Crime may pay
When church groups and civic clubs, north of the border, are seeking something for almost nothing, they sometimes invite me to tell about life in Mexico. Some listeners squirm around and seem dissatisfied, maybe disappointed, with what they get.
At least part of the audience is expecting tacos but I describe Jose's Place, on the square in Chapala, and praise his magic touch with barbecued ribs and shrimp grilled in garlic butter. This is one Jalisco version of paradise.
I paint a word picture of pelicans diving for their dinner as the sun sinks into the Pacific at Barra de Navidad. This is a west coast version, a spectacular scene.
I take listeners along in exploration of Mayan ruins. We visit colonial cities and marvel at the architecture. From a safe distance, we enjoy carnival at Veracruz. We drive over the Sierra Madre to here and there. We work our way down the Baja. We endure fireworks at 4 a.m., either the beginning or end of another fiesta.
Sometimes I get up close and personal. There is the story of perky Petra Ramos hopping aboard a tour bus to extol the virtues of country living to a captive audience of Guadalajara city-slickers. This is pure Jocotepec, grandma at her best.
My captive audiences smile and nod in lukewarm approval. Too many are not too enthusiastic. They yearn for the real stuff, taxi holdups and pickpockets on the Mexico City metro, twisted iron bars and neighborhood break-ins, even in walled enclaves. They really like bus stops for highway bandits.
I pretend to protest but, in answer to direct questions, I admit that crime does sometimes pay.
Yes, yes, that's what we want. Tell us more! Tell us the dangers you have braved to be, for all those years, a snowbird in Mexico. Tell us the risks you take to drive your little white VW bug all around that dangerous Third World country. Oh, you are so daring! Do you and Sarah have bodyguards?
What hogwash, what malarkey! (Canadian pronunciation of Melaque).
Northern audiences sit up straight and lean forward if I admit we have twice endured home intrusions. That is supposedly the politically correct description for young thugs who pry apart steel bars, break glass, squeeze through the opening and make a mess, bleeding on the floor while rummaging through closets and drawers in search of great riches.
Listeners drift down from their instant high when they learn that I did not personally confront the intruders with machete in hand, that we were somewhere else in the world on both occasions, that our losses, beyond the damage, were minimal -- small TVs, a VCR, two boomboxes, a few CDs, a microwave, one box of dominoes and a bag of hard candy.
Some smile when I explain the bandits could not drag our out-of-date couch and out-of-tune piano through the wreckage.
Others smile -- a little -- at the report of the second official investigation, seven policemen in the house at once, arguing about who did it and how to keep it from happening again. Sometimes I admit that the police captain lived across the street, which explains why we had so much help.
The northern audience does not relate to our solution, heavy steel curtains that pull down and lock from the inside. They seem puzzled when I describe the big sign which says "No pesos en casa."
Men and women, boys and girls, are intrigued by Mexico kidnappings. They are counting drug murders and beheadings four or five at a time. Our story of the ambushed armored truck always generates excited questions.
On the way to Mazamitla one morning, up the hill from Highway 15, we came upon the remains. The money delivery had been halted by gunfire. The driver's side of the front glass was shot out, perhaps with a cannon. The truck had been opened with a big can opener or welding torch. Paper pesos were actually scattered along the roadside.
Fourteen -- we counted 'em -- police cars and trucks created a considerable traffic jam. Twice that many officers were down in the grass, gathering money, stuffing it into plastic grocery bags. No doubt this was official duty, not personal harvesting. Alas, we have no report of money truck survivors.
The story of our neighbor losing her Dodge pickup truck generates minor interest. Cars are stolen every day, even in South Dakota and Wyoming.
There is more intense audience interest in Highway 200 nighttime stories, down in Guerrero where bandits have been known to fell an occasional tree or roll large rocks into the road to block traffic. Once you stop for the obstruction, an old car rushes in behind you, suddenly eliminating the possibility of retreat. You are obliged to give up your money, credit cards, watch and jewels.
This is exciting stuff but the night bus robbery is best, the one where bandits waved flaming palm fronds to wake up the driver and persuade him to stop for a bridge that really wasn't out, then went down the aisle, holding out a large sombrero, taking up a generous collection.
Church groups and civic clubs love it when storytime coincides with what they already believe or just saw on TV. To millions elsewhere in the world, Mexico is one giant movie set and Pancho Villa is hiding behind every tall cactus.
I inevitably spoil the fun by switching back to flower gardens, fresh mangos and Monarch butterflies.
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