The second thing every Guadalajara tourist must do is visit the Plaza of the Mariachis in the early evening when the mariachi bands are in flower. It’s a memorable spot to sample a local cerveza or three while roving bands of uniformed musicians play the music of the hour. You could summon your very own contingent and have them sing a song, any song, for a mere dollar. If the melody you chose always seemed to come out sounding a lot like Cielito Lindo, well, it’s just possible these Guadalajarans aren’t all that familiar with Who Let The Dogs Out, (woof woof!), so be kind.
Sometimes, the thrall of the mariachis causes a rapt visitor to sit a little too long and drink a little too much. Seated at a table about twenty feet from that of Rick Nihlen, Harolyn and I was a quartet of Mexican college students, one of whom was particularly fixated on my wife. Although this sort of thing was not unusual since Harolyn looked the way she did, this character was pushing the limits of acceptable gaping. I started staring back, which made the fellow somewhat uneasy. He looked away, obviously uncomfortable. When he looked back, there I was still riveted on his gaze. Finally, aided by the benefits of alcohol, he leaped up from the table and wobbled angrily toward us, stopping only when his three amigos jumped up and grabbed him. By then he was yelling, waving his arms and spewing venom in my direction. “Sorry, my friends, Eduardo has had too much to drink. He says you are giving him the Evil Eye.”
What? Who knew? I wasn’t even trying. I was unfamiliar with these strange ocular powers. Oh, I knew that Superman could see through women’s clothing, but that was pretty much it. I wondered how powerful I might be if I practiced, focused all my eyeball energy on a subject. (If you see me comin’, better look aside---a lot of men didn’t and a lot of men died.) If I was arrested, what would the charges be? Assault with a deadly retina?
Mal de Oro, it turns out, goes all the way back to Greek Classical Antiquity. Plutarch stated that the eyes were the chief source of deadly rays that sprung up like poisoned darts from the recesses of a being possessing the Evil Eye. He regarded the phenomenon as something inexplicable, a source of wonder and incredulity. Pliny the Elder described the ability of certain African enchanters to have “the power of fascination with the eyes, which can even kill those on whom they fix their gaze.” Wow! Maybe I should look up a staring coach and get some practice in. It might be possible to create rays which cause delayed destruction, thus being miles away when the victim turns to jelly. Don’t mess with Bill.
Then again, I have always been a fan of John-Dalberg Acton, who advised us long ago that “Power tends to corrupt and great power corrupts absolutely.” Like Superman, I should use my powers for good, with just the occasional exception. Like anyone, however, I despise waiting in long lines, so the other day I thought I’d cast an eye on a Neanderthal who was holding up the works in an Ocala supermarket line. After a couple of uncomfortable minutes, the brute turned and rudely asked, “What are YOU staring at, pal?”
I’m thinking of moving to Mexico.
Getting There Is Half The Fun. Okay, Maybe One-Sixteenth.
“Mention my name in Patamban. It’s the greatest little town in the world!”---Beatrice Kay
If a traveler spends much time wandering the museums of Mexico City, and what traveler doesn’t, he will soon run across an unlikely objet d’ art subject, the humble pineapple. The tasty fruit is a symbol of welcome, hospitality, even friendship and it is ubiquitous in Mexican galleries, art palaces and gift stores. Like everything else, of course, there are pineapples and there are pineapples. The very best pieces in the country are crafted in the hidden hamlet of Patamban, in the municipality of Tangancicuaro in the state of Michoacan, and your GPS is not going to find it.
Of course, you can save yourself a lot of trouble and just buy one of the things right off the museum floor, but then your wallet would start making violent choking sounds and your hair would stand on end. Only a connoisseur with an 800+ credit rating or a local drug cartel treasurer would spring for those. “I will go to the source of the pineapples,” vowed Bill Killeen, setting forth into the hinterlands as have explorers before him. “The golden pineapple will be mine!”
But what if the road is steep, the journey long, the jungles dense and the pathways invisible? That’s what intrepid fruit-fanciers Bill, Harolyn and Rick faced in their quest for the holy grail when they reached Paracho (meaning: “where nobody speaks English”), the nearest civilized town to the source of the pineapples. The villagers rushed off to fetch the only local who spoke the foreign tongue.
Twenty minutes later, a small dust cloud arose on the horizon. It was the search party surrounding Jorge the Wise, thrilled to be part of Something Big. Jorge marched into town shoulders back, his stout belly leading the way, a wry smile of importance under his greying mustache. The big man stuck out his hand in friendship and announced “I am Jorge De Los Santos and many years ago I work in the steel mills of Pittsburgh!”
“Ah yes,” we acknowledged, addressing the natives. “The famous city of three rivers!” Jorge beamed his enormous smile and translated liberally to the crowd, which was duly impressed. Then we got down to business. How the hell do we get to Patamban? Jorge summoned the sole Paracho taxi driver, who frowned and tugged on his chin.
“How many hours do you have for this journey, my friends?” the cabbie asked. Well, it’s only eight miles, how long could it take? Turns out, plenty. “Three and one-half hours, amigos. The road is very bad with many holes.” Jeez, we could walk there and back in seven hours, but probably not carrying giant pineapples.
“So how do the Patambans get their pineapples to the market?” we asked. “Ah—many burros,” the driver said. But we have no burros in Paracho.” Sadly, the milling crowd accepted the fact nothing big was going down this day. Jorge’s information was all for naught, the cabbie would not be getting a big fare, we would not be spending the night at the local hotel or dining at any Paracho restaurants. The sudden misery was too much to countenance, so we spread around some of our pineapple money on tips and ecstasy reigned once more.
Then, as the Lone Ranger likes to do, we took our leave while nobody noticed. We like to think that some day Jorge and the gang will be sitting out under the trees of the zocalo regaling their children with tales of the day the famous Tres Gringos came to town and brought treasures. The kids would all smile, jump up and down and applaud, then beg “Show it to us again, Papa!” And Jorge will smile, reach into his pocket with tantalizing delay and raise the shining silver bullet into the sunlight.
Cue the music, Fred.
So You Want To Buy An Island
“Down the way, where the nights are gay and the sun shines daily on the mountaintop….”---Harry Bellafonte
“Yeah, but then what?”---Bill Killeen
Judging by the general reaction to such an opportunity, one of the great coups of a lifetime must be to purchase an island. It needn’t have amenities like a walled mansion or a long pier with a yacht moored to a gilded pole, a plain patch of land surrounded by water is enough. Hopefully, there will be a beach, but if not we can always work it out. If you own an island, people will follow in your wake, listen to your mad ravings, clean up after you and be grateful for the opportunity. It’s a kind of madness, this island fetish, and for a sordid corps of non-believers a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma. I think it's Jimmy Buffett's fault.
If I am missing the boat about this island business, I blame it on my birthplace, Massachusetts, where the beaches are arctic outposts for seven months a year and the ocean is freezing in July. Living on an island up there would be somewhat akin to being posted on a gulag in Siberia or being assigned lighthouse duty on the Kamchatka Peninsula. My sister Alice and others of her ilk raved about going to the beach in those days but it was not so much the shoreline which offered alluring charms but the action attendant in neighboring arcades, saloons and amusement parks. The first thing anyone did when they got to Salisbury Beach was rush over to Tripoli’s Pizza.
Nonetheless, when visiting Puerto Vallarta, I was always regaled with tales of Yelapa, a native village across the waves accessible only by boat. If Yelapa was not an island it was the next thing to it, surrounded by dense jungles and unincumbered by noisy motor vehicles. If you went to Yelapa, you could sleep in a thatched hut on a silver beach and ride willing horses along a gurgling river to a sacred waterfall with not a soul in sight. My wife was thrilled beyond comprehension to hear about this place so being a curious and dutiful husband I made arrangements to go. Not completely oblivious to the possibilities of adversity involved in traveling with a beautiful woman, I pocketed a small two-shot Derringer, and took it along for the ride.
No need for concern, however, all went swimmingly on our trip down the river, the prepacked meal was delicious and romance bloomed in the fragrant night air. There was that nasty business of flushing the toilet with pails of seawater, but a small price to pay for the glories of island life. Then, around eight, as the sun set in the western sky, Harolyn looked over from her lounge chair and asked, “What do you want to do now?”
“I don’t know, Marty, what do YOU want to do?” (I don’t think she saw the movie.) I know, I know, you think I’m an ungrateful boor, a calloused and unappreciative lout not held in sway by the natural beauties of our simple Earth….guilty as charged. I’d like my newspaper now, preferably containing its New York Times crossword puzzle, or at least a radio station with the ball scores. How about a lousy jigsaw puzzle like my grandmother used to while away the hours? Even a whipped bricklayer can’t sleep from nine til six. I wondered about the possibility the morning pickup boat might forget us and we’d have to forage for berries and grubs the next day, that we might be doomed to eternal exile on the wretched island.
By morning, I was standing at the water’s edge, binoculars in hand, staring at the horizon, while Harolyn---overconfidently, in my book---got her things together for the return trip. Then, there it was, headed steadily in our direction, the first vestiges of a rescue ship---salvation was at hand! Despite the charms of the remaining evening stars, the soft lapping of the waves gently kissing the shore, a gentle morning breeze caressing our bodies, I was more than ready to cede our Eden to the next misguided customer. I bowed once again to the wisdom of Aesop and his superior advice; “Be careful what you wish for---you just might get it.”
Tlaquepaque dreamin'
That’s all, folks….
bill.killeen094@gmail.com
