Pages From Mark's Journal

O.K. I get it. Writing is hard. Sometimes you're just not inspired even when immersed in a unique and exciting culture like here in San Miquel, where anything can happen. What to do? You could dig deep into your psyche and dredge up a little creative poetry that captures the essence of a moment or that tells a story about your Mexican experience. Some creative writing that inspires, repels or just plane lays out the truth of the matter.

Getting ready to throw a treat to the landlords dog below
our balcony. Maybe he'll stop
barking.

That's one option, or as some (who shall remain nameless Susan) might do, you could simply take the easy way out and post a few drawings of the local scenes that you've captured over the weeks. Maybe add a caption below each with a single sentence that sums up the poignant moment.

Just as I was about to enjoy a cup of coffee
at Juan's Cafe, an elderly man begins to
explain to his hard of hearing friend, the
complications of his recent colonoscopy.
Evidently, there was some sort of vein
perforation involved.
"Who's hungry for breakfast?"

While walking the path at the Charco desert
park we came upon what appeared to
be some kind of strange fox/racoon half breed.
Oh yeah, and a bird.























Well, what's good for the goose is good for the gander as they say so I submit in like manner these drawings that I hope will accurately convey my recent activities here in the Corazon de Mexico.

- Posted by Mark

Pages from my Art Journal

Here are some pages from the Art Journal 

I have been keeping here in Mexico.

Enjoy!

Cactus Garden

Cactus

Ay, Chihuaua!

The Ballon Guy

Rooftop Laundry

Gringos in the Jardin

-Posted by Susan

Sounds Of San Miguel

It's probably four am. as I lay wide awake in bed listening to the dog next door growl and bark at something in the dark. It aggressively barks in rapid succession for several minutes before quieting down long enough for me to believe he's finished, and sleep slowly creeps back in to fill the void. Suddenly, the barking starts up again for several minutes followed by a stillness and I begin again to drift. This pattern is repeated until I finally give in and reach for my greasy ear plugs that wait patiently on the night stand. I twist them deeply into place as I curse my false belief that it would have eventually come to an end.

While I listen to the dull, far off sound of the dog through the compressed foam, I think about how loud Mexico is. Generally speaking, it's a noisy place and being in a busy city like San Miguel seems to only amplify this truth. During the day, it's the sound of diesel busses and taxis that compete with the cars and trucks on the narrow cobbled streets that run between the dimpled concrete surfaces of ancient buildings. Throttled motorcycles, engine noise and backfires echo back and forth like giants in a tennis match lobbing hubcap filled garbage cans at each other.

A man walks through the neighborhood clanging two heavy pieces of iron together, a warning that the garbage truck is coming, so bring out your trash. High pitched flutes indicate the knife sharpener is nearby. He rounds the corner with a hand powered grinding stone slung over his back. Sometimes it's another man on a bicycle and the grinder is wired onto the handlebars and powered by another set of pedals, still he uses the same flute so you know what he does. There's a symphony of multiple sounds and they often overlap in a cacophony of brutal noise. As I sink deeper towards sleep I picture a pie chart that represents the world of sound. A huge section reserved for the country of Mexico and a much smaller slice that represented all of the sounds of the rest of the world combined.

The propane gas truck plays a catchy tune and drives by slowly, followed shortly by a pickup truck piled high with scrap metal. A loud speaker is attached to the roof and a commanding voice broadcasts forth with the harsh demand that you bring you metal out for them to recycle. And later, on the corner, busy pedestrian traffic pass a street vendor who calls out his products in rapid succession and with a voice that is unmistakable because of its unique resonance, cigaros! chocolates! puros!...

Garbage collection bell ringer

Ranchero music drops down from the open window of a second story apartment, as a man below calls out 'elooooteee' (corn) for those that may want corn on the cob or a scoop of garbanzo beans from a plastic bucket. Children scream and laugh as they chase each other through the park while the different neighborhood churches ring out calls to prayer from bell towers that rise above the fray, trying to override all others. These sounds, this 'voice of Mexico' is constant. A normal part of the culture, a condition as automatic and innocuous as breathing in and out. It's beyond tolerance for the average Mexican, it doesn't register for them and they pay it no heed and in fact, seem to be oblivious unless it serves an immediate need like the sound of the water truck.

For me, finding sanctuary within the cool thick walls of home is an anticipated if undeliverable relief from the barrage. Even late in the evening there's no finding complete silence, though sometimes simply lowering the volume is enough, at least that's what I tell myself as I lay awake in the still of the night with nothing but the barking dog next door.

But wait, now I don't hear even the muffled sound through the ear plugs. I remove them and it relieves the itch and discomfort. Finally, the peaceful quite takes me down towards deep sleep.  I float in the thick atmosphere of another planet, far away. Then, from nowhere, a firecracker jolts me back. A sound so loud it's as if someone lobbed a glob of nitroglycerin against the wall to the bedroom. I'm back in Mexico.

Listen to the sounds here

Plus Mariachi bonus track

By Mark

Tripping with the Groove Guru

I am wandering down a sparkling path inlaid with brightly colored tile and glass, my hand sliding along a rail that becomes a snake in my hands. I stroke its colorful jeweled scales as it leads me down a staircase towards an enthusiastic crowd oohing and aahing in amazement. They mill about, munching tamales and eyeing an enormous ice chest filled with champagne, then pointing up towards the trees where a woman balances precariously among the branches, held aloft by silvery balloons.

Through the looking glass...

No, this is not a dream I am having, though it could be. In fact I am wide awake, my senses keened to every nuance, realizing how fortunate I am to be here. For this is the party of parties, the one we will be talking about for years to come- to brag that we were there, along with several hundred, possibly thousands of gringos and Mexicans alike who have donned their finest headwear and shawls, boots and glitter, and enough jewelry to fill the Taj Majal, just for this extraordinary event. The Grand Opening of the Chapel of Jimmy Ray, alter ego of Anado McLauchlin, bearded wonder and artist extraordinaire.

The Casa de Caca.
Most beautiful outhouse in the world?

Behind me a man in a rabbit mask darts among the organos cactuses, disappearing behind a tower built of multi colored wine bottles, inside of which two brightly mosaic toilets sit side by side. Proudly calling itself the Casa de Caca, it seems that even pooping is an art form here.


At the entrance to the 'Chapel' a masked mosaic figure with what appears to be a flaming torch at his crotch rises up above a tiled gurgling fountain, welcoming us to come inside. We meander past hundreds of colored bottles imbedded into the concrete the walls of the building, bright blue and pink walls decorated in mirrored mosaic- where fragments of our own faces stare back at us. Once inside, Anado's artwork prepares to push and pull our minds into places we did not even know were possible. Altars of dolls at the feet of Mayan deities. Mirrored snakes wind past bright pink and blue Buddhas. Voodoo Jesuses. Bull's horns crowning the Virgin of Guadalupe. Bright plastic hearts oozing turquoise blood.

Chapel entrance

Who needs drugs? We are inside the mind and boundless imagination of Anado himself, inside the chapel, the temple, the arteries of the man to whom the word excess does not exist. The man who, along with his delightful partner Richard, enliven the streets of San Miguel in stripes and paisleys and enough beard between them to earn the right to call themselves the twin Santas.

Member of the
Cartaphilus Teatro

In another room of the chapel, photos of nudes by Spencer Tunick, (yes, THE Spencer Tunick- the one who photographs naked people  en masse all over the planet) adorn the walls, framed in tin Nichos. There is a buzz in the air promising the possible arrival of real live naked people. In fact, they do arrive, and no one seems to be surprised at all.


So who the heck is Jimmy Ray? It turns out that Jimmy Ray, alias James Rayburn McLauchlin, is none other than Anado's very own dad. A humble unadorned photograph of him is tacked to the wall by the inside entrance of the chapel, leaving one to wonder what kind of man he was to spawn such an enigma as the one who built this psychedelic wonderland.


So here's to Anado, an inspiration to all who meet him. 
The man who says yes to life, where others say whoa!... 
YES with a capital Y, capital E, capital S. 
And a big fat, pink and blue polka dotted exclamation point.

YES!  

Much more about Anado on his website HERE 

Candelaria

The Candelaria festival is going on again this year and we wandered down to take another look. I wasn't expecting it to be any different than last year but I guess you gotta go anyway.


For those that don't know, Día de la Candelaria, or Candlemas, happens 40 days after Christmas and is when figures of the baby Jesus, or 'nino Dios', are brought to the Catholic church to be blessed. Days before this you'll see families protectively carrying Jesus dolls around town wrapped in colorful little blankets and cradled in the crooks of their arms as if it was a live child. Before this, on Christmas eve, the baby Jesus is placed in the nativity scene. Then, on Jan. 6th. "Kings Day", the baby Jesus is brought presents and finally on Feb. 2nd. the baby Jesus is presented to the church for blessings. The ritual is a fusion of pre-Hispanic traditions and Catholic beliefs. Celebrated by Catholics as the "Feast of Purification" or as the "Presentation of Christ at the Temple." This date also happens to be the half-way point between the winter solstice and spring equinox. Evidently, in Pagan tradition, Feb. 2 is believed to be a time to predict the weather to come, and coincidentally, it's also celebrated as Groundhog Day in the United States. All very interesting but as I like to say "in the absence of rational comes ritual".

The pope loves a virgin

So, getting back to this weeks festival. As if all of the above wasn't enough, as part of a tradition for 56 years in San Miguel de Allende, the City Government through the Department of Environment and Ecology holds a Candlemas fair event in the Parque Benito Juarez. Traditionally this includes the Mexican folk custom of blessing the seeds for planting grain, flowers and vegetables, it is believed that the blessing will achieve bountiful results for future harvests. Addtionally, it's a good excuse to sell a ton of plants.

Seed blessings

For this event, the huge plant sale occurs in the park for two weeks. Over night, the typically tranquil setting is transformed into an open air, mega plant market. I wandered patiently down the narrow isles between the vendors pop-up canopies filled with plants of every variety. Some limited to every cactus imaginable, others to the herbs. Palm trees and giant bamboo tower overhead while streams of young men pushing worn out wheel barrows constantly ask if you need a porter to taxi your purchases to your home or car. I find myself glazing over, waking from my stupor every now and then at the sight of some strangely colorful or oddly exotic new species.

Susan stops frequently to get a closer look and call out the names of the ones she knows. When we pass by another vendor selling herbs she pronounces the Spanish term for each while I repeat as if I won't soon forget. albahaca, perejil, romero and tomillo (basil, parsley, rosemary, thyme). She reaches down and twists the blue/green leaves of mint and then puts her fingers to her nose to inhale the aromas, then to my nose to share the gift like it was a secret between the two of us. I nod, silently agreeing that the smell is wonderful and were it not for our journey here, we would never have had such an exquisite experience. She continues to be amazed at the sights and smells that surround us and I find myself noticing the electrical wires strung between the trees. Strands of cords that provide power for the clear 40 watt bulbs that randomly dangle down every few feet like incandescent fruit, illuminating the orchids and hibiscus. At one point, an industrious plant seller has adapted an outlet between the line and the bulb that allows for watching telenovella's on a portable TV balanced on a plastic stool and charging the battery on his cell phone.

Living with plants

I'm hungry now and remember the Torta stand from two years ago when we were here. It was a vivid memory despite the time gone by. I recall I had a 'Cubana' which turned out to be the 'mother' of all sandwiches. Layered high with avocado, ham, fried egg, cheese, sliced hot dogs, tomato and half a dozen other ingredients. "Quiero torta!"  I said to Susan in my childish Spanish as she was pointing out the ceramic pots shaped like lizards and frogs. She looked at me sadly and we headed in the direction I remembered seeing the stand years ago. I thought I'd have a Coke with it. 

Life And Muerte

I was heading home with a six pack of Modelo 'Barrillitos' from the abarrotes. I carried my bolsa outside into the bright light and as I turned the corner to start the climb home I saw a dead man on the street.

Laying on his back, his worn clothes matched the color of the dusty cobbled sidewalk. His grey eyes staring blank through half opened lids at nothing just beyond the tree branches. Two plastic bolsas were at his feet, the contents of his morning grocery shopping spilling out. Some bananas, a pepper, tamarindo. A small clutch of pedestrians looked down at him from their improvised amphitheatre, some making the sign of the cross while a short policeman stood by impatient for the ambulance to come fetch the body. I'd crossed the street to get a better look. I don't often get to see a dead person, in fact I've only seen one other in my life, many years ago.

He was the father of a friend, and was dressed up and put on display at the funeral parlor near his Salinas home. I had no emotional connection to him, only met him once before so approached his prepared body with only curiosity. He was unmistakably lifeless, but that recognition wasn't obvious from the color of the skin, or its texture but from the lack of energy that it normally emits, an energy that you don't pay attention to except in its absence.


The man on the street lacked that same energy and it occurred to me that all the connective energy was gone too, like removing the ligature from muscle. Some invisible energy that could be described as strings or twine that binds the man to his family, friends, the familiar things of his life. The defining history, the events. All that energy evaporates too, leaving a stillness around the body, a magnetic void that is perceptible on a level apart from intellect.
I continued up the street towards home glancing over my shoulder every once in awhile to see if the body was still there. When I turned up Calle Mesones the buildings blocked my view and I quit turning back.

The next day and a block over I watched as the city buses shouldered up along a stretch of road under construction. Piles of cobbles and sand kept them from getting too close to the sidewalk where the locals lined up to board. They formed a line, leaning against the warm walls of the colorful concrete buildings eyeballing the placards in the bus windows that displayed their destination. Mega, Santa Julia, Soriano, Mexiquito.
As I got closer a newly arrived bus veered in close and shuddered to a stop by a pile of rubble. Passengers climbed down from the rear doors through a heavy cloud of diesel fumes and dust while others entered the front. After a moment it pulled away, cranking sharply into the road to avoid the debris but the rear tire nearest the sidewalk rode up over a cobble pile, compressing the stones with its extreme weight. A split second later several of the potato sized stones shot out from the pressure, a bird shot blast of granite projectiles, they blew into the line of pedestrians before anyone could react. Some ricocheted off the building walls, thudding and cracking with their force. Painted concrete splintered into the dry air. I froze in place, while the crowd, now alert, moved about in jerky motions brushing concrete fragment from their clothes. Then a young boy, maybe ten years old stood from a crouched position by his mother. A quarter sized divot of flesh missing from his forehead exposing the bone. Blood began to form and then drain with intensity from the opening and he stagger stepped toward me. I knelt and held him by his shoulders to prevent him from walking into the street and he looked at me absently from behind his pain and shock, blood running down his face. The bus driver stopped and climbed down from his perch as I and the crowd yelled for help. He approached with cautious alarm and then motioned for the mother to quickly help the boy on board. I stood watching as the bus pull away with the wounded, wondering if his going on the bus was a wise choice. But it's not my place to question the drivers logic, I'm just a witness here.


When I reached home I let out the sadness that I felt, a sadness born of my impotence to help or make a difference in either persons life and the recognition of my own mortality. I let the emotion run out of me feeling sympathy for the boy, the dead man and myself as I considered our innocence in this life and how little protection it gives.

- Mark
Previously posted in 2009 at Beer Diary...

Shocking Views Of San Miguel

Walking the warm and dusty sidewalk into town on the Ancha de San Antonio one day, I noticed an odd feature on a telephone pole that was planted in my way. About eight feet off the ground was an electrical outlet that was wired and taped to the pole.



Oh no, it's not grounded!

Just out of reach



I speculated as to its use while my eyes traced the connecting wires. They led up the pole and were twisted into place on the power line high above. I suspected that in the evening a street vendor or food cart of some sort plugs into it to illuminate his food or power the portable T.V. for clients to watch as they munch on 6 peso tacos. The interesting thing that I further considered was that at some point, someone with an extension ladder made the hasty connection, tightly wrapping the stripped wires around the 'hot' leads above insuring a good contact before strapping the outlet in place. I actually liked the idea that someone took the initiative to do this. I also smiled, realizing that nobody of any civic authority cares that it's there.

A view from out roof. I think that's
our tapped in power line in the middle.

Lamp cord run through conduit

Bulging switch without cover

This is not the first time I've seen this kind of guerrilla electrical commandeering. Last time here, I recall standing upstairs at the neighborhood pizza parlor sipping on a beer while I waited on my food. I stepped out to the balcony and watched the street scene below. As I gazed down through the telephone wires that hung limply across my view, I noticed a white lamp cord with its insulation stripped on the end. The exposed wires twisted into place within arms reach of where I stood. I followed the path of the wires which led back into the cool room. It sagged against the painted stucco wall, tacked every yard or so with a bent nail. Eventually it ended at an electrical box that was screwed to a dark stained shelf and was providing power for a 1980's television. It was showing an old episode of The Simpson's dubbed in Spanish. This too made me smile.

Oh what a tangled web we weave

Apparently, it's open season on stealing electrical power in this town. But, these two examples of Mexican ingenuity have sidetracked me from the original subject of this post which is the importance of aesthetics (or lack there of) here compared to where I live in the U.S. The emphasis here is placed on efficacy much more so then appearance. And although this idea of efficiency over beauty applies to most things, because I'm a handyman, I notice it more in regards to the building trades. The plumbing, electrical, and construction in general.  If the switch to the lights works, who cares if it's being pushed out of the wall by a fist full of corroded wires. If you've got water to the sink, then it doesn't matter that the copper supply line is soldered into the shape of a double helix and pressed to the wall with a hollowed out root ball. I am in no way wanting to sound critical here. It's different than what I'm use to and although I constantly have the urge to correct it, this is just the way it's done here and I respect that. It's my problem that I want to change it. This I have to learn to accept, and it's easier to do when I consider that none of it is mine. 

Posted by Mark


Here again is my installment (#4) of video taken from a rooftop. This is looking down on Calle Pila Seca from the roof of the Lifepath Retreats complex.
rooftop video of pila seca

The Miraculous Mini "It's-not-a purse!" Manbag

Actually, it's a camera bag. A very small one. And stuffed into its pockets are a digital camera, a Flip movie camera, a notebook, a pen, an electronic Spanish translator, and half a Snickers bar. Although it is not exactly "manly," (in fact, in my opinion it is anything but) one can still not call it a purse, that's for sure. He has had to buy a special short pen and tiny notebook from the papeleria to fit into the side pocket and now he is set, he says, to venture out and record the world.

We have received much appreciated (by me) feedback and advice from our loyal readers and friends in regards to our 'Manbag Debate', including everything from backpack suggestions to websites for sleek leather fanny packs. Meanwhile Mark is still in denial. He refuses to bring his reading glasses with him, for instance, because they won't fit into the mini camera bag, thereby ordering meals at random from menus by pointing to the fuzzy letters and hoping for the best. And often times, the best is a far cry from what he gets. Begrudgingly I end up lending him mine, if only so that I don't have to indulge yet again in watching him devour a plate of undefined entrails smothered in questionable sauce. 'I wonder what animal this comes from?' he will say, between chomps and slurps. 'Mighty tasty, I must say. Whatever the hell it is. '

And then it isn't long before he is glancing, green faced, at my own bag, saying 'You don't happen to have any Rolaids in there, do you?'

-posted by Susan

Gringo Hazards

Relaxing on a green metal bench at sunset in the jardin, I watch as the gringos start to collect around me to take in the evenings festivities. Appearing out of the dark, seemingly frail and small, dried out and brown, like those final French fries you find at the bottom of the bag. Fragile but loud, they bark out in English, complaints about the drop in housing costs, and the details of their current maladies or injuries.

Sidewalk cavity

I ease away from the crowd recalling the story I heard about an American woman that was strolling down the sidewalk of some suburban street in Mexico city when she stepped on a manhole cover. Under her full weight, the cover flipped over like a coin and she instantly disappeared down into the subterranean sewer system. The cover then flipped back into place and the street scene appeared normal and quiet. The only clue that there was a problem was the muffled cries for help that emanated from under the metal plate.

Water line tripping hazards

True story? I don't know, but I've witnessed numerous ugly accidents and seen the resulting wounds all around me in the form of bruises, cuts, casts and looks of anguish on my fellow expatriates to convince me that it happens all the time and at any moment could happen to me. (This despite my belief that I've developed super powers of awareness).

 Mostly because we're old, out of touch with our surroundings and/or drunk, we trip, fall, clutch and eventually break something in our attempts at navigating an environment filled with obstacles in our pursuits of inexpensive pleasures. The real tragedy comes from our aging bodies which includes our lighter than air bird bones that can easily break at something as simple as the jerking response to the unexpected sound of a nearby fire cracker.

In the States the number one concern about Mexico is the fear of the drug cartels, but the real threat to those living here comes in the form of cobbles, holes, wires, window ledges, sewer grates, missing steps, traffic, startling noises, exposed electrical wires, heat stroke, dust, quad runners, all concrete in general, dog crap and of course bad plastic surgery.

So, in response and with a sense of civic duty, I would like to suggest a few helpful tips to the newly arrived, to avoid the pitfalls (so to speak) that are at every step you take on the typical street in San Miguel.

Concrete window ledge

First, keep an eye on the path at all times. This may sound condescending but it's surprising how often someone is looking off in the distance at some awe inspiring church steeple, pointing towards the horizon for his loved one to share in the appreciation, only to step into a hole the size of Carlos Slims' wallet. The ensuing fall snaps a leg bone on the way down into a spread eagle position on the street, and if you're lucky in your landing, you've missed the enormous pile of dog droppings.

Secondly, the sidewalks are narrow. Because of this, the buildings concrete window ledges stick out into the lane of travel. These typically are located at heights corresponding to vulnerable parts of the human anatomy. Contact points would be shin, hip, shoulder and head. Use extreme caution when recoiling from a painful dislocated shoulder, as this can lead to a serious head injury as you careen off the railroad-tie street pole that is positioned in the middle of the sidewalk. Be aware and stay in the center of the walkway and if necessary, when passing another pedestrian step into the street. 

A cutoff railroad-tie telephone pole

This brings me to point three. Listen to the traffic. As you walk, there will be engine noise, horns, tires on gravel, etc. They are important indicators of approaching danger. Always know where cars and people are in relationship to your position. Take into account these sounds as you watch for holes and ledges.

Finally, these warnings are just a sampling of the numerous possibilities that can preclude a crippling event. The important thing to take away from this advice is the need to heighten your sense of awareness for the external world. It's imperative to take in the sights, sounds and textures that are there to enable your ability to protect life and limb. Forget this lesson for a moment, and you're wrapped up in an electrical wire that juts from a wall, snaring you as you pass by, causing you to step simultaneously into a flooded pit and dog droppings, finally spinning you into the street where in all likelihood, a taxi is bearing down to finish you off.

-Mark
Here is my third installment of the Roof Top videos in a series.

Las Posadas

The Virgin Mary, Joseph, and an itinerant angel
ride down our street in the back of a pick up truck
followed by a small brass band and a crowd of faithful pilgrims, 

in the 4th night of posadas in San Miguel.

La Posada is a reenactment of Mary and Joseph’s search for a place to stay so she could have the baby Jesus, and how they were refused many times before they were finally offered a place in the manger. In the original Mexican version of the story Mary rides a burro, but tonight they are climbing aboard the back of a flatbed truck adorned with palm fronds and tinsel and stars made of glitter. An assistant paints a beard on the young Joseph and arranges his gold polyester robes, while Mary takes her seat on the paper mache burro against a backdrop of glittery stars. An young smirking preteen girl dressed as an angel brings her hands into a prayer position, and off they go.

As the truck lurches forward down the narrow streets we 'pilgrims' all follow behind, some carrying tissue paper stars on poles which bob up and down as we walk. The band strikes up and plays a few stanzas, then the people sing, alternating between the band and the voices, followed by a police car escort to keep the surrounding traffic at bay. At one point an ambulance squeals around the corner toward us with it’s sirens wailing, then upon seeing the procession of people filling the street, abruptly slams on the brakes and backs out to find another route. We wind through the cobblestone streets, singing and chatting, as the grind of the generator on the truck that keeps the spotlight on the holy family sputters on. 'Couldn’t they have used a car battery to power the lights?' Mark asks. But why should they when noise is never an issue here. 

Suddenly a colorful star shaped piñata drops into the center of the crowd from a rope strung between two buildings. A pole and a blindfold appear, and the whole procession stops as a young man takes a few swings at it until it cracks wide open and sweets fly out in all directions and are swept up in no time by children and adults alike. A few block later candy and oranges are thrown from the rooftops onto outstretched hands and unwary heads. 

Finally we arrive at the church and the chorus breaks out into a new song, asking 

for posada/ lodging and being refused again. Tomorrow there will be another posada taking a different route, nine in all, that will eventually lead the weary pilgrims to the manger. Then everyone can place their baby Jesuses into their carefully constructed nativity scenes among the sheep and elephants and wise men and await the arrival of the three kings, who will be carrying gifts for all. 

-posted by Susan

El Charco del Ingenio

Just outside of town by taxi (a 40 peso fare), is a nature reserve that saves my spirit from time to time.
El charco del Ingenio is a botanical park designed and built with the conservation of nature, especially Mexican flora, in mind. Located within the urban zone, the charco is 220 acres of recreational and spiritual space within walking distance of the city center. Granted, it's a long walk.


As much as I enjoy the city's constant stimulation of activities and entertainment, I need some down time to get recharged and reclaim my sense of well being. As an introvert and a type 9 in the enneagram system, the overload of stimulation that the city provides eventually depletes me of my energy and good will. I start to get anxious and withdrawn, seeing only the negative around me, especially towards people and especially the gringos. I need to move away from the constant noise, traffic and commotion that seems like the blood that keeps a city alive.


We caught a cab on the ancha de San Antonio, a wide street that leads out of town near our apartment, and I listened to Susan chat it up with the driver in rapid spanish. I caught every fifth word or so trying to follow along before I gave up and just stared out the window as the city faded to sparsely placed squat concrete buildings and the cobbled road gave way to fine tan dirt the texture of powdered sugar. We arrived at the entrance to the park, paid and proceeded to hike leisurely down the maintained trail.


I noticed myself exhaling the weight of the city and inhaling the revitalizing nature that surrounded me. That was the moment when I started to reclaim myself as a natural part of my environment. I felt like I was a missing piece of a jigsaw puzzle that was finally being put into place to complete the image of a benign world. As we wandered down through the nopal cactus, mesquite and pepper trees, each step was a healing process for me and every breath of clean air rejuvenated. As I write these words and relive my experience I can't help but feel like I'm being over dramatic about the effect the place had on me but it really feels like the truth. Continuing down the gentle slope we soon found ourselves in a greenhouse with hundreds of types of unique cactus and native plants grouped in mounds of land separated by a meandering circulating stream. I took a lot of pictures of individual plants and was taken by the beauty of each one. The spiny protective quills on these cactus amazed me and I studied them closely. I considered the evolutionary process these plants underwent over millennium in order to be protected from predators. Frankly, the extent of spinyness that some of them exhibited seemed a little extreme and unnecessary. But, who was I to judge.


Back outside we continue down toward the receding brown waters of the reservoir. I commented to Susan on the low level and how dirty the water is but that the ducks don't seem to mind. Bright crimson red birds landed on top of the organos and appeared even more brilliant with the backdrop of a stunning deep blue sky. I found myself becoming more aware, and receptive of the nature around me, allowing myself to open to my relationship with it and to relax.


My hat blew off in the wind while crossing the reservoirs ancient dam and I climbed down from the sides of the rocky gorge to retrieve it, watching for (anticipating) an encounter with a snake. No such luck this time. Looking back up the canyon my eyes followed the rusty iron aqueduct that hugs the cliff running the length of the canyon walls. The enormous pipe was constructed in the late 1800's as part of a reservoir and dam project for the purpose of supplying water to generate electricity at the now long closed, Aurora textile factory located below within the city of San Miguel. Prior to that, the natural springs that provided the water running through the canyon was utilized by the early Spanish settlers, who built canals, mills, dikes, bridges and workshops. I expect that prior to that, the natives enjoyed it beauty, spiritual energy and natural bounty. I explored some of the structural ruins of the mill as we hiked further down the waterway. It was hard for me to imagine the torrents of water needed to make this old mill grind considering the trickle of water flowing down this arroyo now.


We eventually neared the furthest reaches of the maintained trail and the air was beginning to warm up. Hawks and buzzards circle above us riding on the rising currents. From this vantage we could look down on the city below. It was deceptively silent from this distance. I stepped out onto a rock outcropping to try to record the magnitude of the canyon and the awesome nature around me with my video camera. The enormity of the sheer cliffs and openness of the desert was wondrous, I wanted to selfishly capture and preserve it for myself. But later, reviewing the film I can see that it didn't do justice to the beauty that I experienced at the time. In any case, go here to take a look.

Soon we were back at the entrance after having made the trails complete circuit of the park. We stopped for some cool juice at the tiny cafeteria and rested under the solitary palapa. I ignored the conversations going on between the few other gringos that shared the shade with us. I wanted to maintain my sense of peace I garnered from the environment for as long as possible before re-entering the civilized world. Don't get me wrong, I like the city of San Miguel with it's bustling activities. The taxis, cars and people. The sounds of the knife sharpener's whistle and the trash collectors banging their sheet metal. The dull church bells that echo off the earth colored concrete buildings, planted like hardened earth on cobble stone streets that shine from the polish of constant traffic. But, it wears me out and after a few days or a weeks time, I'm in need of some soul recovery. The type that, for me, only comes from a reconnection with nature. Yes, it was time to go back into the city, my batteries re-charged and my psyche fortified but I still held a small doubt that it was enough to get me through the next week.
-posted by Mark