Adventures on the Deep Blue Sea

The weather in the Skaggerak turned ugly. On top of the swells white caps appeared and the wind gusts increased to 25 knots. I started to feel ill as the boat rolled back and forth and side to side. It was time to seek shelter.

We chose Larkvik fjord to look for protection from the brewing storm. The east coast of Norway offers little shelter and even when we had made our way up into the bay at the end of the fjord we were still being buffetted by wind and water. Exhaustion set in and we needed to stop so we dropped anchor in the failing light.

Hanging on a hook was frightening. The boat bobbed up and down all night, swaying with the waves and setting off the alarm periodically. Each time the alarm sounded we were startled awake. We then ran up to see if the shore were any closer. Since we were anchored only about 20 feet from the beach, it would not take long for our boat to run aground if our anchor did not hold. The dawn broke at 4am and we woke as fatigued as when we went to sleep.

The rain had started. A Dutchman anchored next to us offered to help us find another, safer location by using his dinghy to scout other possible anchorages. With his help, we found a small powerboat marina that had a guest dock for a nice restaurant that was large enough for Ranidan (our length overall is 40 ft). He used his dinghy to push us sideways against the wind so we could tie up to the quay. Finally sheltered from the wind for the first time in more than 24 hours, we both felt completely exhausted.

We went into the restaurant for hot food. We had moved the boat in the chill rain and we were cold. Then we each took a hot shower in the closet bathroom on the boat and finally passed out and slept until the next day. Slowly, we recovered. The next day, we needed to walk into town and resupply our provisions. The storm had passed and the day promised to be warmer, sunnier, enjoyable. Last year we had met some people from Larvik and we decided to give them a call. Arvid and Gerd responded immediately and offered to have us join them at their marina for a Midsummer Festival that evening. Still tired, we were delighted to have Arvid come aboard and sail us back down the fjord to a small, sheltered marina.

Soon, people started coming for the BBQ. Lots of families with small children who were happy to fish for crabs or just to hang out a line. It was mayhem but we loved the feeling of being included in such a personal celebration. Arvid, as the president of his yacht club, made us unofficial members and gave us jackets with their insignia! Around 10 pm, we piled on several boats for a “Boat Parade.” The boats took a slow course single file out around one of the islands.

“It’s kind of silly, but it’s what we do,” said the young woman next to me. “When the fire danger is low, we also have the tradition of having bonfires on the beach.” Sure enough, small fires blazed golden against the darkening sky in a friendly sort of way. When we returned to our own marina, a large fire was burning and we all huddled around it to warm up from the boat parade.

At midnight of the longest day of the year, the sun had set and it finally grew dark. Families had disappeared into their boats to sleep. We had closed our eyes knowing that we would be making our last voyage into the Skaggerak the next morning. The plan was to cross from Norway to Sweden at the north end where the water comes out of the Oslo fjord and smashes into the current coming up from the south. While the sky had cleared for the evening, another storm was promised for the next day. We wanted to get an early start and, hopefully, outrun the bad weather coming our way. With dawn scheduled for 4 am, morning would come very early indeed. (to be continued)

“Well, folks, there’s nothing to worry about. The plane is just fine. We seem to be having a problem with the airport in Guadalajara, though. They have informed us that the airport closes at 11:30 pm with no execeptions. Unfortunately, I just can’t make the plane go fast enough to get there in time. I also contacted Puerto Vallarta to see if we could land there but they have the same restrictions. So, don’t worry, we’ll just make a long, slow turn and head back to Dallas for the night. The ground crew will let you know what happens next when you exit the plane. That’s all for now folks.”

I listened to the announcement in disbelief. We were already 1 1/2 hours into a 2 1/2 hour flight. It was 10:30 pm and I was just looking forward to seeing Jim again after a week. Instead, we were going back to Dallas! Since the flight was primarily Mexican, the announcement in Spanish drew an audible buzz among the rest of the passengers.

“Don’t worry folks,” the pilot announced some time later. “We will be providing each of you with a place to sleep and there is another flight scheduled for noon tomorrow. We won’t be offloading the luggage, but you will be able to pick it up tomorrow at your destination. Have a good evening.”

It was now past midnight as everyone slowly deboarded and we were herded onto busses that took us to the hotel. One by one we received our assigned rooms. I was near the end of the line and I finally slid the key into my lock around 2:30 am. There was a cockroach in the bathroom to keep me company and this was the Hyatt! I did manage a few hours of sleep before heading off, again, to the Dallas airport.

We arrived in Guadalajara successfully in the afternoon. Unfortunately, the luggage didn’t come with us. Maybe it was left on the other plane or maybe it was unloaded onto a cart and stored somewhere. After waiting through the long line for entry visas, more than half the plane (myself included) waited expectantly at the luggage carousel. Next came the long lines to register our lost luggage. The customs agent was helpful and checked off my luggage sight unseen so that the airline can deliver the goods when they find them. I hope it’s soon, it’s been more than 24 hours. The agent had reassured me that the suitcases would most likely be on the next plane. It was sceduled to arrive at 11:30 pm last night but it might have been late and I know what that means.

We took our empleada Rosa home early on Independence day. She lives in a puebla outside of the city, past the horse pastures, and down roads that are narrow and unpaved. About a block from her house is a small amphitheater with seating around about half of the circle. Rosa asked us to join her at the charreada which is like an American rodeo. The events included horse stopping. chasing cows, and riding around in circles. When the participants weren’t actually in the ring, they would spend their time on their horses making them dance (tapping their front hooves rhythmically) or having them twirl round in circles. I felt dizzy just watching them.

One cow refused to participate. He was supposed to buck and jump with a cowboy on his back. The gate opened and he hesitated in the stall. After being pushed into the ring, he would only walk uncooperatively. Finally, his rider got off and they moved on to the second part of his act. Now, the charreros (cowboys) tried to get him to run around so they could rope his legs and make him fall down. This bull would have no part of it and sat down in the middle of the ring, refusing to budge. One brave charrero tried to motivate him by zapping him with an electric wand to no avail. Finally, he resorted to biting the bull’s tail (yes with his mouth ). But this bull was no dope, he just sat there and let them do what they would. Why should he get up and run around only to have them rope his ankles and knock him down? I couldn’t stop laughing!

The mariachi band kept playing its loud, brassy music. The bull kept siting patiently while the charreros decided what to do next and when they finally opened the gate to let him leave, he was out of there. The horses were much more lively. In this event the charrero stands on the ground while the horse is made to run around the arena. Keeping his eye on the horse, he whirls and twirls his rope in the air, jumping through it and back. When the horse runs by, he manages to rope his feet, causing him to stumble and go down. It is really a display of amazing eye hand coordination at lightening fast speed. If the charrero mistakenly ropes the wrong legs, he must let the horse go because to cause him to fall then might break the horse’s leg. All this must be noticed and decided in fractions of a second.

I think the women have it the hardest because they must all ride side saddle. Their display of horsemanship involved riding their horses at ramming speed towards one another and barely missing a collision. It is a drilled event that reveals the relationship between rider and horse. Normally, a horse does not charge another horse in this manner and both rider and horse must have nerves of steel to do so. The young women wore brilliant yellow dresses that flew up provocatively as they charged around the ring.

The sun rose, the dust rose, and the temperature rose. Even sitting in the shade was hot so we stepped over the people crowded into the viewing stands, past the still fragrant piles of fresh manure, tipped our heads to the very young children (maybe 5 or 6) riding around on very large horses, and made our way back to our car. The return trip was like a return to civilisation as we drove down the dirt lane to the cobbled street to the paved road and back on to a highway. Amazingly, Rosa makes this journey everyday, riding the bus an hour each way to go to work or school.

Every year on October 12, the Virgin of Zapopan travels. She leaves the main cathedral in downtown Guadalajara and travels 4 miles back to her home in the cathedral of Zapopan. How else would she travel except by a virgin car, one that has never been started. Last year an estimated 4 million people attended her. Today, people started passing our apartment at 6:30 am and did not stop until noon. Wow, that’s a river of people flowing down Avenida Camacho.

Early on there were only walkers. As the sky lightened and the crowds thickened, native dancers would sometimes pass by. Their native costumes included feathered head gear, leather knee highs, armlets - some looked mayan, some looked more pawnee so it wasn’t clear which indigenous peoples were being represented. More people flowed past and the streets became even more constricted by onlookers. Bands blared past dominated by the sounds of the brass section. As the time for the Virgin to pass drew closer, the crowd began to clap a steady beat as well. The effect was hypnotic.

Dozens of monks passed in the long brown robes followed by nuns dressed in white. Then we saw it, a giant green pumpkin. The Virgin in a pumpkin? This was more than we could figure out but sure enough, there was a large squash being propelled along the parade route. Without an interpreter to explain things to us we could only go by what we could see.

Fortunately, we didn’t stop looking. Eventually, we spotted long yellow lines attached to a white (symbolizing virgin) car. I’m not sure where the Virgin was, probably inside, but certainly it was her car. The crowd went wild with their rhythmic clapping. As she passed, we noticed that she was being watched over by the police in the sky (helicopters). I’m not sure it they were worried she might escape or that someone might steal her. This is a very interesting place.

Long after she passed, people were still moving by, following her faithfully to her home in Zapopan. It’s called the Peregrination which means she has a tendency to roam around. Maybe that’s why they keep the pumpkin handy! After all the people passed, there were long lines of taxis for the people who wanted to make the journey but were unable to walk the distance. By 1pm, everyone had gone. Millions of people had passed just below us on the street and there was nothing left to show for it. But, I know where the Virgin lives now and I plan to go visit her soon. I just hope she’s at home.

The plan is to visit someplace cultural each week and this weekend we went down town. We started with a ride in a horse drawn carriage. Clackity, clackity, clackity the horse’s hoofs clattered on the pavement as we followed a circuit that led around the grand central plaza, past several large cathedrals, and in front of some stately colonial homes. We even passed the American Embassy with its high fences, guard shacks, and cameras monitoring everything that moves.

After our picturesque preview, we went back to visit some of the ancient buildings that date from the 16oo’s. The walls are stunning, made from huge stones carved precisely to fit together and create enormous buildings. The governor’s palace, for example, is at least two blocks long with walls 20-30″ thick. The ceilings are 15 ft. high which enabled the early inhabitants to maintain a cool, fresh interior. The building is like a fortress with exterior walls surrounding interior courtyards. The two stories both have serial arches that definitely reflect the Moorish influence of the Spaniards who settled there.

We also visited two cathedrals which were built in the gothic style with grand interiors more than two stories high. Stained glass windows on either side shone with brilliant colors. The churches were being used for mass even as we visited but the other buildings have been converted into museums.

Living side by side with one’s history seems to be a interesting experience. In Spain and Portugal, we found the same commitment to maintaining the past. Other places, such as London which burned down in the 1800’s, Sweden which didn’t come into its own until the late 1800’s, and the west coast of the US where I’ve always lived, simply don’t have the weight of years upon them. Still, the number of people actually visiting these monuments appeared to be small, nothing like Disneyland or Knotts Berry Farm. I think they are probably too big to do anything else with. After all, how does one wi-fi a room whose walls are 20″ of solid stone?

When we first motioned to our agent that we would be interested in the apartment where we now live, the young woman who worked for the apartment’s owner looked at us shyly. Quickly, she also looked down to hide the fear that arose momentarily. Since we were discussing the business arrangements in English, she could not know how the conversation was going. I inquired about her situation and the agent looked surprised at my concern. She related the young woman’s name was Rosa and she currently worked for the owner 5 days a week. With some reluctance, she also mentioned that Rosa needed the work to help her family out financially.

Of course, I am not accustomed to having a maid or household employee and with just the two of us in the apartment I could not imagine utilizing her services for 30-40 hours a week. I asked if there was some way we could share her services. After some discussion, the other women agreed that we would each be able to pay her for two days a week. So, I began my role as an employer.

Rosa is very intelligent and, in spite of my poor Spanish, has been able to share a little about herself. She is the oldest of 8 children. When she was 12, her father left to go to the US to find work. He never returned and they have not hear from him since. She works as household help because it is what she learned from her mother. She rides a bus from her puebla which is more than 1 hour away. Recently, she has taken on a course of learning to use the computer and goes to school every afternoon. She takes a bus from here on the days she works and travels 30 minutes to the downtown. Her return trip at night is again over an hour and takes 3 buses.

I agreed with the other women to only pay Rosa 150 pesos per day. This amounts to less than US$15. For that amount, she completely cleans the apartment, waters the plants, does the laundry, and, on Fridays, cooks for us. WOW. She is a hard worker, completely trustworthy and handles everything so confidently that I have no doubt that if we are gone for any length of time she will have managed quite well in our absence. It is a challenge for me only because I am not used to such economic inequality. Because I cannot change the financial situations we each find ourselves in, I am opting to treat her with kindness and respect and to honor her as a person. I am delighted that we are so fortunate to have someone like her work for us in that most intimate environment, our home.

An enormous mercado with over 1000 stalls is located in the center of Guadalajara so for a cultural excursion, we decided to check it out. The small stores selling anything you can imagine begin blocks away from the mercado itself. The traffic increased until we felt swept along in a river of buyers anxious to find exactly what they were looking for. Upon entering the building, we first ecountered the tourist goods: the tee shirts with Guadalajara embroidered in a splash of color across a black background, hats from charreadas (the big flashy sombreros covered with glitter that you often see hanging in Mexican restaurants north of the border), and even exquisitely detailed leather saddles in a shop that has dozens of leather boots to choose from. The storekeepers were hawking their goods as we passed by and for once I was glad I could just look at them dumbly and say No entiendo (I don’t understand) and keep moving.

Finally, we arrived at the central area of an enormous warehouse like structure. It is two stories and the top is filled with small food stands where you can buy fresh tortillas, ceviche, menudo, fresh fruit juice - anything you might want for lunch someone is going to try and sell to you. Below is the fresh produce and carnicerias (meat shops). We walked through the narrow lanes of vegetables and sometimes dulcerias (sweets) until we came to the carnicerias. The smell preceded it, a rank smell of meat that has been left too long to be any good.

In the US we have been separated from the process that produces meat for us for so long that it is a shock to see animal parts that we don’t normally eat. A cow’s head, bereft of its skin but with its eyes intact, looked placidly from one of the counters. Cow hoofs, abnormally palid and a ghostly white, sat piled on another counter. The skin of a pig (used to deep fry and make chicharrones) hung beside another counter. Whole chickens without feathers but still having heads and feet (now curled into their death spasms) were piled on another counter. The smell was putrid, not because of the meat which was probably fine, but because the tile floor had so many cracks that it was impossible to remove all of the guts and gristle completely. We walked quickly through this section and breathed the fresher air with relief when we returned to the vegetable section.

We went back upstairs to try lunch at one of the many vendors counters. I chose ceviche, one of my favorite foods. They serve it on one of the ever present corn tortillas that they use more like bread or crackers. In front of me was a whole row of chili sauces to choose from. However, it doesn’t seem to matter which brand you choose, they are all hot. Jim had a refresco (soda) which they served in a large glass with salt on the edge and a slice of lime, just like a margarita. The combination of Fanta orange soda and salt was interesting, probably not to do again, but interesting.

We wound our way back through the stalls selling memorabilia of Tapatio (the local name for their city), down the streets to estacionamiento where we retrieved our car and carried on with our day.

Just a quick update on my knees. With rest and some anti inflammatory medication, they have calmed down considerably. I can walk normally again. I am thoroughly enjoying the ability to get out and walk around without feeling like I am grinding glass shards in my knees. For exercise, we are looking into swimming pools which will let me build stamina without challenging mis rodillas.

Finding a gym and exercise facility, however, is our next big challenge. For the most part, the Mexican people do not have a culture of personal health responsibility. Illness is more often due to the evil eye or something. That leaves the culture of physical fitness to primarily the upper classes. The gyms here know this and create elaborate facilities that can cost an arm and a leg to join. Today we visited a club privado that was exquisite. Tennis courts, squash courts, futbol field (actually what we call soccer), olympic size pool, a restaurant sitting on a terrace overlooking the grounds with fabulous food. It was a place to make you feel like you were in a resort. In the locker rooms are lovely steam rooms, saunas, and jacuzzis.

To join all this is a mere US$25,000 initiation fee and $400 per month for the two of us. I always get a bit short of breath when people start talking large numbers and this time was no different. Still, I managed to hold on and ask if we could have lunch on the terrace while we talked about it. Lunch was delicious and we savored the time because you cannot go to this restaurant unless you are a member or a member invites you on Thursday (other days forget it). We won’t be returning. We did get a lead on a great place that should be a good situation for us. More on that next time.

Not too far from Guadalajara is the town of Tequila for which the alcoholic beverage is named. Last Saturday, we took a drive up into the hills covered with the blue maguey plants that are the source of the drink. The town is a more typical Mexican town than Guadalajara which has more recently modernized significantly. Tequila still has cobblestone streets and a center plaza flanked on one side by the cathedral. The older buildings around the plaza are built in traditional stucco over clay bricks with high ceilings to keep the interiors comfortable when it is hot. Dominating the downtown is a striking handsome hacienda that represents the Jose Cuervo bottling company. They offer a tour but it is several dollars and we want to go together with our family when they come at Christmas.

So we walk around the plaza. One street is blocked off and holds a feria offering foods and clothes. It is only then we remember there are no markets in the area. Only small mom and pop, hole in the wall, convenience stores. Weekend ferias are the big shopping event of the week. The vegetables look ok, but the meat looks like it has been sitting out for hours. Definitely not a time for us to try street food. We come across a city owned museum on the production of tequila. For only 15pesos ($1.50) we see a nicely presented history of the discovery and development of the tequila bottling industry. We also learn how the producers have banded together to define their product which can only be grown in this area of Mexico as so unique that it is trademarked. Even when a California company labeled its drink a wine margarita, these producers took them to court claiming that margaritas by definition could only be made with genunine tequila. They won. A margarita is made with tequila or its not a margarita.

We find a map of the town and discover there are 8 more distillerys available for touring. Another time perhaps, because we need to be heading back. On the way there, we had taken the cuota (toll road). On returning we take the calle libre (free road). It winds though the fields of maguey plants that take 10 years to harvest. We pass through another town whose life depends on tequila and several other plantations. Tourism is also big in this area and one can take the Tequila train up from Guadalajara for a large per person fee. It should be a nice ride and the road parralles the tracks for several miles. Finally, we descend for the higher hills down into the flat plain where Guadalajara is built. Tequila is available everywhere. Since there are so many producers of tequila, it would make sense that each bottler would try to develop its own unique taste. Since I am not a drinker, these varieties are completely lost on me. But the histroy and the identification of the Mexican people with this uniquely Mexican product make it an interesting cultural experience for everyone.

I have tried to mail pictures to my dear friends and family for several weeks. What has been told to me is that “The Mexican post office is very bad.” I’m not sure how bad it is, it’s completely unavailable. There are no post offices that any one is aware of, which can be partially explained by the fact that no one uses mail. They do not receive nor send mail. This may be a blessing in disguise as there is no junk mail whatsoever. There are no bills, no subscriptions to magazines, no personal correspondence, no solicitations for support, nothing whatsoever comes in the mail.

I have been given directions to a post office that is unfindable. I have driven to the shopping area where it is supposed to be and driven around looking for it. It’s simply not there. Even if I ask native Tapatios (Guadalajarans) for estampillas (stamps), they look thoroughly confused. I explain further por el correo (for mail) and they nod their heads as if to say, “We have heard of such a thing, but we ourselves have no knowledge of it.”

But, I have my letters to send. The ones I enthusiastically prepared when I first arrived that have been waiting for four weeks to escape to foreign lands. Finally, I decide to use a MailBox place. “Of course, we can mail your letters. If you have US stamps, put them on and we will send them to Texas with our packages and put them in the US mail. You know that the postal service in Mexico is very bad.” This seems a reasonable solution since I have brought US stamps with me. I quickly put the appropriate postage on my letters.

“There is just a small fee that we add for each letter. The total for these will be US$35.” I am stunned. This is not a small fee to include a packet of already stamped letters in a package that is already leaving for the United States. I refuse. I leave with the letters still in my possession.

Fortunately, one of the engineers at Intel will be traveling to Oregon next week. The letters are already stamped and he is happy to drop them in any mailbox. From there, they will swiftly fly all over the world courtesy of the US mail. It is the small things that happen so automatically we fail to realize what grand things they really are. That I can put a letter in my mailbox in Oregon and have it safely and quickly delivered to Peru, Sweden, Norway, the Netherlands, or almost any where else I want, is practically a milagro (miracle).