose when they move to Vicenza, Italy, later this year. Guess we’ll just have to pay them a return visit first (the things we do for our grand-kids)!

The Guadalajara zoo backs up on the Barranca de Oblatos, the amazing canyon you see when flying into the area.

Moving on (up)

When we first mentioned our intention to retire to Mexico some nine years ago, we faced a variety of reactions. Family thought we were joking, or crazy, or both. Friends were astounded, and couldn’t understand. A few of my work associates (who were familiar with Mexico–so to speak) congratulated us on an excellent choice, but most told me I was too young to retire. Some told me to hedge my bets, since I would undoubtedly be back soon, having “missed the game.”

Despite the concern and astonishment, we bought the house in Mexico, and (literally) counted down the days during those last five work years, waiting to retire early. We sold nearly everything, loaded up the FJ with the family dog, and set out for the retired expat life. Four years later, we have no regrets. Expat retirement has been a wonderful experience, and even the pandemic has only reinforced our belief we made the right choice.

But change happens, as they say. You get older if not wiser. Things once new become commonplace. So we decided to put the house up for sale and move again. Now don’t panic: no, we’re not returning to the States. We just finally decided to get another place here in Ajijic, but this time a house with a view. And what a view!

The home selling and buying process in expat land is quite familiar. First, there are numerous real estate agencies here that specialize in expats, often staffed with former NOB real estate agents. Many homes are priced in dollars, although the final sale must be made in Mexican Pesos, so there is the possibility of an exchange rate issue, but that is understood going in. One complication is that Mexico has a capital gains tax on properties, which could result in a large tax bill if your house really appreciated or if these is a major change in the dollar-peso exchange rate. However, Mexico also has an exemption for primary residences (you can claim it once every three years).

You select an agency, sign a listing contract, have showings and put up a “For Sale” sign. Many people don’t stage their properties, but some do. You make an offer, there is some negotiation and counters, and you go “under contract.” You agree on a settlement date, the lawyers (abogados) do their thing and make sure the property is free of liens, not in ejido land (indigenous lands can’t be transferred), nor is it in the federally-protected coastal lands (a legal hangover from way-back-when the government thought the US might invade again, now resolved through a long-duration fideicomiso or bank trust), and –presto–you sell/buy a house.

What’s different? Many expats move down here for life, furnishing their homes after arriving, so it is not uncommon to find properties for sale fully furnished (and by that I mean fully, like silverware and linens and tchotchkes!) You’ll find people buying homes sight unseen, from far away NOB, based on a local friend or agent. Some people put homes up for sale, over-priced, then leave them on the market forever. The cost of maintaining a property here is minimal, so there is little incentive (if you don’t need the cash to buy another property) to do a fire-sale price reduction. Mexico doesn’t have a mortgage system, so you bring cash to the table. Our agent told us on more than one occasion he had faced someone walking in to the settlement office with a suitcase full of pesos. It’s possible to arrange private (i.e., personal) financing but the interest rate runs north of ten percent with a guaranteed year’s interest.

We just started thinking seriously about a new place, mountainside with a lake view, a few weeks back. Then we stumbled on just the right place, which greatly accelerated our efforts. We are midway through the process, having put our home on the market and having recorded a contract to buy the new house. Now we are “on the clock” to sell or arrange financing to complete the purchase. Somewhere in there we need to arrange the settlements, schedule some movers, and do the local move. Oh, and we’re visiting the family & friends in the States twice in the next few months!

If all goes to plan, what changes? We’re going from a small gated community (seventy homes) to an even smaller gated community (thirty homes). We’re moving from the west end of Ajijic and practically on the lake to the centro, but right up against the mountains. Losing a walk to the lakeshore, gaining a million-dollar view and las brisas (breezes). Trading the sounds of the countryside (cohetes and roosters) for those of the village (cohetes and gas trucks), although an out-of-the-way part of the village. We’ll be part way up the mountain and just steps away from the Tepalo trailhead.

Friends always characterize our current, single-storey, two-thousand square foot home as “cozy” and that it is: from the central courtyard you can reach any room in under ten steps. The new place is, well, a little different. It’s six-thousand square feet on three levels (with an elevator), each level the same size as our current home. Judy and I joke that we’re buying the new house just for the main level, and the guest level and garage level are bonus spaces.

Here’s the sales video for our current home:

I’ll update the blog on the move, the closing(s), and especially the new house as things progress!

A Mexican Fish Tale

Note: various versions of this story circulate out there. As a creative writing exercise, here is mine.

Once upon a time, a very long time ago, before the internet or cell phones, there was a very smart professor. He taught Economics at the Harvard Business School, which is to say that was where he was tenured, for as a world-renowned expert in the study of all things business, he only occasionally did any teaching. He had written many books, all well-received, and was sought out by industry titans and finance rain-makers for his views. A simple hour of his time providing advice could run to five digits, but everyone agreed it was well worth it.

The professor was not only at the top of his profession, he was at the top of his game. He embodied his theories on efficiency and return on investment, which made him quite wealthy and respected by his peers, if not quite such an interesting dinner date. Not that that observation bothered him, since time spent on such activities carried a heavy opportunity cost, broken relationships led to poor efficiency, and broken marriages? Well, he could cite a long litany of successful people who found a way to lose it all in divorce. Hardly a promising investment.

If any doubt about his life choices ever buzzed about his consciousness, he batted it away just as fast. At times, though, some doubts might creep in on a cold north wind blowing across Harvard Square. This was one of those times.

He hadn’t taken any time off, well, since ever. Time off was time lost, and while he could afford any luxury he could imagine, he was unwilling to pay the opportunity cost. Still that cold wind kept hounding him on his way to the office, and he let his mind linger just a bit longer on the idea of taking a short break. He knew the data on productivity gains associated with vacations; he also knew it was only a possibility, not even a probability. Perhaps he could conduct a little personal experiment to see how it applied to someone as efficient and productive as he was?

Safely inside his office and out of his overcoat, he asked his assistant–to her absolute amazement–to research where he could “take a little break from the cold.” The professor laid out a series of parameters, of course: nowhere too exotic, nothing more than a few hours flight, some place warm and quiet and absolutely NOT a tourist destination.

A short while later she returned, with this initial bid: “How about Mexico?”

His dismissal was abrupt and total: “No. What part of NOT-A-TOURIST-TRAP did you fail to get?”

She persisted, “I’m not talking the beach locations. There is a large lake in central Mexico that meets all your requirements: warm, quiet, not touristy, only a few hours flight time.” She passed him printed material about some place called Lake Chapala.

He demurred, if only for the moment. ‘I trained her,’ he thought, and she was good at her job. Perhaps he should give it due consideration. “Thanks, I’ll consider it” was all he said.

And so he did. The more he looked into it, the more he became convinced. It would not be very expensive and his assistant could do all the necessary rescheduling. With his characteristic decisiveness, he set the plans into motion, and only a week later he was on a flight to Guadalajara. The second thoughts arose as the plane left the runway.

The week back was going to be overloaded, he worried, and would be a real test of his improved efficiency. Would he really be able to keep away from work, or at least from thinking about work? What if the weather was bad, or the food not to his liking? So much was riding on this in his mind.

It didn’t get better as he debarked the plane into the queues for immigration, luggage, and customs: ‘Is there no word for efficiency in Spanish?’ he thought. He was passable enough in the language to hold a conversation, which was another plus to the location, but the question was rhetorical. When he emerged from the secure arrivals area of the airport into the throngs offering everything from taxi rides to trinkets to porterage, he seriously considered turning right around. But he stayed the course, even for an hour-long taxi ride that seemed more like time travel to the 18th century.

Once he settled in to the room at the boutique hotel in Ajijic, he had an odd feeling, one he hadn’t felt in a very long time: relaxation. He opened the curtains and looked out at the peaceful lake, the mountains, the bright blue sky. ‘Yes,’ he thought, ‘this will work . . . or maybe not-work is the right phrase’ he chuckled to himself.

The next morning he had decided upon a routine: breakfast, delivered to his room, eaten on the veranda, overlooking the lake. Followed by some light reading–nothing work related–until lunch. A short walk around the village and a stop for lunch, back to the room for some crosswords and more reading, perhaps a siesta, then late dinner once again in the village. Delightfully boring. He smiled at the notion he was even packing resting-time into his vacation: efficient as always.

As he sat reading that morning, he noticed a local fisherman wandering out to his boat around ten o’clock. When the professor got back from lunch, the fisherman was pulling his boat back to shore and leaving with a small catch. “Bankers hours for fishermen?” he mused.

The next day the cycle repeated itself, but this time the professor noted the fisherman returned again in the late afternoon and fished into the early evening, with the same meager results. “Twice the travel time for no extra performance,” he began, but pulled himself up short–no business here on vacation!

As the week wore on, the professor became more and more engrossed in the fisherman’s activities: how he stored the boat and nets, where he fished, the size of his catch, the hours spent on the water versus the hours preparing and traveling. The professor passed it off as not-business-related, just an interest in all things local. Toward the end of his vacation, the professor couldn’t contain himself any longer. He saw the fisherman pulling in to shore around two in the afternoon, and he called him over.

“Buenas tardes, señor” he began, “may I ask you a question?”

“Of course” the fisherman replied.

“I have been here all week, and I noticed your coming and going. Why do you start so late in the morning?”

“I stay home for breakfast and see my grandkids off to school.”

“Well, where do you go in the afternoon?”

“School lets out, and I see my grown children, too, then I take care of some tasks from my wife, maybe take a siesta. Finally I come back and finish fishing until dinner.”

“If you came earlier in the morning, packed a lunch, and fished straight through the day, you would catch many more fish. You spend so much time coming and going, loading and unloading.”

“I think you are right. But why catch more fish?”

“You could sell them and buy better nets, or another boat.”

“I see. And then catch even more fish?”

“Exactly!”

The fisherman looked down at his huichol sandals, then over at his boat, pondering his next comment carefully. “Muchas gracias, señor, you have a good idea. I will think about it some more. Adios.” and with that he trundled off.

The next day, the professor kept looking out at the lake in the early morning, to see if the fishermen had arrived. Around ten, the fisherman pulled his boat out onto the lake, then fished until two and came back in, as always. ‘Bad habits are the hardest to break’ the professor thought.

This time, though, the fisherman came walking straight back to where the professor was sitting. “Señor,” he started, “I have been considering what you said, and I have a question.”

“Go ahead, por favor.”

“After I get the boats and nets and catch more fish. Then what?”

“Then you hire people to fish for you on your boats. Maybe set up a small store and sell the fish yourself. Eventually you put in a restaurant, maybe a delivery service. Branch out into charter fishing trips. Who knows? Soon you’ll be el rey del lago (King of the Lake). I am a professor, I provide advice like this at the university. I guarantee that you will make a ton of money and then you can retire.”

“And?”

The professor laughed. “Well, then, I guess we all die. We have a saying up north, ‘there are two things in life that can’t be avoided: death and taxes.'”

Now it was the fisherman’s turn to laugh. “Oh, señor, I am a Mexican. We know that taxes can always be avoided! But death? Who would want to avoid that? Death is like an old friend you only get to see one more time. Here in Mexico, we don’t fear death, and we certainly don’t avoid it . . . look at how we drive! Do you know about our Day of the Dead?”

Visions of skeletons and macabre parades danced across the professor’s mind: strange, semi-pagan rituals fueled by too much tequila, no doubt. “Yes, Dia de Muertos isn’t it?” he replied.

“Yes. One time you must visit here for this fiesta. You will learn something from it!” Then the fisherman turned and shuffled home.

‘That will be the day’ the professor mused.

The next morning was his last before flying home. The professor assumed his position by the shore, and just before ten o’clock, the fisherman appeared and walked straight toward him.

“Buenas dias, señor,” he began

“Buenas dias, amigo,” the professor responded, “have you thought about my advice.”

The fisherman said, “I have thought of nothing else!” which caused the professor to smile a little.

“And?”

“Of course your are right, señor, we both know that. It will all come out exactly as you say.”

“But . . . ?” the professor interjected, sensing the rejection in the fisherman’s voice.

“It was very kind of you to offer this great advice. But I am too busy living to do all that work. I hope you can understand that. I hope you will think about that” he added, emphasizing the word.

“Yes, yes, of course” the professor replied with a resigned-but-friendly tone. “good luck!”

“Que te vaya bien, señor” the fisherman said, and headed to his boat.

Soon the professor was back aboard a plane, tanned, rested, and ready, as it were. His assistant had faxed down some preparatory material, and he devoured it. He was energized like he hadn’t been in years, and the exhilaration continued when he got back to Boston. He hired a second assistant, and wore both out as he endlessly rattled off memos, notes, to-do’s and the like. His productivity spiked, and the increase lasted months, not weeks. Even his colleagues noted how happy he seemed, on top of how productive.

As the Fall loomed in New England, he decided to take another break. There was no sense waiting until the depths of Winter; he would go in early November and beat the rush, then work through the holidays when everyone else wanted time off! So once again he was off on a flight to Guadalajara, but this time he was relaxed before he arrived: nothing to worry about, and he knew how much more productive he would be after the break.

When he emerged the first morning to eat breakfast on the veranda, he noticed the same fishing boat he had seen last year. This time, though, the fisherman did not arrive at ten and still had not arrived when the professor decided to walk into town before lunch. As the professor walked the village’s cobblestone streets, he noticed fewer crowds in the storefronts. He did see families walking in the distance, all heading in the same general direction, and he could hear far-off banda music. He wondered what was going on, so he walked toward the music.

The crowds thickened and led to the panteon, the cemetery. He glanced at his watch: of course, November 1st, Dia de Muertos. ‘I guess the old fisherman got his wish’ he thought. Having come this far, he joined the queue and wandered through the cemetery gate and into a spectacular scene.

Families were gathered around graves, sharing a meal and tending to the sites. A Mariachi band played in the distance. He noticed the small altars, ofrendas, with pictures and candles and mementos, the children playing, people telling stories. The air was clearly festive, and as he walked about, his mind wandered back to his parents and grandparents, his childhood, the funerals he attended. How different this was!

“Señor” a woman’s voice intoned, “may we help you?”

The professor snapped back to reality and realized he had wandered to the foot of a grave-site, smack in the middle of a family gathering!

“Lo siento” he intoned, “I wasn’t paying attention. I was look–” he stopped mid-sentence, as he gazed at the altar in front of the tombstone. On it was a picture of a fisherman and a boat. Not just any fisherman, but the same man he had spoken to just a year earlier. “–ing, err noticing—” his voice trailed off.

His mind raced. Was that the fisherman? He was used to speaking in front of large audiences, used to being the very picture of self control, unperturbed. Yet he felt himself standing there, speechless, and realized his mouth was still open though no words were emerging.

“Esta bien, señor” the woman said soothingly, noting the man’s apparent shock: “did you know my Francisco?”

The professor still had not regained his composure: “Yes, errrr, no, I mean not well. We met last year when I was here on vacation. We talked about work and things . . . ” again his voice trailed off.

“Of course, señor. You must be the professor! He told us all about you.” the woman said.

“He did?” A fleeting sense of pride helped the professor briefly recover his bearings.

“Yes, he told us he met a professor–a very intelligent man–who had excellent ideas about how to grow a business. He said he was sad to tell you he could not follow your advice, but that you would understand one day.”

Listening to the woman’s matter-of-fact voice, he felt his normal confidence returning. “well, then, thank you for sharing that. I am sorry for your loss, but I must be going. Sorry to intrude!” he said, hoping to make good his escape and complete his recomposure.

“No, not at all,” she replied, “after all, we were expecting you, in way.” She passed the professor a plate with some tacos.

Panic edged back into the corners of his consciousness, but a lifetime of cynicism held it in check: “Expecting me? Seriously? And how is that?” he said with a little bit of edge, as he took the plate.

“Francisco was sick in bed for several weeks before he died. One time, he reminded me about his meeting you. He said he gave you some advice, and you promised to consider it. He told me you were very educated, so someday you would figure it out, and you would come back here.” She poured some tequila into a small glass and handed it to him.

The professor gulped the tequila and repeated aloud “He gave me some advice” as the vertigo threatened to return. ‘I gave him advice, and he rejected it. What advice did he give me?’ he thought. He mentally rewound the tape of their encounters, and there it was. He suddenly felt a sense of peace, not just relaxation, but a more wholesome sense of accomplishment, something like completing a difficult crossword puzzle.

The fisherman’s wife refilled the professor’s tequila. The look on his face had completely changed, although he had uttered not a word. “Yes, yes he did. And he was right, I did figure it out, thanks to him. To Francisco!” he said and drained the tequila in a toast.

“Now I really must be going.” the professor said as he handed back his plate and glass.

“To work?” the woman asked?

“No, I’m too busy living to do all that work” he replied.

Mexican Expat Myths #3: You are safe in Mexico

When a fellow American learns we live in Mexico, the first question is always the same: “Is it safe?” I want to sponsor a contest for the wittiest response because I am sooooooooooo tired of saying just “yes.” Some examples:

“No, but the cartel I work for has great fringe benefits.”
“Yes, as long as your chauffeur keeps his Uzi fully loaded.”
“No, but the FBI and I have a disagreement about firearms possession.”
“Yes, and that Wall is going to really cut down on illegal Americans!”

Feel free to add your own ideas in the comments.

All of which begs the question. Let’s look at some facts.

More Americans expats live (1.5 million) or visit as tourists (35 million before the pandemic) in Mexico than any other country on earth. More Americans die (238 in 2018) in Mexico every year than any other country on earth, and of those murdered, exactly half were killed in Mexico! Mexico’s murder rate (19 per 100,000) is roughly four times America’s. Oh, and there’s that little problem of drug cartel violence: have you heard about it? No, really, there are drug cartels running around with automatic weapons, armored vehicles and even rocket propelled grenades!

Now let’s look beyond the numbers. The total number of Americans who died in Mexico comprises roughly one-third homicides and two-thirds accidental deaths, which include large numbers of drownings and traffic accidents. The latter two types are fueled, literally, by the excessive drinking which characterizes American tourist behavior in Mexico. Let’s face it, the American ideal of a Mexican tourist vacation is a palapa on a sunny beach with unlimited drinks. This is not unique to Mexico, but because of the large numbers of Americans visiting, it drives up the absolute numbers of tourist deaths.

The homicide total for Americans in Mexico runs under one hundred annually, among 35 million tourists and 1.5 million expats. That comes out to .2 per 100,00 or the same murder rate as Japan, which has the lowest murder rate in the world. Many of those murder victims are dual (Mexican and American) nationals. Very few are expats. Some are tourists. How can a country with such a high rate of criminal violence and murder have so few American victims?

Most of the answer stems from the nature of cartel violence in Mexico. The vast majority of the violence is inter- or intra-cartel violence, followed closely by cartel violence against Mexico’s legal authorities. If you’re involved in the drug business, you (and even your family) are fair game. Same goes for the police and military fighting against the cartels. Yet all sides try to avoid killing the uninvolved; the cartels even go to great lengths (giving out aid during the pandemic, for example) to curry public favor. Which is not to say innocent people don’t get caught in the crossfire; they do. But most of the violence is targeted and people learn to avoid the places or activities which might get one in the cross-hairs. There have been two famous fatal attacks near the border that involved cartels mistakenly targeting a Mexican family (permanent US residents driving an American-plated car) and the infamous November 2019 slaughter of American Mormon expats. In both cases the vehicles were on deserted roads in cartel country and were mistaken for rival gangs, despite desperate attempts by the victims to explain who they were.

(Warning: Explicit lyrics) “it comes that way at least that’s what they say when you play the game”

Expats learn certain neighborhoods, certain streets, certain houses are places to avoid. There is a huge difference between crime in the tourist zones and nearby in the Mexican neighborhoods. You can find references to crimes in Cancun (the town) that have nothing to do with Cancun (the tourist zone). Tourists, drinking and looking for the next party in the wee hours of the morning, are more likely to stumble into a bad situation. But even then, only sixty-seven Americans were murdered in all of Mexico in 2018. That’s a bad week in Chicago.

The isthmus that looks like the number “7” is the tourist zone; the city of Cancun is at upper left.

And of that total, some were caught up in the drug business: remember, if you buy, sell, transport or visit places where drug transactions occur, you are part of the game. Cartels will still try to avoid killing gringos, but only because it’s bad for business, and it’s clear nobody (the cartels, the Mexican government, the American government, people in general) treats the numbers of incidental American deaths as a crisis.

To wrap it all up: stay (mostly) sober, don’t drive at night (because of cows, not cartels), don’t flash cash or jewelry, and avoid drugs and bad neighborhoods. Sounds like good advice for everywhere, no? Do this, and Mexico is about as dangerous as Japan (or Mayberry). Don’t do these things, and it gets marginally more dangerous, but still not very.

Final judgment: Expats (and tourists) are safe in Mexico: Mostly True.

First World Problems

In case you’re unfamiliar with the phrase, it captures the challenges which seem very troublesome to you as a member of a WEIRD (Western, Educated, Industrialized, Rich, Democratic) country, but those that at the same time pale in comparison to the rest of the world trying to find enough to eat, not get arrested by the corrupt police, or being extorted by some criminal gang. A quintessential First World Problem is when your high speed internet connection sputters. The indignity! How will you survive?

We had such a problem revolving around out stove. Seems we had a builder’s grade stove that was nearing nine years old and starting to show its wear and tear. Buttons were broken, stains resisted cleaning, and it never worked that well anyway. Estufas (stoves) are not as big a deal in Mexico, so what we had was serviceable, but just. Some models require a match to ignite; others don’t have much insulation. We have friends whose stove heats their counter-top and cabinets to scalding, but doesn’t keep a consistent temperature in the oven! In Mexico, you basically have a choice between GE/Whirlpool, Koblenz, and Mabe. All three producce models across the price spectrum, but Whirlpool skews highest, then Koblenz, then Mabe which has the cheapest models. The knock on Mabe (“Mah-bay”) is ‘mahbay they work, mahbay they don’t.’

So we decided to replace our old stove. It was set up on a small concrete pedestal (very common here), and we wanted a regular model which could slide in (and give us a warmer/storage drawer underneath). Judy, being the online maven she is, cleverly waited until the Buen Fin (Mexico’s answer to Black Friday) sales began and ordered a stove with a microwave/vent above it from Costco.

That’s when the fun began. First, FedEx–who delivers to us almost weekly–dropped us a text saying they couldn’t find our house to deliver the microwave so they sent it back to the Costco warehouse in Mexico City. Arghhhh. Judy contacted Costco, and they were polite and quick in refunding that part of the purchase, but they declined to let us re-purchase the microwave at the special discount price as that sale period was over. “No problema,” we thought, we’ll just find another microwave/vent combination locally.

Shortly thereafter FedEx resumed knowing our location and delivered the stove. We opened the box and saw various loose pieces like knobs (which are detachable) and the burners and grill, but things seemed to be in order. We contacted our contractor, who was doing a series of small projects at our place, to remove our old stove and arrange installation.

Because of the change in style, the workers had to hammer out the the existing concrete base, level it, then place matching tile. They did a quick and great job, and we looked to be close to completion, when the worker told me “hay un probelma” which is Spanish for “Houston, we have a problem.” Seems that one of the detachable knobs on the stove was not just detached, but was broken off the valve stem (not easily fixed). *Sigh* We stopped work on the installation while Judy worked her way through Costco customer service (no, there is no “por inlges, toca numero dos” option). She eventually found a Costco rep and worked out the details, sending them pictures of the broken knob. He said he would arrange for a FedEx pickup, but that it might be a while since this was the holiday season.

Now we’re in a pickle. Our old stove is gone, our new stove is sitting in the hallway, unusable. Which meant it was something new and not in the right place. Which meant that my fifteen year-old dog, who likes to get up in the middle of the night and get a drink, lost it when he saw this huge, threatening shape in front of him in the dark. At least he got used to it, and my heart rate eventually returned to normal.

Looks very scary at night, if you’re a dog, and you’re old . . . apparently!

Did I mention there is a worldwide appliance shortage. Wait, what? You didn’t know; neither did we! Seems all the disruptions in parts and work schedules has caused a shortage in appliance manufacturing. We decided to go the local appliance store (Tio Sam’s . . . yes, Uncle Sam’s, or as my Mexican gate guard calls it, Uncle Tom’s, which made me do a double-take) and start over. We had already gone there once to get the new microwave, so when we returned to buy a stove we were thrilled when then told us they had a model we liked available and could have it shipped immediately, arriving with the previously scheduled microwave. Hallelujah! Only a week or so without a stove.

But wait, there’s more. Delivery day arrived, and so did our microwave/vent. But no stove. Tio Sam’s called to apologize for the mix-up. There was no immediately available model, but they would have one available (wait for it) the third week of January. More like a month+ without a stove. We told them we would come in to the store in the morning and work something out.

We went in committed to buying a different model (whatever was available) or getting a refund and starting over again. They still had nothing available, so we went for the latter (refund) option. Suddenly, they found our model again, and said it would arrive tomorrow. Willing to fall for the mañana joke one more time, we went home and waited.

Tio Sam’s called to confirm a delivery time the next day (yesterday). The correct model showed up, intact, and our workmen rushed over to install it. So our stove drought ended after ten days, although we still need to get the microwave/vent installed. Mañana.

Looks good! Guess which sticker was hardest to remove?

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a Feliz Navidad!

Barrancas del Cobre

So named because the flora in the canyon gives it a copper (oxidized) green hue.

They made the letters in copper color . . . get it?

We stayed at the Hotel Mirador, aptly named as all the rooms lie along the canyon top with balconies overlooking the canyon. Here’s a map to orient you on where we were:

Ahhhh, Chihuahua!

During this trip, we started off off-map in El Fuerte and traveled up the red line (ChePe train) to Bahuichivo. We took a van to Cerocahui, then on to the Gallego overlook of Urique. Next we traveled by van to Posada Barranacas, where we stayed four nights overlooking the canyon. We also took day trips to Creel and to the other named “valleys.” Let me shut up for a moment and let the pictures do the talking:

Our hotel in Posada Barranancas, from the bottom of the canyon

There seems to be a very human need to anthropomorphize physical structures, thus:

Little known fact: Yogi bear retired to Mexico, too!

The Spaniards called it Valley of the Monks. The Raramuri called it Valley of the Phalluses: You decide!

Rorshach test: whole lotta’ monks or phalluses here!

The start of the world’s second longest zip line. Note that there is also a tram line.

I encouraged my fellow travelers who had not done so to take the zip line. It’s safe, and everyone should do something like that sometime in your life. Previously, I jumped out of planes and rappelled down cliffs, among other things. I took the tram. Mis amigos were not amused. 😎

All in all, an amazing eight-day trip. As I told my Spanish teacher, “Cada nueva vista es mas espectacular que la ultima.“(“Each new view is more spectacular than the last.”) A big thanks to our friends who formed our travel pod; a trip is always better when shared with great company! And special thanks to Rosie at Charter Club Tours for arranging, chaperoning, and leading the trip.