Wednesday, December 14, 2005
1:13 PM

Some final thoughts from Mexico

I only have a few hours left in Mexico. It is early, 6:41 a.m. The roosters are wide awake but the dogs are quiet. Esmerelda is the sister of Carlos and just left for school. She in a freshman at the university here.

Again I will not be using contractions or other punctuation.

Yesterday was a nice last day. Daniel, the cousin of Carlos, came to pick us up around 10:30 and we, along with Apolinar and Aurelio, went downtown to get some more Mexican goodies. I bought some gifts and things for me of course. A guy in the center of town where a lot of tourists visit makes bracelets with any name on them you want. I got one that says PELON. I also got one for my godson Gary and his brother Nathan. Not sure if they will like them, but since they were hade made right here in Mexico for 25 pesos, I thought them nice gifts.

I also bought a sombrero for 70 pesos. The people selling shit hound you as soon as they see you attempt to buy anything. On all sides they bombarded me. One guy was selling wooding carvings of panthers heads, another guy was selling belts and wallets, another lady, an older lady, sat on the cement ledge behind us. She was selling ceramic moons and stars to hang on the wall but she was not as pushy as the others. If I had more room in my suitcase I would have bought something of hers.

I like my sombrero. It is the only size of mine they had, the largest. Even without hair mi cabesa esta muy grande.

I looked through some jewelry selections for myself and for gifts but I am not sure who would like what. Again they cost very little and even though they are from Mexico, they will probably break or fall apart soon. I am 31. If I were 20 and on Spring Break then fine, a cheap bracelet or necklace would be okay. The gifts I did get will hopefully be appreciated.

There were tons of porn shops downtown. Many areas were arranged exactly like American flea markets. Shops selling porno DVDs were next to tshirt places which were next to electronic shops which were across from sock stores. If you wanted it they had it. Somewhere. You just had to look.

Every time we saw a bald guy or someone who looked American, the amigos went nuts. PELON, IT IS YOUR TWIN. MIRA, MIRA which means look, look. When they saw Americans they insisted I go and talk to them. But not all the would-be Americans were probably even American. Sure some look like us, but they end of being from Europe or even Latin America, just without the tan. GRINGOS y GRINGAS, PELON. OVER THERE. MIRA, MIRA, It got old really fast. They thought of me as a pussy for not going up to the Americans and talking to them. But I was having more fun seeing them getting riled up over the whole thing.

After downtown we bought my bus ticket. It leaves at 10:30 from here in Cuernavaca and arrives in Mexico City around 12:30. Carlos maintains the seats are very comfortable. But again, coming from a guy who used to sleep on a cement floor as a teenager, comfort is very subjective. My seat is a window seat. I won’t be able to read cause I get sick. On a plane I can read but not on a bus or in a car. No way. I am sure I will have some sights and sounds to appreciate and take notes on.

It is snowing in Chicago, according to my mom. I haven’t seen the news. I talked with her last night. Up to five inches is expected in Chicago before I land tonight at 7:30ish. She thought I was coming in last night and had left numerous messages on my cell phone. I have only checked it twice since I have been here. Most of the messages are from here wondering when I get in.

We drove about 40 minutes yesterday afternoon to a lake, the name I cannot remember. There we drank some cervezas and ate more tortillas and spicy shit. The four amigos ordered whole fishes, the tail, head and all, covered them in hot sauce, and had a feast. I had some carne asada con cebollas, meat with onions. Just before that I had an ice cream sandwich and at the bus station I had a sandwich made with hot dogs, cheese, guacamole, hot peppers, carrots and red bell peppers. That was my first meal of the day. When we ate at the lake I was kind of full and did not eat much of the carne or ceballos.

The margaritas here have been a great disappointment. The one yesterday took like an hour to explain to the waitress. I like mine on the rocks with salt. Easy enough to understand I thought. Carlos had to explain the size of the glass, the kind of ice – cubed, not frozen, and so on. The girl went to get two different glasses and the bottle of margarita mix. We were in fuckin Mexico and they used a margarita mix to make my drink. It is not like I asked for a grande Swiss mocha. It had me wonder if the margarita is something us gringos made up and now the Mexcans despise us for. Kind of like all the bullshit items at Taco Bell that do not even exist here.

There was not a huge beach area. It was a dirty place. Nothing like what you see on TV from Cancun or Acapulco. We sat at a plastic table under a grass roof a few steps away from the water. Small boats and wave runners we could rent floated in the water, tied to the land. No one else was at this part of the lake. Only two boats came buy, one with a water skier and one just with some drunk Mexicans. It was a fun, quiet lake experience spent with my amigos.

Then it hit me. I had already swam a bit with all of them except Daniel. He opted to not drink alcohol or swim. I was out of the water and like a ton of bricks dropped inside me, I had to use el bano something fierce. Having just been in there 15 minutes ago and seeing that the place was a hole – no toilet seat and a few logs floating in the commode, I was not too excited about having to go. But it was overwhelming and I had to. I knew I would puke at the sight of another mans shit or simply the thought would make me heave. My stomach is so weak like that.

I raced up the stairs past chickens, dogs, and other farmlike animals, closed the curtain to the bathroom and began. Again, with no seat I had to hover, borrowing a page from the ladies. I heaved a few times but did not vomit. A fury was unleashed. If someone else were to come in they would surely call the authorities. It was awful. I stayed hovering and looked for toilet paper but there was none. Anywhere. I stood, clutching my shorts and waved Apolinar toward the bathroom. He had no idea what I needed. He waved me off, thinking I was messing around. But I was in serious need of help. Oh yeah, the toilet would not flush either. Excellent. Sorry Montezuma for whatever it is I did.

As I stood I turned to look back at what I had done. HOLY SHIT. I MISSED. And I had, all over the back of the seat. Perched atop the area where the seat should connect to the rim of the toilet was a heaping pile of freshly discarded shit. Not a log pile but more like a melted pyramid of fudge sitting too long near the sun. Luckily, since it was mine, I was able to get rid of it without barfing all over.

But how. There was no paper and my shorts were around my ankles. I could pull them up and go ask for some. There must be napkins left from lunch. I had on swim trunks. Some had already dripped on the white netting, so why not hike them up and go find some paper. The pattern of the shorts was a loud and dark Hawaiian style. No one could tell if I wiped my ass with them or not. So out of the bathroom I went, in search of a paper and a wiped ass.

Upon my return, I saw a cardboard roll from a used TP roll. I had flung it off the wall when I peed earlier in the visit. I grabbed it and slid the fudge into the toilet. But that was clearly not good enough. Before I took care of the toilet, I needed some tending to. I inspected my shorts and found quite a mess. Walking around with a shitty, unwiped ass can leave quite an art project in your shorts. You have all seen the white dogs with big brown spots right. Well I had one in the liner of my swim trunks. Disgusting. They were still damp from the lake and I was not about to touch them. I wiped and then began on the toilet. I heaved a little, just a dry heave. It spilled over the side and down the back of the commode. It was perhaps the worst shitting experience I had ever endured. At least one caused by me. Once, when I was working at a gas station in high school, I had to clean the public restroom located right next to the register. It looked like someone had taken a hose filled with shit and sprayed the entire room – walls, mirrors, sinks – everything. I got dressed in kryptonite repellent suit and cleaned that shit. I gagged about 43 times in 10 minutes.

But this one was creation. All mine. I began to jiggle the handle. Nothing. The top of the tank was nowhere to be found. I jiggled inside of there. Nothing. There was water in the tank. I reached to the bottom of the tank and puledl the plug. Water allowed some of the contents to flush but not all of them. There was no water to refill the tank so the unflushed shit just sat there. I was not about to ask for a bucket or any means by which to fill the tank. Instead I used as much paper as I could to clean off the toilet itself. Oh yeah. You could not flush the paper either. Now that I think about it, the bucket next to the toilet was also the garbage can. But it was filled with shitty paper. I cleaned as much as I could, apologized to anyone who would have to use the facilities and ran straight into the water.

I moved my shorts around my knees in the lake to try to get rid of the spotted dog. I just wanted to feel a bit more fresh. Aurelio was standing on the back of one of the boats and saw me, naked and moving like I was having a seizure under the water. He laughed, pointed at me and then said a litany of words in Spanish. I did not care. I just wanted to be clean. And it worked. When I changed an hour later, the spotted dog was gone. The lake and taken him away. Mucho gracias, lago.

We got home last night and had a few beers near the store where they usually drink. I was included in some of the conversation but not much. I hate that part of being here. They get talking in Spanish and I sit there bored out of my mind. I still was not feeling so hot and did not want to drink much more. But Carlos did so I did not say anything right away. I interjected where I could, throwing out mostly Spanish cuss words or sarcasm. The people who owned the store laughed hard at the pelon gringo as did Carlos. I took solace in their laughing and continued to add it where I could, repeating myself all the time. After a while even I got tired of talking and we left.

But I did learn a few things while there. I was under the impression that all the Wrigley amigos go home in the off season every year. But that is not the case. Apolinar, who is now 21, had not been back to Mexico since he was 16. 5 years he spent in America away from his mother, his father and his two younger sisters. Only the computer, cameras and the telephone kept them in touch. I could not fathom that, especially with a close family and at a young age.

It had been 3 years for both Carlos and Aurelio, too. Immediately I felt lucky and out of place. I SHOULD NOT HAVE BEEN HERE AT ALL. YOU GUYS NEEDED TO BE WITH YOUR FAMILIES, NOT WITH SOME GUY YOU WORK WITH FOR 6 MONTHS. I could not believe that Apolinar had been gone that long. He was a kid when he left home, 16 years old and in a foreign city the size and speed of Chicago. He spoke no English when he arrived. None of them did. Only Carlos took an English class. The rest just paid attention and picked it up along the way.

Apolinar has been sending his Wrigley earnings back to Mexico ever since. They all have. Aurelio has his a mother here. His sister is here, too, but is married with four kids. Aurelios money pays for everything his mom does and has, like her house. Apolinars earnings pay for his mother and father and his two sisters. His dad is 65 and his mom is 45. One sister is 19 and another 13. They have what they have, the clothes on their back, the food on the table, because Apolinar left Mexico to go to Chicago to bag gummy bears and empty hot dog water. He was willing to sacrifice time with his family to allow his family to survive. There is no money in Mexico. He seems to have no choice

But they will not be able to come back now for maybe another 3 to 5 years. And it is not like their families are so far away. My flight here was 4 hours. They will only be 4 hours away from their families but might not see them for 5 years. They could walk here in that time. Apolinars oldest sister may be coming back to Chicago with him in next month to work. She may live with Apolinar, Carlos, Matea and their children Carlos Jr. and Paulina. Matea is pregnant with their third child and is due in May. At that time 7 people will reside in a one bedroom apartment, the rent being $650. Aurelio, Zoilo, Gilberto and some other amigos I do not even know, totaling 8 people, also live in a one bedroom place, each paying 90 bucks a month in rent. They spend little so they can send their money back home. Back to where they will not be for years, to the very people they love. To the very people who brought them into this world. To the people they call madre and padre.

Carlos maintains its something with our government but that is an easy out. Easy to blame the government wherever you live. WHAT ABOUT YOUR GOVERNMENT HERE. WHY IS THE MONEY SO BAD. WHY DO YOU HAVE TO COME TO AMERICA TO EMPTY GARBAGE CANS AND DROP OFF CHICKEN WINGS IN SUITES OF YUPPIES WHO MAKE MORE MONEY IN A WEEK THAN YOU WILL EVER MAKE IN YOUR LIFE. Something about that, which is true, is also wrong on every level.

When we got home last night Carlos turned on the video from earlier that day, us driving in the car and then at the lake. His mother and sister watched. I again thought he should be spending time with them instead of watching me walk around a beach.

After that tape was one of Carlos and his birthday last year in Chicago, May 29. I was invited but did not go. The Cubs played that day and I ended up doing something else after work. I remember it though, a Sunday. On the tape all the amigos are drinking, laughing and having a good time. I wish I would have been there. But I was here with them now. I have seen their home and have met the people to whom they send money. And they are all happy to see their sons.

We also watched the softball game from last August. The Cubs staff lost to the White Sox staff for the 5th year in a row, the third in a row for me. The Cubs have never won. Since Carlos had consumed his share of beers by that time, he cursed Rich, his fellow runner who was also our starting catching in last years game. Our legally blind starting catcher. Blind.

Matea had taped the game as she watched from behind homeplate, her two kids making cameos throughout the taping. In the first inning I made a throw home and Rich missed the ball. It bounced in front of the plate and he should have caught it. If he was not legally blind that is. The tape shows me going nuts and demanding that we get another catcher behind the plate immediately. Rich went to right field and Carlos came to the plate. On the next pitch a fly ball was hit to me and I threw home again. It bounced closer to the plate and handcuffed Carlos. Instead of having two outs and no runs scored the Sox had two runs and we had a very mad pelon in left center. But more than the plays, I enjoyed watching them with Carlos. He was boaracho and funny as hell. It was out last night together in Mexico.

See you next … time the amigos come home.

Monday, December 12, 2005
12:02 PM

Pelon en Mexico: Inside the cock ring and more
New photos below

Its 10 in the morning on December 12, the feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe. Its a big deal here in Mexico so people have been lighting fireworks since yesterday. Loud fucking fireworks combined with the roosters crowing and the dogs howling has made for a long last 24 hours.

I am writing this from my computer in a purple bedroom at Carlos moms house. Its fuckin purple. For real. The room at my moms I lived in was purple. Cant seem to escape the shit.

There is no tile on the floor. No hardwood or carpet, only concrete. Carlos spits on the floor as he walks down the stairs, which are also concrete. Once downstairs, there is tile throughout most of the first level. The kitchen, dining room and living room are all tiled. The bathroom is tiled from top to bottom. Very nicely done.

My suitcase sites on the floor beside the bed. I packed way too many clothes. I figured we would go out at night and or do scenic things. But we have not. Aside from yesterdays cockfights I have done nothing at all. Sure I have drank lots of Mexican beer with real Mexicans but I can do that shit anywhere in America. Hell I lived in Phoenix for 3 year and now live in Chicago. Real Mexicans are running rampant through each city. If I wanted cervesas con Mexicanos all I would need to do would take cab to any number of Chicago neighborhoods.

I still have to shop for Christmas gifts. There are little shops all over the place and I should be able to get some cool gifts at cheap prices. The extra clothes with serve as a means to keep the stuff from breaking. Ceramics are huge down here so I hope some of you like that sorta thing. If not I will check about bottles of tequila.

I am not using punctuation because when I wrote in Microsoft Word and then base it to my blog server it ends up being all fucked up. So please deal with it. Thanks.

I also finished reading my book today. My second book in the last 3 months. I know for most people that is no big deal but for me it is. Especially because this book was 430 pages. It is called A Million Little Pieces by James Frey. It is his memoirs of being in rehab for 3 weeks when he was 23 and messed up some serious drugs and alcohol. And also wanted by the law in 3 states.

Each bedroom here has no closet. Outlets on the walls and windows, but no closests. Boxes of womens shoes are piled high beside the window in my room. I assume they belong to Carlos sister, Miranda. At least I think that is her name. She speaks no Engish. Not a lick. Neither does his mother. This morning I was reading by the lights from the Christmas tree. It was early maybe 6 a.m. Miranda came down to shower. I heard her feet coming down the stairs and look up over the couch and said GOOD MORNING. It is very natural to say that even though she had no idea what I said. She mumbled something in return in Spanish and I had no clue. Oh well. She showered and I continued to read.

Carlos is still sleeping. He awoke to shower and went back to bed. He was out again drinking late last night. It was a dual celebration for Our Lady of Guadalupe for yesterdays cockfights. Zoilos roosters went 3-2. The two losing cocks also lost their lives. The first one Zoilo laid near another dead cock from about an hour earlier. It was not from his bunch of roosters though. Just a random dead bird who lost a fight. I was not sure if this was a kind gesture on Zoilos part or not. Maybe he wanted his rooster to spend his last breaths on earth beside his brethren. Other dead birds laid randomly near the ring where they lost. People walked over them, inspected them, some people even plucked feathers from the dead birds. Kids played with the birds legs and put empty bottles and dirty plates on them. It was truly a sad sight. But one that generated much money and entertainment.

People drank beers and did shots of tequila behind the bleachers. Maybe some 150 people were in attendance. The roosters waiting to fight sat in their cages alone. They crowed every few minutes. And I asked the amigos about this. How do you know they are not asking for help? I mean, listen to them.

There is a sharp metal hook placed on one of the birds legs. Its tied tightly and serves as its main weapon in combat. That as well as its sharp beak and claws. One good swipe with the hook and the other bird could bleed to death right in the ring. The ring of dirt and feathers. Sometimes the birds both sit motionless during a bloody bout. The referee draws a line in the dirt with a stick and the birds owners or handlers put the bird on the line, the ref counts to three, and then the birds are let go to fight again. If they cannot or if one bird falls over dead or lets his beak hit the ground, the other one wins. Those loser is carried out of the ring, the hook is untied, the bird is inspected and usually put down to die if it already is not. The handler and owner go to wash their hands in a bucket of water and they either prepare for their next fight or go and watch the other birds fight.

I bet there were some 35 fights yesterday. Maybe 16 dead birds if I think back at it. The hooks are covered until just before the fight. When they are removed, a lime is placed on the hook to kill any poison that might be on it. I guess people have cheated this way in the past.

There is also a third rooster that briefly battles with the fighting birds. He is like they sparring partner I guess. He gets them all riled up and ready for the real fight. The handlers hold their bird and let the non-fighters peck and claw at their bird to piss him off enough to fight. Its fucking ridiculous. They turn their bird backwards and let the non-fighter bite him in the ass or in the neck. The handler then takes his bird, pets it, and spits water on it to cool it down just before the hook is removed. Again, fuckin ridiculous.

I am going to the Internet place to try and post this. Not sure what else we are doing during my last 2 days. Probably a lot of drinking and nothing. Viva Mexico.

Two of my newest amigos from Saturday night's fiesta. The guy on my left called me 'gringo' all night and the other guy almost fell asleep a hundred times.

That Carlos' nephew, Yban or however it's spelled. He's guarding the empty bottles of Vicotia cerveza.

On our way home, we stopped for a few michiladas, a blend of beer, lime juice, and Mexican spices.

While smoking and wearing a University of Georgia hat backwards, Aurelio also hold his cock.

Seconds before the fighting begins. One of these birds is just pissing off the other one to prepare it to fight. Their owners and handlers hold the tails to ensure it doesn't get outta hand.

Flying cocks battle for their lives. And Mexican's dinero.

Gilberto, Apolinar and Aurelio hanging out during Sunday's cock fights.

Zoilo'a cock was victorious in his flock's first bout, suffering only a cut under its wing.

This cock wasn't as lucky. It died a few minutes later, Zoilo's first loss in 8 fights.

The 'no betting allowed' sign was grossly ignored all day.

Handlers lay their bird to rest along a cement wall. A kid in the background kicks at a dead bird to see if it will move or not.

Sometimes they were so bloodied and beaten up, they couldn't stand on their own power. Their handlers set them on lines drawn in the dirt and the ref counted. If one fell over, it lost the fight. And probably its life.

A graveyard of cocks. No way for a feathered warrior to go.

An empty cage simply means not all the cocks made it out alive.

Imagine that. A pickup truck loaded with Mexicans after a cockfight.