weevil under the sun

Well, I am never going to get the part of Doctor Niles Crane if my kitchen counters look like this.

I am not a neat freak -- by any stretch of imagination.  But the photograph at the top is this post is a bit over the top.  Even for my kitchen.

As you may have guessed, there is a story buried somewhere in that pile.

Before I left on my cruise, I discovered something a bit unappetizing when I changed out one of my large water bottles.  There were black oblong objects floating in the remains of the water.

Several options ran through my head.  The first was that mice or the omnipresent geckos had been using my water dispenser as a toilet.

But that made little sense.  Even though the space between the dispenser and the water bottle is not air tight, it is close.

A cursory look convinced me they were rodent turds.  Probably in the bottom of an errant bottle that had not been thoroughly cleaned.  Not to worry.  Worse things show up in water around the world.

Today, I switched out my first bottle of water since I returned from Dubai.  And, once again, there were the same black objects.  But more.  Five or six on my first discovery.  Between twenty and thirty today.

This time I took a closer look with a magnifying glass.  They were small insects of some sort.  I checked the wall behind the water dispenser and discovered the culprits.  Little beetles.  Lots of them.  Who had drowned while slaking their thirst.

And I knew immediately what they were.  With their Cyrano snouts.  Weevils.  We had a bout with them at our house in Milwaukie when I was in grade school.

I knew the routine.  I had to take everything out of the pantry.  Food.  Bags.  Linens.

Almost immediately I discovered the source.  A bag of popping corn and two boxes of spaghetti.  The weevils had set up a colony and were reproducing like mad.  Weevils make cockroaches look like childless Manhattanites.

Armed with bleach, Raid, and garbage bags, I picked my way through the food.  The shelves came out for disinfecting.  And I then laid down enough Raid to qualify for a reenactment of the second battle of Ypres.

Four hours after I sprayed, the weevils were still wandering out from their hiding places.  And even with direct blasts of Raid, they seemed to be going on their merry way until my index finger directed them to insect hell.

I am going to wait a bit before I start putting things away.  I want to be certain I have killed as many as I can.  I will simply have to accept the fact that once the weevils have invaded, they will have the patience of a communist operative in a London art gallery.

And when I store my goods, I am going to do what I should have done earlier.  I will put things such as beans and pasta in the freezer for a couple of days to freeze the bugs and eggs, and then repackage the food into airtight containers.

I thought I was going to escape the weevil terrorists.  I knew better.

When everything is stored away, I can get back to auditioning my new anal retentive personality.

 

a wrenching bus ride

Mexico has been getting a bum rap as a land of violence.

That is not to say that there is no violence in Mexico.  There is.  As there is everywhere.

And even though President Calderon's War on Drugs has primarily ended in the deaths of drug gang members, it has left more unease amongst the Mexican public than amongst American tourists.  It is one reason Mexican voters are about to reward the discredited PRI with a new presidential term.

But some Mexicans are not waiting for the elections.

The newspaper reported on Tuesday that a group of bus passengers pulled a Charles Bronson in northern Mexico.

The bus was on its way from Monterrey to Durango.  A swath of Mexico that has had more than its fair share of crime lately.  While the bus was under way, a man got up from his seat and started walking up the aisle.  All the while brandishing a large wrench.  His partner, a knife in hand, headed toward the driver.  They both demanded the riders' property.

Maybe the passengers had watched United 93 too many times. 

Or they had heard of enough local tales of buses being hijacked and passengers being found months or years later.

Or they were simply fed up with punk criminals ruining their lives.

Whatever it was, several passengers jumped the guy with the wrench.  Took his wrench from him.  And beat him.  To death.

The accomplice, now in fear of his life, held his knife on the driver and demanded to be let out at the next town.

And that is what happened.  But not before the passengers disarmed him, seized him, and gave him a grave beating.  But not to the grave.

The newspaper account gets very vague at this point.  It simply notes that the medical examiner took Wrenchman's body to the morgue and the Red Cross took Knifeman to a local hospital. 

Even though the police were involved, it appears the bus went on its way.  As a warning to other robbers.

By passing along this tale, I am not advocating vigilantism.  I am not even certain these people were vigilantes.  "Vigilante" is a term statists often use as a pejorative to besmirch potential victims. Wrenchman may have ended up dead because the passengers had no other alternative other than giving up their property.

Or they saw the foolishness of waiting for The Authorities to right what was wrong.  If that is true, it does my American libertarian heart good.

I suspect Knifeman may think twice about taking on a bus of fed-up Mexican bus passengers.  And that will be better for all us.

dead in the water

I played with several titles for this post.   "dead water" nearly won the thought race.

When I returned from my Great Trek, one of the first places I visited was my pond.  The natural condominium for fish, birds, and crocodiles.

I knew when I left that the vegetation would undoubtedly take over the water surface in my absence.  If not the water cabbage and hyacinth, the water lilies would prevail.

They may have.  But just before I arrived, the authorities with backhoes broke through the sea dunes to let the laguna flush.  In the hope that if hurricane Bud dropped its predicted inches of rain, it would all rush out into the ocean.

When the dunes are breached, my inlet is high enough that almost all of the water heads out to sea in the Big Flush.  And that is what happened this time.

My tranquil pond is a tangle of dying vegetation and stinking mud.  While I have the opportunity, I will dig up some of the water lilies to cut down on their intrusion. 

But I will simply be humoring myself that I am controlling anything.  After all, the water will soon return in our rainy season.  As will the vegetation.  And the crocodiles.

There is one upside, though.  It may only be my perception, but the number of mosquitoes seems to have dwindled.

And that is a very good thing.

tranquil roots

"White. A blank page or canvas. 
The challenge: bring order to the whole.
Through design.  Composition.  Tension.  Balance.  Light.  And harmony."

Thus does Georges Seurat introduce us to the artist's life in Sunday in the Park with George.

Yesterday the gardener did just that with my pocket park. 

Even though it is my refuge of tranquility, it had become what every untended garden becomes.  Tangled.  Overgrown.  A jungle.  In other words, natural.

And natural is one thing the artistic mind cannot abide.

Whether painter, sculptor, architect, film maker, or writer, artists want order.  Design.  Composition.  Tension.  Balance.  Light.  Harmony.

And when they find it, they freeze it in amber for us.  For our admiration.  And to believe, for one shiny moment, that life is thus.

My landlady hires two men to tend the garden.  One to hold a hose a couple times a week like a mother providing water to her thirsty children.  The other to show up twice a year to bring a father's disciplinary hand to the unruly brood.

And discipline he did.  Uprooting everything in the beds.  Dividing.  Replanting.  Trimming with the ruthless hand of a visionary who sacrifices the present for a better future.

Of course, both views are an illusion. 

Gardens can no more be tamed than can life.  The trick is to develop a painter's eye for life.  To create order in our minds while enjoying moments as they present themselves to us.

And to share those moments with others.

bunny faith

Secular icons for religious holidays are a bit problematic for me.

Santas.  Elves.  Easter eggs.

They are not part of my family tradition.  But you know that already.  (an easter tail -- one of my favorite essays).

That is why I was a bit surprised at my reaction when I found the Easter bunny on my dining room table looking as if he was the triumphant model for Marco Basaiti's The Resurrection of Christ. 

The bunny was one of Jiggs's chew toys.  But the object in the bunny's paws was new.

Pope Benedict visited his Mexican flock at the end of March.  And it was quite a visit.  The Mexican church being one of his largest corporate subsidiaries.

Mexico welcomed him only as Mexico can.  Crowds.  Noise.  Music.  Enthusiasm.  Bigger than Santana.

I didn't go see him.  But I now have a souvenir of that visit.
 

If you look closely at what the bunny is holding, you will discover a bit of confection.  A pope-sicle.

A marvelous symbol of how Mexico handles its faith.  Adoration and kitsch wrapped up in one edible package.

And why not?  We have Jesus on velvet.  Our Lady of Guadalupe in throbbing multi-colored lights.    Saints on coffee mugs.

The pope-sicle was a gift from my landlady.  She visited Guanajuato last month -- one of the cities that celebrated the pope's pop-in -- and found the perfect memento for me.  The fact that she so carefully arranged it for my arrival is what made it special.

Not only do I eschew secular religious icons, I am postmodern enough to see little utility in symbols.  But this was a big exception.

Little acts of kindness that bring a smile to a weary traveler's lips are what make life worth living.  After all, the true model of Basati's painting said it best:  "Love your neighbor as yourself."

rose-tinted sands

I am back in Mexico -- for the past 31 hours or so.

And the transition has been seamless.  Almost.

My friends Wynn and Lou picked me up at the airport, and delivered me to Villa Obregon.  After I settled in, they drove over here for dinner at one of the few neighborhood restaurants that stay open for a portion of the summer.

I have said it before.  I will say it again.  Dinner with friends is one of life's best experiences.

As was this one.  Even though I was exhausted.  I did not get to bed on Friday night.  My housesitter and I drove up to Portland to see a movie.  By the time we got back to the house, it was past midnight.  And I had just enough time to pack and catch the 3AM shuttle to the Portland Airport.

I mentioned a not-quite-seamless transition.  Even though I was exhausted enough to head to bed around 9 PM last night, the heat and humidity did a great job of fighting off The Sandman.  I started calculating whether I should jump on a return flight to Oregon next Saturday.

But the moment passed.  And I drifted off. 

This is Sunday.  So, I was up early to head off to church.

In the winter, our church attendance is over 100.  Today it was 16.  A perfect size for more informal services.

Next Sunday, I get to play the role of sermonizer.  Or, more accurately, facilitator.  If all goes as planned, we will discuss Proverbs 15:1.

A gentle response deflects fury,
but a harsh word makes tempers rise.

That couplet contains a lot of wisdom.  Mainly in its subtext.

Then I was off to lunch with four women from the church.  And to the ATM for pesos (at an incredibly good exchange rate), to the grocer to fill the refrigerator with fresh vegetables, and to the Telcel office to buy some additional minutes for my mobile telephone (a telephone that worked on the ship and in The States -- much to my surprise).

This evening, I had dinner with my landlady and caught up on happenings in Melaque.  She was gracious enough to listen to my sea tales.

But it has been a long day.  I am now heading to bed.

Tomorrow I will start my TODO list to get my life in order for Mexico.

Despite the heat, it is nice to be back in Melaque.

 

on the road to mexico

By the time you read this, I will be in the air on my way back to Melaque. 

After being gone for 45 days.  The last ten in Oregon.

Visiting with family and friends trumps about any other activity.  And, even though this was a rather rushed trip, I was able to spend more time visiting than shopping for things to take back to Mexico.

I have noticed on each trip north, the urge to act like a consumer mule diminishes.  The Costco thrill is no longer there.  (On the other hand, there were no cherries to woo me to the dark side.)

Even when I am tempted to raid the cheese case at Whole Foods.  What can you say about a society that sells cheese made of sheep milk from a remote Croatian island?  At $20 (US) a pound.

Or Safeway with its deli case of freshly-made pet foods in tiny containers looking as if a feline tapas bar had just opened in town?

I know something is up when visiting American grocery stores seems even more exotic and foreign than walking through Cairo.  Or Morelia. 

And I purposely stayed away from Fry’s Electronics.  Addicts need to exercise their own aversion therapy now and then.

That gave me time to spend with my mother, my brother, and his family.  Conversing.  Laughing.  Eating (of course). And wandering around his ranch.

Bend can be sunny and warm in May.  It wasn’t while I was there.  Overcast and a bit cool.  But perfect for me.  I am about to return to heat and humidity where crisp mornings will be a mere memory.

On my last night in Bend, we went to dinner at one of my sister-in-law’s favorite places.  Zydeco.  With a distinct Louisiana spice.

Best of all, it was a way to celebrate a late Mother’s Day dinner.

I then spent an evening in Salem helping my friends John and Jana celebrate their 42nd wedding anniversary.  With anecdotes.  And a bit of philosophical musing about where America may be heading.

But it is now time to get back to Mexico.  We will see what hurricane Bud has to say about that.