More Californians-as-Mexicans

California really isn't taking over, but a lot of folks from up here and going down there. This is the second post showing a few Sacramento area folks enjoying a winter break in Mexico. Check the next post for more pictures.
Picture one is Capt. Dick Gilmore, retired Bee photographer and well-known sailor, aboard Solitude in Marina Vallarta. he looks happy, but there was a touch of frustration waiting on his sick outboard motor to come back from repair. (Update: he is in Cabo San Lucas waiting for a weather window to sail north.)

Photo two shows Dan and Lorraine Olsen, off the sailboat Zephyrus, having breakfast at Malaque. A day or so later they sailed up from Barra de Navidad to Tenacatita Bay, with Pat and me as crew, to join other friends before heading further north. Guacamole and beer works for me. (Update: they are now in Mazatlan.)
Then there's a bad shot of a shy Dustin Fox in his apartment in Puerto Vallarta. Dustin was headed out early to the docks where he works as a marine electronics specialist.



And then there's my beloved Pat, also at breakfast on the beach. We seem to pull out the camera every time we eat. (Update: we are back in the mountains, and just celebrated Easter at a service in Murphys, then came home and then I cranked up the chainsaw while Pat practiced her hammered dulcimer.)


And finally, a group hard at work in the living room/patio/palapa at the apartment in LaManzanilla. Pictured are Michael, David, Sylvia and Scott. (Update: So far as I know, everybody is back at work, though a few are planning a return to Mexico soon.)
Even though LaManzanilla is a small town, you'll note they are using the wifi link to check out something on Sylvia's laptop. It's a wired world.

Sacramento goes Mexico

Here I was hard at work in the dining room of Casa de Sanza, also known as Joe Santana's home in LaManzanilla. The message I am sending says: "Having a wonderful time."
Photo two is Capt. Michael under the casa's palapa taking a picture of Admiral Sylvia looking at the sun setting over Tenacatita Bay. In the distance is the location of their soon-to-be-built retirement home.


Photo three is Pat, Scott, David, Lily, Michael and Jen, awaiting breakfast on the beach about 200 feet from the crocodiles' location. Where else could you see a teacher, mechanic, banker, corporate executive, college professors and law school student (and a former journalist) having a good time and not talking about business, but about the quality of the food, friendship and last night's rest.

Photos four and five are the members of the group either making music, or eating, something we did a lot.


Maybe it's because of the warm days and cool nights. Or perhaps the sunsets. Or the beach. Or the food. or the friendly people. Or the cerveza.
But for some reason the weat coast of Mexico seems to attract a lot of peope from Northern California, particularly from the Sacramento area.
The pictures show some of the strenuous activities required.
Missing from these photos are a former Bee photographer, Dick, who we caught up with in Puerto Vallarta aboard "Solitude," Dustin, former Sacramentan who now lives in PV and works as a marine electrician, and Dan and Lorraine who we caught up with in Barra de Navidad and sailed aboard s/v Zephyrus to Tencatita. (Check the next blog for those pictures).

And if you are thinking this is only for the rich, think again. A decent hotel room in LaManzanilla costs $37 a night with private bath.
The temptation is to return and go native, but the natives won't buy that when I try to speak my version of Spanish. But all you really need to know is "gracias," "por favor" and los banos?" That'll get you by.
We're all home now, watching the weather forecast (nice Spring weather, but cooler with a chance of showers later this week), but we haven't forgotten this.

The mystery of the missing shoes

LaManzanilla, Mexico -- The climate is so kind here we live in shorts, tank tops and wear sandals or go barefoot every day. Once in a while we wear formal wear, shirts with collars and tennis shoes, for walking on the gravel streets up the hills to see how the rich and famous live.
But we always drop our shoes at the front door when we return from long walks to keep the dust and sand outside, where it belongs.
So the other night after we had a fish fry on the patio palapa with our friends Michael, Sylvia, Scott and David, we retired after the final margarita with a pile of shoes outside the door.
When I got up the next day and decided I need my shoes they were not there. I assumed Scott or David picked them up in the dark by accident. I went and woke Scott up to retrieve them before he left for the airport, but he did not know what I was talking about.
I went back to double check and found my socks, slightly soiled, stuffed into a pair of shoes I had never seen before. On closer examination the "new" shoes were tennis shoes, made in Mexico, and one size smaller than mine.
Hmmmm.
Javier, the efficient house man, has no idea what happened.
No one knows where my shoes are, or whose shoes were left behind. We were all sober, perhaps not as a judge, but sober, and have only begun to develop the possibilities:
-- One of us has a shoe fetish and does not want to admit it;
-- Someone sneaked into our enclosed patio in the dead of the night, tried on all available shoes, took mine and left theirs. Sort of an upgrade;
-- Or, our neighbor, who shall go un-named, stole them. Not likely, but currently the favorite theory since he is something of an ugly American, loud and pompous.
The replacement pair are too small for me, so only one thing remains certain. When I arrive back in Camp Connell and the snow and ice, I will probably be wearing a thick pair of socks and my Teva sandals.
I don't think folks on BART in San Francisco will think that weird at all.
But down at the Camp Connell Store, they might start talking.

Paradise, not yet lost

LaManzanilla, Jalisco, Mexico -- I woke up this morning to the sounds of people walking by on the main street below my second-story window, a gentle breeze floating in, and the subtle thump of the surf. I could hear pleasant early-morning subdued voices of a few early risers, and once in a while a family walking toward the church up the street. It was a happy contrast to the noisy bar patrons laughing and talking loudly that prevailed when we finally put the light late Saturday night. They were happy too, but I was sleepy.
This town has about 2,000 residents, mostly Mexican and a few norteamericanos who have settled here for the peace and quiet and lovely beaches and warm weather.
Peace and quiet is a relative thing, as the bar patron on the loud motorcycle reminded us late last night. With all the windows open all the time, whatever is going on outside is what you hear. But with few exceptions, it is peaceful and quiet.
And peace and quite may be a vanishing commodity. A lot of folks think this little bit of Pacific Coast is in the verge of a land rush that will make Oklahoma's look comparatively mild. Think of Miami before the railroad came. Think Sanibel Island before the causeway, and before condos were invented on Florida beaches.
The rules, laws and attitudes are changing fast here. The land cooperatives which actually own a lot of the land, including miles of prime beach front property, have recently been allowed to claim clear title, and thus the right to sell off land that the rich of several countries lust for. The government is encouraging this economic development, and people who previously have owned very little and lived at subsistence level find themselves in line for a sudden influx of big cash.
I'd like to think this might turn out well, but I suspect that in 20 or 30 years this place will start to look like Purto Vallarta, or worse, Miami. Maybe, maybe not. But in one case we know of the lot prices jumped from $40,000 for oceanfront to a package deal requiring more like $110,000 almost overnight, the result of a land speculator coming through making offers left and right. Our landlord here expects the prices to be over $200,000 quickly, and feels the sky is the limit.
But I like the idea of being able to walk down the street at 10 p.m. and feel secure, the idea that the surf is the loudest noise you can hear on the beach side and that everybody can get to the water anytime anywhere they want. I like the street-side taco stands and the frail old man in a hammock who lives in a room across the street who did his best to help me find coffee filters early in the morning. I like the idea that when I am in most streetside cafes there are more Mexican families than tourists. Even most of the tourists are Mexican, having a good time, genial and tolerant of their sometimes bad-mannered American and Canadian neighbors.
I like fact that merchants and residents spray water on the street twice a day to keep the dust down, and it works quite well. And you might see a burro being ridden on the edge of town.
You'll know the end is near, a friend told me, when they decide to pave Main Street. It may be cobblestone, or concrete. But surely a traffic light will follow. And condos.
I know I am whining, and there must be room for all these fertile people on the planet and the rich always get first call on everything.
But I also remember that Pogo was right: we have seen the enemy, and he is us.

Celtic Whatever

Angels Camp, CA -- Celtic people are taking over these California
foothills, and their annual gathering here is a cultural event that says a lot
about America in 2007.
Exactly what it says is unclear, but bear
with me for a look at my day watching and enjoying Celtic
people and a few wannabees.
This weekend thousands of people who claim Celtic roots, or wish they did, gathered for the 21st Annual Calaveras Celtic Faire. "Calaveras" is the county incidentally. The "Celtic Faire" is a wonderfully strange gathering of people who wear pins that say "Kiss Me I'm Irish," men in kilts, children swinging wooden swords,
large males tossing telephone poles, costumed women with support bras
that would make any engineer proud, adults voluntarily eating Haggis, a
whiskey drinking contest, jousting on horseback, lots of music and
more.
The music was terrific. The crowd was pretty strange, and a lot
of fun.
This Faire was so inclusive that even the Irish and Scots attendees
seemed to be happy one group showed up dressed as English soldiers. Now
that's tolerance.
The wandering crowds included young women
wearing rainbow colored little fairy wings whirling around in circles,
and men in cowboy outfits stomping their feet and dancing jigs that
were part Texas Two Step and PartIrish Jig. And then there were the
people dressed up like the bad guys from The Lord of The Rings, and at
least one young women in a black leather bikini with a skull suspended
strategically. One middle-aged woman dancer was actually wearing a mullet hairdo.
The desire to dress up in costume, almost any costume, and walk around in
public seems to have overwhelmed normally sensible people. Historical
accuracy was not required, though there was a lot of that mixed in with
the belly dance troupe and biker clubs and pirates and village idiots,
and people having their picture taken with an older heavyset bearded
man because he looked just like Jerry Garcia.
The best part of the
day for me was the music. Three indoor stages were kept busy
entertaining standing-room-only audiences most of the day. The big name
bands (for experienced festival goers) were Wicked Tinkers and Tempest,
who were both wicked and stormy, and the local favorites The Black Irish
Band and Golden Bough. When the Tinkers and Tempest were playing you
could close your ears and imagine you were at a Grateful Dead concert,
except the smell in the air was ale and stout instead of the forbidden weed of the 60s. And the throbbing of the drums made closing your ears an impossibility.
A wild and talented band from San Francisco, Culann's
Hounds, pictured above, kept the place jumping into the night. It's hard to describe,
but I suspect they are Irish Punk Rock Fusion Hoedown Bluesy Jazzy
something. Damn they're good.
My big disappointment was that the Concertina/Accordion (?) player got rid of her bright fuchsia hair for something more subdued. A band member explained the fuchsia coloring was making the hair fall out, so it seems like a good decision. No matter, they rocked the joint to the rafters.
Three
international bands (two Irish, one Scots) were there to add
authenticity, but the quality of all the musicians was absolutely
superior. In fact, the only bump in the happy day was constantly flaky sound/power systems, which took the edge off some of the earlier performances.

It was very difficult to choose between going inside a venue to listen
to the great music, or wandering outside and feasting on the costumed
and slightly crazy crowds.

So we did both, and had a great time.

Gale-force senior skiing

Bear Valley, CA -- The first ski day of the year is picture perfect: clear blue skies; crystalline snow; groomed slopes, and me -- right there with the beautiful people -- looking youthful and slim.

In my dreams.

Today was -- for me -- the first day of the ski season. I even bought a season ski pass, determined to ski more and better than ever before.
Snow has been erratic so far this year. The ski resort 20 miles uphill from my home has been putting on a brave front for weeks, trying to entice people even though the snow pack has been the type that scrapes the bottoms of skis and sends you to the repair shop.

Today, according to the forecasts, looked perfect. Below freezing temps, but not brutal. 12 inches of new snow on top of the old thin base. And "breezy" weather.
So we packed up the Subaru with all the excess stuff I always carry, plus a good book for Pat to read while snuggled down in the lodge, and headed up the mountain.

The road up the mountain was reasonably clear,  and the breeze blew bits of snow across the road en route.

When we drove over the shoulder of the mountain, known locally as Mount Reba, the wind seemed to pick up a bit. Then a lot more. Then a whole lot more.  By the time we reached the lodge the wind was howling like a banshee. Parking lots were crowded, but a suspicious number of cars seemed to be pulling out and heading downhill.

We started to walk toward the lodge one hundred yards away. A gust of wind almost knocked the skis out of my hands, and Pat was  sent reeling, hanging onto her hat and book bag. Imagine the Weather Channel guy in a hurricane, and add snow.

None of the chair lifts that lead to the top of the mountain  were operating, and the two that serve the lower slopes were stopping a lot. And swaying a lot.

The lodge dining room was jammed. At 11 a.m. this is not a good sign. We found friendly people from Alameda to sit with, and squeezed into a corner to wait for the weather to change. It always does.

After an hour I became restless and decided I only wanted to get in a few early-season runs. How bad could it be? Really? Pat told me later that as I went out the door the P.A. system announced that the wind on top of the mountain had just been clocked at 70 miles per hour.

When I stepped out the door it was blowing pretty hard, but I was too busy messing with gloves, scarf, goggles, wool hat, parka, fanny pack, poles and skis to notice.

I managed to get down the short hill to the chair lift. The wind was blowing so hard in that area I had to use my poles to move forward, and I noticed there were no waiting lines.

The seats on the lift chairs kept folding up in the wind, creating a challenge  for the operators who kept pushing them down so people could sit.

The ride up the mountain on the lift chair was interesting. I was torn between watching the blizzard-like conditions below me on the ski run, and locking my arms around the metal  seat frame so I would be blown off by a gust. Below me the wind was driving grains of snow across the surface in wild patterns, pushing far up the slopes above us. It looked like those pictures you see on PBS of the wind blowing across the Arctic, tracing beautiful patterns, beautiful so long as you are in your living room.

I managed to get off the lift chair without embarrassing myself, and looked for a sheltered route down the slope. There was none available.

The slope in this area is not steep. I immediately discovered that when the wind clocked around into my face, it stopped me from sliding downhill. Sliding downhill is, normally, the purpose of skiing.

So I used my poles to push myself downhill a hundred feet or so at a time, then stopped to rest with my back to the wind. I was bundled up well, but quickly developed an ice cream headache from the cold wind and snow blast on my face. I wondered how long it would take to develop frostbite.

I have been in winds of about 40 knots sailing on San Francisco Bay,  technically a gale  and ranked as an "8" on the Beaufort Scale.  But it can still be fun.

Today, on the ski slopes, I am pretty sure it was something between a "strong gale" and a "storm", which would be a "9" or "10" on the same scale.

Not fun.

Back to the lodge.
Back to the car.
Back to the house in time for a late lunch and a nap.

Maybe tomorrow.

Gifts at Christmas - Part 2

Camp Connell, Ca -- Part of every Sunday School curriculum teaches about the need to help the poor.
Traditionally, most people think of a tithe, or Biblical one-tenth, as a fair share standard, a standard which almost none of us live up to. (Some do, but not many.)
A tithe is also a culturally accepted standard, not just a preacher's tool to separate the money from parish members. Most of us think it is a good idea, but we simply can't afford it this year.
Many of us like the idea that those blessed with abundance (as in, the rich) are expected to give more.
One of the few good things I can note about the year 2006 is that a few very rich folks have done just that, and made the rest of us think about what we give, and why. For that we can thank the Gates and Buffett families.
And that giving might hold a clue to solving world poverty, if we will all cooperate.

Princeton bioethicist Peter Singer asked the following question today in a lengthy New York Times Magazine article about charity and its role in alleviating poverty:

"What is a human life worth? You may not want to put a price tag on a it. But if we really had to, most of us would agree that the value of a human life would be in the millions.
"Consistent with the foundations of our democracy and our frequently professed belief in the inherent dignity of human beings, we would also agree that all humans are created equal, at least to the extent of denying that differences of sex, ethnicity, nationality and place of residence change the value of a human life."
And...
"With Christmas approaching, and Americans writing checks to their favorite charities, it's a good time to ask how these two beliefs — that a human life, if it can be priced at all, is worth millions, and that the factors I have mentioned do not alter the value of a human life — square with our actions. Perhaps this year such questions lurk beneath the surface of more family discussions than usual, for it has been an extraordinary year for philanthropy, especially philanthropy to fight global poverty."

America's actions as a nation, and many Americans' individual actions, seem to show we actually do value the lives of some folks more than others. (I think immediately of our money spent on Iraq, and Darfur. Singer offers statistical proof.)

Singer goes on to detail the impact of the massive donations by Bill and Melinda Gates and Warren Buffett, and to talk about what their example might do.
Meanwhile, back to the "other" rich among us:
"...in the real world, it should be seen as a serious moral failure when those with ample income do not do their fair share toward relieving global poverty. It isn't so easy, however, to decide on the proper approach to take to those who limit their contribution to their fair share when they could easily do more and when, because others are not playing their part, a further donation would assist many in desperate need."

Singer applies philosophy and moral standards to the discussion, and comes up with some suggestions that might make a few rich folk squirm.

If you think it would not apply to you, make sure you check out his formulas for giving.

And then back up one blog in this series and read about the family in Transylvania that actually was living on $300 a year.

Maybe you and I are rich and just don't realize it.

Maybe we should each buy a cow, or goat, or pig, or tree for someone who needs it.

Read the excellent article by Singer online at the New York Times Magazine by cutting and pasting this link:

http://www.nytimes.com/2006/12/17/magazine/17charity.t.html?pagewanted=1&_r=1&ref=magazine


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