Mexico is
a hot breeze of diesel
a passing reek of sewage
sweet smell of fruits
chilies
sweet drinks
spicy, salty fried snacks
heavy heat of sunshine
unfinished construction
decaying infrastructure
music people know the words
and sing along.
I know…
we see a only small part.
West-coast Mexico
and rarely more than a few miles
from a shoreline.
A wet slice of the country.
We do see poverty,
but I don’t see:
drug addicts
living in tents
in public parks
harassing for spare change
rooting through trash
leaving syringes in gutters
tweaking out at bus stops or
full zombie-mode
on a street corner
like in the good ol' USA.
The big extended families of Mexicans
seems like a wonderful safety net,
and though many have little money
they work, they eat well, and
they appear to enjoy life.
Mexicans aren’t friendly, or unfriendly, to us.
They accept us for what we are.
Their dispositions are neutral.
We know we’re obscenely
price-gouged sometimes
when it comes to sailboat supplies,
especially
but it’s offset with cheap
food, drink, and transportation.
When we see young children
hawking items
or helping out
in family restaurants,
I wonder if they're not better off playing,
enjoying a childhood freedom
I must have taken for granted.
we have
luxury of time
slow months soaking it in
hours to think, and
hours to walk aimlessly
without thinking
We see the tourist spots
hordes of gringos getting drunk
throwing money around
talking loud in half-assed Spanish
we see where Mexicans
vacation
blast loud music
and sometimes sing along!
watch their kids play in the surf
generations of a family
under a few shades
plenty of food
and endless snacking
lots of beer
always the kids in the water
trying to get grandma to come in
she smiles but is steadfast
keeping the food coming
We also live for
brief times in places where
only cruisers
and fisherman
and wildlife live
areas where nature rules
man is the intruder
Born here
but now a visitor
I swim deeply, fishing for feelings
examining what comes up
what it might reveal about me
what traces of my ancestors
whispers of evidence
Mexico is a current of feelings
some mysterious part of my identity.
I don't understand, at all.
There is the Mexico
before my eyes
of my past
and tales told by my living family
and tales lost by those passed on
I speak Spanish, but not Mexican Spanish.
My Spanish is often met with smiles,
and I’m easily understood. I’m always asked
”¿De dónde es usted?”
where are you from.
When I visited Central America, I always lied.
”Canada!” I’d say. Nobody has anything against Canadians.
Now I say the truth: I’m American, but that I love Mexico
have travelled all across the country
and I’m working hard to practice Spanish.
I never mention being Mexican-born
having Mexican heritage, since I’m far from
coming to terms with it.
Long ago in a forgotten novel, a character
enjoyed a pleasant daydream about the
possibility of dying and being reborn
as a Mexican.
Other than the months we cruised
Baja California and the Sea
I've never lived in a desert, and it
was a deeply moving change
but always felt alien.
We're deep in the tropics now
boisterous birds singing their hearts out
every morning
pesky flying critters, damn them!
fish slapping the water around us
at all hours
big sea birds noisy coming aboard
for a few midnight winks
”get off my stainless!”
A heron and I scared the daylights out of each other
just around 3am this morning
when I heard something
climbing around on deck.
It gets greener the further south we go
Jungle and all that comes with it.
Somehow this feels more like where I belong
or at least in these low-digit latitudes
I’ve never felt more human
and real somehow.
Some of that realness comes from
the sailing we do,
from putting ourselves
at the mercy of nature
ever humbled by the sea.
We’ve been enjoying Mexico tremendously
and when I’m not missing my family back home
my heart is full.
We’re eyeing the horizon, wondering how much
longer we’ll stay here in Mexico.