Page 9

Next to the llavadora is a slanted section of concrete used for about anything water related. Clothes are washed here...as are hands, your teeth are brushed, and water buckets are filled to allow you to flush the toilet or take a shower.

Naturally, since there is a roof over the llavadora, the water is always fairly cold. By the time you fill a couple buckets and haul them a hundred or two hundred yards to the shower room, the water is even colder. To get a hot shower, you go to the kitchen and boil a pan or two of water to mix with the cold water from the llavadora. Of course, time constraints mean it will never be more than mildly warm, particularly since a shower takes 2 or 3 5-gallon buckets to get the job done.

There is a bowl in the shower room that is really the heart of the system. You dip it in the bucket and pour water over the target portion of your body...soap it up, then another bowl of water to rinse off. It is very difficult, by the way, to rinse properly.

Of course, there is a second method. When the town water is on, there is a hose in the shower room. The stream it produces will easily fill the two or three 5-gallon buckets in just 10 - 15 minutes with the coldest water you have seen outside the Arctic Circle. Then you dip a bowl into the bucket, pour the water on the target portion of your body...basically, all it does is make the water colder but save you a few hundred steps.

Page 8, Day 2 (?)

The day got off to a late start. We were all tired from the long flights and drives of the day prior. It also did not help that we stayed up until just the wrong side of midnight talking, so between the two things it was probably no surprise we did not get up until 10 or 11.

Gabe showed me the facilities for all the bathroom needs. It was a two room outhouse with a tin roof. In 1 room is a toilet and a bucket. The plumbing is so bad that you are strictly forbidden to flush toilet paper. Instead, after you use it, you deposit the used paper in the bucket for disposal. Also, you have to be careful...the water commissioner frequently turns off the water, and when he does so, the only way to flush the toilet is to get another bucket which you fill with water. When you pour this water into the toilet, it self flushes.

The door to the toilet is simplicity itself. In Oregon I would call it a curtain. It goes from about 5-1/2 feet off the floor to about 2' off the floor. More privacy is afforded by the bathroom location, demurely hidden in a back corner of the lot. The shower has the same door. This provided great amusement for Gabe, who habitually watched for someone to enter either room, then would invariably shout, "Lock the door!" It was a gently humorous reminder that many things taken for granted by many of us are still concepts not known to many fiscally poorer people of the world.

I might mention the bedroom doors are similar. The main difference is where the bathroom and shower room use 1 curtain, the bedrooms use two that meet in the middle. If you are shy, it takes some careful maneuvering to ensure there are no visible gaps.

The shower curtain is the easiest to hold closed. Actually, shower is a misnomer...but it is not a bath, either. To hold the curtain closed, you simply use one of the staples of bathtime in Bordonal...a 5 gallon bucket of water.

To take a shower, you first go to the llavadora and fill a couple 5 gallon buckets of water. Llavadoras are concrete rectangles that fill with water using the same concept as a toilet plunger. The plunger reads the water level, and if it is too low, when the city has the water on, it begins filling the large concrete holding tank. These llavadoras ranged in size from 1500 liters to 2100. The one we were using was 1900 and was shared with the neighbors.

page 7

Instantly there was a flurry of activity as I was shown to one of the 5 rooms in the house where, to my surprise and delight, there was a bed. I had been told I would be sleeping on the floor. When you look at a concrete floor and then see a bed, you start to realize how blessed you really are. Gabe's Dad proudly brought in a table which I assumed was for storage purposes while we were in Bordonal. I put my bag on the floor, but he anxiously said, "No! Arriba de la mesa!"

Startled, I followed his instructions and put my bags on the table. It was only later I remembered what he had said and knew I had comprehended my first, actual Spanish phrase used in a legitimate conversation and not a classroom setting..."No! On top of the table!" This, actually, was one of the happiest moments of my life up to that moment.

After settling into our rooms, we went out to a small, attached room that was still not part of the house. I should explain that. The house itself is made almost entirely of concrete. This includes the floor, roof, walls, and everything structural that I could see. The attached room, however, was a lean-to of wood with actual gaps in the walls. It was the kitchen/dining room and very much a part of the house while still having a completely different feel to it. In the kitchen, Techo, Tydae's wife, had prepared dinner for us.

It was carne asada with tortillas, salsa, and a few condiments I did not recognize. We also drank lemonade. Not dehydrated and reconstituted, not fortified with minerals and vitamins, not commercial...no, this was really lemonade. It was made from fresh picked and squeezed lemons. I can still taste it. It was so good. In fact, of the many things I tried for the first time in Bordonal, that is probably still my favorite.

The rest of the night was a blur. Gabe and I wandered the town. He greeted friend after friend, relative after relative. Most of them knew Deb, all knew Gabe, and none knew me.

For some reason, and quite uncharacteristically, when I try to use Spanish I panic. My calm, self-assured personality disappears and in its place is a nervous, shy boy. That made the experience of meeting numerous people very difficult as I again forgot the greetings I learned over a year ago in the very first class and have used almost every day since then.

The people put me at ease very rapidly, however. Everyone was smiling and relaxed. They seemed pleased and excited to meet someone new. Not me specifically, just SOMEONE new. For many of them, I was only the 2nd or 3rd white person they had ever seen...my sister being the first and our cousin Brenda the second.

It was a long day but a good day. It started in San Jose, California, United States of America, passed through Phoenix, Arizona in a rush, passed through Ixtapa, Mexico at a relaxed pace, and ended in Bordonal, Michicoán, United States of Mexico. Despite the heat, I slept very well.

Page 6

Gabe's brother, Tydae, and his father were waiting for us. As it turned out, Tydaye speaks English fairly competently, certainly much better than I speak Spanish. It was good that he did, because instantly every bit of my Spanish deserted me...simple, basic terms like "Buenos dias", "mucho gusto", and "igualmente" fled from my mind like convicts in a prison break. 4 terms of Spanish and all I could muster was a smile.

The ride to Bordonal was quite exhilirating. Bordonal lies about an hour and a half north of Ixtapa, so we piled all our luggage and 5 people into a Nissen shortbed pickup. Space was tight, to say the least. And that extends to the roads even more than the pickup we were in.

Various cars, including vast numbers of Volkswagon Beetles, light pick-up trucks, delivery trucks, and anything else with a motor thunder along at whatever speed the driver thinks is safe. If a vehicle in front of them is moving too slowly they simply pass...on curves, straightaways, shoulders, hills, wherever there is room. At one point we had 4 vehicles side by side on a 2 lane road, 2 going each direction. I love thrill rides, but this was a bit much for even me.

Interestingly enough, there are a large number of roadside altars which turned out to be memorials for loved ones who had passed away...some in collisions between automobiles, others ill-fated pedestrians who would have been wiser to select a different route. I was not surprised by the volume of these altars....if anything, their rarity was the surprise. I can only assume there are so few because not every family can afford to maintain them.

The primary means of speed control seem to be speed bumps. Tall, wide, strong speed bumps that will instantly destroy the suspension...and possibly frame...of any fast moving car are spread about every half mile in population centers. People cross these at about 2 mph, then rush ahead to the next one at top speed.

No heed is paid to the police vehicles parked at seemingly random intervals in shelters beside the road. I did note each of these shelters was manned by 4 to 6 people, all of whom carried automatic weapons that to my untrained eye looked like M-16s, and that is what I started calling them.

Tydae drove much more sanely and reasonably than most drivers, as proven by how many people passed him. We took certain care to avoid all those typical road obstacles...dogs, people, chickens, cows....but eventually we hit a patch of toll roads.

There are two roads to Bordonal...one is via toll roads. If you take one of these, you are insured against road damage, mechanical failure, and basically anything that can go wrong. The non-toll road has none of this insurance and also is much, much rougher. It was worth it to pay the toll.

After the toll roads we turned down what I will politely call a side street. It seemed to stretch out forever and after a few minutes we hit a dirt road.

I am serious when I say "hit". After about 2 minutes on it, I was looking around for the boxer who was pummeling me. It is a polite fiction to say the ride got a little bumpy....no, this was a slugfest, a bruising battle between my office-softened body and the seat that seemed to have no springs trying to puncture my sphincter.

Naturally Deb and Gabe were both very excited. Gabe was born and grew up here while Deb was returning to the town she loves. I think at this point they were still more excited about me being there than I was, and I was quite enthralled. They simply wanted that much to share with me the happiness and pleasures of Bordonal. It was a sentiment I would come to know well since it was shared by about every inhabitant of the little town.

Well, about 9 rounds in to the scheduled 12 round boxing match between my butt and the seat, with the seat leading on every judges card, I was saved by the bell as we arrived at a small blue house and turned into the overhang that serves as a garage.

page 5

"No," he continued, "it was the kiosk this morning. I TOLD the girl," (this was said with such inflection I wondered if the girl was an amoeba or perhaps a leper or worst of all...*gasp* a zombie), "that there were 7 of us and 14 bags...2 for each of us. But she insisted on trying to match them up with us. I told her again..."

His tale of woe droned on, but fortunately only as the line was moving. Since I like to be among the last people to board I did not have to hear the fascinating conclusion to this tale of heartache, trials and tribulations in trying to fly internationally in a climate of high security when you don't have your luggage matched to your party.

Oh, the indignity of it all! Heaven forfend the airlines do their job and do their best to keep every traveler safe! I am sure the loss of his business will be felt keenly. Of course, I myself intend to always use this airline in the faint hope it will keep me from having to encounter him again, but probably not for long as doubtless the loss of his treasured business will drive the airline out of business. That is, if he survives customs.

Because naturally there was a problem there, too. Would you believe Mexican customs officials had the unmitigated gall to do things their way instead of his? After all, if he wanted his three or four or five families from various parts of the United States of America to be treated as one group traveling together, then they had jolly well better accept the forms the way he filled them out regardless of what the instructions said!

Meanwhile, our party was just happy to be inside the building and away from the cloying heat of the tarmac. The only hitch was when a lady asked me to push a button that registers each person's entrance into Mexico through this particular airport. My insignificant knowledge of Spanish never allowed me to comprehend what she was saying when she wanted me to push the button. However, in mere seconds, with patience and sign language, we got the task accomplished and the three of us were officially in Mexico and ready to go.

page 4

Deb and I joined the extremely long line to get through customs. Interestingly, Gabe, being a Mexican citizen, had no wait and had the baggage claimed by the time we had gotten through customs. Ixtapa is very much a tourist destination, and this showed in the number of non-citizens as opposed to the number of citizens on the flight.

Sadly for me, Deb and I were in line behind a gentleman, and I use the word very loosely, whom I first had the pleasure of encountering in Phoenix. You know the stereotypical "Ugly American"? He is not just a stereotype, he actually exists. Wearing an orange camouflage hat, he was as big and loud as life.

Seriously, orange camouflage? Where, exactly, are you going to hide? A Florida citrus farm? A room full of basketballs? A Carrot Top show? Fortunately for my sanity, he proclaimed at the top of his voice, "This way the family will know where I am and can gather round me."

Now, if I said that, it would be done in an attempt to draw a laugh. Particularly since camouflage is typically used to...oh, I don't know, camouflage things? Hide them? He, however, was quite earnest in this statement. So was his attempt to verbally smurf-slap the airline.

When our flight was ready to depart they called for passengers with special needs, 1st class travelers, and passengers with small children to board. Then they had group numbers, which were listed on the tickets, line up to take their turn to board. With the passengers clumped together it was time for Captain Unhappy Consumer to spring into full-throated action. Not using his private conversation voice, he launched his tale of woe.

"I am NEVER flying THIS airline again!" he bellowed. "I have never seen such terrible service."

He paused and I optimistically concluded the tirade was over...and misplaced. A half hour delay on an international flight did not strike me as earth-shattering. However, peace would not be an option. Some intrepid (and stupid) family member chose to feed his flame. "Why not?"

Now, normally when I read my concentration is pretty good. At the moment I was reading "Duke", a biography of John Wayne and the section I was reading had particular relevance as a research topic for my forthcoming book Dreamcatchers on the Rearview Mirror so I was able to blank out part of his ranting. However, he went so loud and so long that I could not blank it all out.

Page 3

I suppose I should introduce the cast. Though I know us all very well, you, my faithful readers, might not. Gabe is the reason we set out for Bordonal in the first place. His names that are important are Gabriel Cisneros Maciel and he was born in Bordonal.

Gabriel, naturally, is his surname. Cisneros was his mothers' name. Traditionally, Mexicans take their mother's name on and then Maciel of course is his father's last name. If and when he and Deb are blessed with children they would then be Barton Maciel.

Gabe moved to California when he was around 16 in hopes of making more money and a better life. He has remained extremely close with his family and is very generous with them. As do many Mexicans who work in the United States, he sends a significant amount of money home every month to help the family. This is just one of the ways family ties and closeness are maintained.

His wife, Debbie, is my sister and 9 years my junior. I have been fortunate to have a close relationship with her for almost her entire life. I consider her one of my closest friends and have come to know and love Gabe very much as well. Deb has been down to Bordonal numerous times and between the two of them I will have a pair of knowledgable tour guides.

His wife happens to be my sister Debbie. She is 9 years my junior

page two

I still remember the first day I arrived and how different things were in Bordonal from the stops on the way there. We left San Jose for the Phoenix stopover. In Phoenix we thought we would barely be in time to catch our next flight so we rushed through the airport like madmen, squeezing through the throngs of cranky travelers. As it turned out, our flight was delayed and we not only had plenty of time to get checked in, we were able to eat and still had probably a half hour wait before we boarded the plane. Still, that is the way of people in the United States. No matter where you are going, you need to get there in a hurry because otherwise you might miss something important.

I was fortunate in my seating for the flight. I sat on the window on the exit row with nobody seated beside me. I had leg room and scenery and personal space. Of course, most of the flight we were well above the clouds so there was really no scenery to speak of. Occasionally I would catch a glimpse of rugged mountains or a small body of water, but that was about all.

Finally I saw the ocean shore and scores upon scores of palm trees. We got lower and lower, those trees thrusting upward in a vain attempt to pierce the soft underbelly of the modern monstrosity that is a passenger plane and bring it crashing to earth. It briefly seemed they might succeed as all I saw as we descended were those trees. Moments before our wheels touched I saw dirt and then the harbinger of modernity and so-called civilization, asphalt. Soon the plane taxid to a stop and the passengers began the post-landing feeding frenzy.

Storage compartments were flung open, people pushed aside, and items snatched forth so they could disembark the moment the ramps struck the plane. Then they stood impatiently and uncomfortably in the cramped confines of the plane, waiting.

I sat quietly in my seat, looking out the small port hole window. I was a little surprised to see a couple of army men bearing automatic weapons, but hey...different countries have different customs. Who am I to judge how they handle their business?

Deb, Gabe and I were, I believe, the last passengers to disembark. We left in no hurry, with no pushing or shoving. Unsurprisingly, we had plenty of time to disembark before the plane left again. Even less surprisingly, there was a line to go through customs so any advantage we might have gained in rushing off the plane would have been lost. Ixtapa would be our home for the next 45 minutes or hour.

Bordonal, the first entry

I am finally starting to do what I planned to do since I first arrived in Bordonal, Mexico...keep a journal. As I write this it is early morning, in fact so early that it is still dark...though with each passing moment that changes significantly. Already the sky to my right has gone from a deep greyish black-blue to a rather whitish yet still dark blue. Always the sunrises here are gorgeous.

What day is it? I honestly cannot say. It does not seem overly important. One day is much the same as another here. Whether it is the 20th or 21st or even 22nd is beyond both my ken and interest. Nor do I know what time it is, but that doesn't matter either. Time is like that here.

What a strange place, this Bordonal. Behind me, beside me, and ahead of me ring the cacophony of roosters, dogs, and even a burro or two noisily chiming in to remind us they, too, are here. A small house off to the right is playing "I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas" in Spanish here in a plce where history has never recorded snowfall. Someone is singing along to the music.

There are many strange dichotomies like that. A block away from here sits a two story building. The first floor houses a small store that sells cookies, chips, sodas, and a few other sundries. I believe it is the tortierrilla here in town. The parents live on that floor with however many children still live at home, a number I have never been able to determine. On the 2nd floor lives the family of the oldest child. That is where they built because that is where they could afford "land".

Parked in the pitted, pocked, rugged dirt road that runs through Bordonal is an RV that is nicer and better better accomodated than either of the two homes in that 2 story building. It has a satellite dish and I even noticed the flicker of a tv screen in the RV when I walked by some time ago...minutes? Hours? Who knows? Who cares?

Time is like that in Bordonal. Tomorrow will come. There is plenty of time in the day to do what needs done. Probably more than enough. It has been difficult to start writing this because there has been so much time that no time seems like the "right" time because there will be plenty of time later. Already the time culture of this sleepy village is seeping into my very character, changing me. Probably for the better.