Mexico was greatly romanticized in the books of an American writer with a Mexican name, Carlos Castaneda, who told dubious but best-selling tales of his training in shamanism under the tutelage of a Yaqui Man of Knowledge called don Juan Matus, who was just a smidge too perfect for savvy readers. When The Teachings of Don Juan: A Yaqui Way of Knowledge was published by the University of California Press in 1968, it was labeled a work of anthropology but is now generally considered a book of fiction, although not by my ex-wife Harolyn, who was ready to pitch a tent at don Juan’s door.
My first visit to Mexico was a mere two-day stopover in the border town of Nuevo Laredo with the unlikely trifecta of Gilbert Shelton, Karen K. Kirkland and Janis Joplin in the summer of 1962. Karen had a sturdy Range Rover, the better to traffic what unseemly roads one might encounter south of the border. I can readily recall being immediately surrounded by a brigade of tiny salestots hawking Chiclets and shoelaces as soon as we crossed the watery divide. We didn’t avail ourselves of their services but we did employ an older kid to watch the car (50 cents) while we went in for cervezas. He bragged that noone had ever jacked a vehicle up and stolen the tires on his watch. Good to know.
The girls chose a tavern with outdoor seating and Shelton went off to purchase the beers. We were alone in the early afternoon except for one table occupied by a quartet of feisty-looking characters in their late teens, one of whom took a liking to Karen, eyballed her and made a comment. Not a girl for nonsense, Ms. Kirkland replied, “Specious asses!” I think they got the “asses” part and were less than amused. Janis looked at me with concern. “Oh-oh!” she said.
Just as one of the offended party was rising from his chair, Gilbert returned with the beers, smiling and speaking in Spanish to the offended table on his way back, totally oblivious to the preceding hostilities. They replied in kind and the ringleader sat back down, pacified. The rest of us exhaled and Janis smiled in relief. “The Lone Ranger rides again!” she said. Good thing, too, because Tonto wasn’t carrying.
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| Nuevo Laredo |
Silver Threads And Golden Retrievers
Two years after the Subterranean Circus opened, we bought the building next door, spent a small fortune renovating it and opened Silver City, which featured the clothing and jewelry we no longer had room for at the Circus. We bought most of our accessories at the twice-a-year National Boutique Show in Manhattan, where one of the exhibitors regaled us with the wonders of Mexico, particularly Taxco, a city built over and around hundreds of Mexican silver mines. Harolyn and I decided to go there to see what we could see. We took $2000 in travelers checks and another $2000 in cash, which we converted into a wheelbarrow full of pesos in Mexico City. I was stuffing multicolored bills in all my pockets, socks, underwear and bodily orifices and still had plenty left over. I felt like Scrooge McDuck.
The distance from Mexico City to Taxco was only about 80 miles but our Estrella de Oro bus took all morning to get there on the winding, hilly roads. Evidence of the quirky driving conditions was all around us as we rode, mainly at the bottom of steep cliffs where once-proud vehicles rested in rusting pieces. We finally arrived at our pleasant-looking downtown hotel, which turned out to be right across the street from the loudest bar in the city. If you like your lullabies concocted with mariachi music, this is the place for you. We moved to a quiet-looking hilltop hotel as far from the main zocalo as possible, congratulating ourselves on our cleverness. But only until the late hours brought a divine chorus of hundreds of baying and barking dogs discussing the brilliance of the Taxco full moon. Ay, caramba! Talk about your Sleepless in Sonora.
Business was good, though. One of our contacts put out the word to relatives that Santa was in town and the next morning there was an ever-lengthening line of ladies at the relatives’ door, all anxious to show us their fine home-made goods. Each lady who came to the table had a little bag containing either rings, bracelets, necklaces or earrings, whichever was her specialty, all priced to sell at ridiculously low figures, and our pile of colored cash began to diminish. By the end of the day, we were down to the travelers checks, which were eyed with suspicion and required the approval of a waddling Big Daddy to pass muster. We left before dinner, waving goodbye to the growing number of folks visiting to watch the upcoming news on the lone TV set in the neighborhood, making our way between the roaming pigs and chickens and nodding goodbye to the lovely portraits of Jesus and JFK on the wall. High above the quieting streets of the lazy town, perched in doorways and windows and yards littered with Mexican detritus, the dogs of night were waiting.
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| Taxco |
Take Me For A Ride In Your Car Car.
Puebla, Mexico is the onyx capital of the civilized world. You want it, they got it. Onyx dope pipes, onyx ashtrays, onyx chess sets, onyx Chrysler convertibles….and all for bargain prices. Harolyn and I made our made our way down to the little onyx marketplace, haggled a bit (it’s expected, play along) and found a willing seller. While we had lunch, the happy merchants boxed up our stuff and dollied it down to the nearby bus station. It was almost too smooth to be a Mexican transaction we thought correctly.
The generalissimo at the bus station, nattily attired in full military dress, promptly advised us we could not take all of our eighteen large boxes on the bus back to Mexico City. Why not? “Not enough room.”
“So how many can we take?”
“Uno.”
“WHAT?!?
“Uno.”
“What about the rest of them?”
“Each bus, one.”
What’s a poor gringo to do? After berating the Mexican rules of shipping and pointing out the threat to international relations, not to mention man’s inhumanity to man, the deadlock stood; the answer was still “uno.” There were no airline flights out of Puebla, the train schedule was ridiculous and it would take eighteen buses several days to deliver our stuff. Then I remembered the old taxi slogan, “The thinking fellow calls a yellow.” Ah, salvation lurks!
Now I don’t want to say the cab fleet in Puebla bordered on the junkyard dog category but you would not be putting your aging grandmother in one of these shabby antiques without checking her will. The taxis, however, had one fetching quality---they were very available and hungry for business. We negotiated a deal with one eager beaver and began loading up, noting a spiffily-dressed policeman nearby who seemed to take too much interest in our antics. As the trunk filled and the rear end of the vehicle sunk almost to the street, the cop tapped the fender with his baton. With a remorseful look on his face at the loss of the pending sale of the day, the driver forlornly walked up to us. “He says it is too heavy,” the cabbie mourned.
And he was right. The taxi, weak of tire tread and suspect of radiator, would never finish the two hour trip. This was obviously a job for two cabs and our driver quickly rustled up a brother-in-arms. To protect our property, Harolyn and I would ride in separate cabs, less than a thrilling prospect for her. “How much do you think I’m worth on the white slaver market?” she asked. I told her not to worry, we’d keep her in sight and if her cabbie tried to drive off I could probably catch him on foot with all the weight he was carrying. Her worries about wifenapping dissolved into hysterical laughter when the radiator blew up halfway to Mexico City. Sometimes all you can do is laugh.
Everyone Loves A Parade. Well, Almost Everyone.
There being zero policia in the middle of nowhere to disagree, we loaded the merchandise from the wounded taxi into the remaining sound vehicle and puttered on to the Mexico City airport where we stashed the stuff in lockers. Alas, the airport hotel, despite our reservations, had given away our room. “We thought you weren’t coming. It’s two a.m.” the manager said. “I can get you a room in Zona Rosa (downtown).” Do your best we told him. Within an hour we were ensconced on the fifth floor of a very nice hostelry. Worn out by the long and frustrating day, we crashed immediately, planning to remain abed until ten since we had a late flight. What’s that they say about the best-laid plans of mice and men? In Mexico, where “awry” is a leading adverb, you can bet on it.
Somewhere in the neighborhood of 5 a.m., Harolyn spoke from her stupor. “Bill, I think I hear music. Tell me I’m crazy so I can go back to sleep.” Barely conscious, covers over my ears, I could hear nothing, nor did I want to. “You’re dreaming, I said, dismissively.
“No…it’s very faint, but it’s band music. Listen, it’s getting a little louder.” Damned if it wasn’t. In moments like this, your brain strains to contemplate the situation but without much luck. Brass band music at five in the morning is an impossibility in your experience. Who would create it, where would it come from? I struggled to the window, pulled back the curtain and watched in amazement as several groups of uniformed marchers….nurses, boy scouts, bus drivers, etc., all crisp in their little parade garb….marched around the square, a new subgroup meshing into the parade each time it circled. They were practicing for the gigantic upcoming Cinco de Mayo Independence Day parade before everyone had to go to work.
Despite my brainfog, I was reduced to snickering, then outright laughter. Harolyn got up and joined in. It was then and there that we realized that to survive in this culture we had to go back to square one, revamp all our previous knowledge and learn to Think Like A Mexican. It became our credo, our heart’s desire, the first thing we thought of when we woke up in the morning, the last we considered at the end of the day. We would come back to this country and fit in like peas in a vaina, I promised her. Just watch us in chapter Two.
That’s all, folks….
