My nose is stuffed up from the mold in my apartment from being away for 4 months, but the smell of tacos still seems to permeate into my senses. Slow cooked birria, grilled carne asada, tender cochinita pibil all served with handmade corn tortillas are standard menu options at small restaurants that I pass by. I was vegetarian for years before I came to Mexico. That all went out the window when I arrived. I had reasons for being vegetarian. Mainly, I don’t like the idea of factory-farmed animals living in horrendous conditions, being injected with hormones and antibiotics, and then dying in fear. I believe we take on the energy of what we eat, and I don’t like the energy of the whole USA meat system. Also, reading about the horrors of the meatpacking industry in the early 20th century in Upton Sinclair’s “The Jungle” as a student semi-traumatized me for life.
I like to think that in Mexico, the livestock animals are a bit happier. At least in the region I’m in, the cows live a pretty peaceful life grazing in pastures, and free-range chickens are actually free-range. I’ve watched endless hours of television shows on the craft of Mexican cooking.“Pati’s Mexican Table” and “Taco Chronicles” both highlight beautifully the food culture in this country. Both shows interview a well-known Sonoran woman butcher at a Rastro Municipal who takes pride and care in raising and butchering cows for her community. I know this subject is a bit sensitive for the veggie-eaters, but until these human bodies can evolve to live off of sunlight, we still live in a world where animals eat other animals and I’d rather support the most humane way of doing it. Anthony Bourdain was and still is my hero after all.
Food in Mexico is like nowhere else in Latin America. I mean, by the sheer fact alone that people crave Mexican food, but don’t necessarily put too much thought into Panamanian food, or Bolivian food, or Peruvian food means there must be something to it. An array of peppers, both fresh and dry, give salsas their depth of flavor. Enchiladas, tortas, chilaquiles, pozole, tostadas, tamales, chile relleno, and of course tacos. The list is endless, and the flavors vast. Did you know that some mole sauces can have upwards of 30 ingredients? And to really eat Mexican food, although it’s possible, this isn’t the place to be vegetarian or vegan.
Food here has a depth of flavor as much as the people themselves. I’ve been residing outside of the United States for 13 years and feel fairly comfortable with life abroad, but Bahamian culture and Mexican culture are vastly different, and I suddenly feel like a foreigner in a foreign country. There are certainly similarities, such as the natural inclination of acknowledging another person when you enter a room or pass them on the street, something Americans never seem to do, perhaps out of fear of addressing a stranger, or perhaps a busy mindset that one must keep going, not having the time for the formalities of menial exchanges. But other than that, the language, the interactions, the customs, the art, the music, and even the colors are significantly different.
On this day, I’m leisurely walking through the cobblestone streets of my little town of San Pancho. I must tread carefully as water fills the cracks between the stones due to last night’s torrential rains. I had laid in bed of my tiny studio apartment listening to the pouring rain and the lightening striking around me. I’ve known of at least 3 people recently who had their house struck by lightening in Nassau, and am now taking these storms extremely seriously. Water had trickled under my door in the night, which I’m sure is part of the reason for the wild growth of mold during my four-month absence. I had packed up my clothing and bedding in bags, and even put my wooden cutting board in the fridge, but anything organic like my bedframe and foldable desk were covered in mold, and now I suffered the consequences with my histamine levels on high alert.
Anyway, back to San Pancho. This small Pacific seaside town is officially called San Francisco, but I imagine in order to escape confusion from another larger town of the same name, they have nicknamed it San Pancho. There is an island called Long Island in the Bahamas and it causes much confusion for East Coast Americans, so I know how that goes. Due to both my online Spanish teacher and my landlord being called Pako, I learned that both Pancho and Pako/Paco are nicknames for those christened with the name Francisco. Hence San Pancho.
September is hot. Coffee shops in this sleepy town don’t awaken until 8am and you can expect tranquility until around 10am. But then the heat storms in. This time of year, the town is very quiet. Similar to the Bahamas, locals plan their vacations to cooler climates and many shops and restaurants are closed. Just a few hours away up on the plateau, Guadalajara has already gotten their fall sweater weather with temps in the low 70’s. Here we are melting at 90 degrees and 110% humidity.
Since arriving, my days have settled into an easy schedule. I make myself an early pot of coffee when the sun comes up around 7am, and then venture out around 9am for a proper cappuccino. I have about 4 favorite coffee shops, although there are many more than that. There’s the donut shop where they make their own donuts and the tables and chairs are set up in the street, and the yellow shop located in a boutique hotel on a quiet shady street, with sunbeam yellow walls and Miami Beach vibes. The bathroom is decked out in creepy yellow rubber ducks that uniformly cover every square inch of the tall ceilings. I avoid going in the bathroom, and now have an appreciation for people with a fear of clowns. The owner is always a bit grumpy, but the young server makes up for it with his kind smile. If I’m feeling bougie, I’ll head to Hotel Cielo Rojo for organic, local ingredients and fresh-squeezed juices. Later, I’ll tuck into my apartment during the hottest part of the day for some writing. I can appreciate why Spaniards celebrate siesta time, because you really don’t want to be out in the mid-day heat.
Life is simple and slow. I don’t need much, and I am content in my apartment that’s probably about the same size, although not the same shape, as my 32’ sailboat that carried me to the Bahamas so many years ago. I’ve looked at a few other places to rent, but I can’t justify paying more when I have everything I need already. Why do we have this “bigger is better” mentality? Bigger is more cleaning, more maintenance, more guests visiting, more money spent on heating or cooling, and more space that you end up filling with crap you probably don’t need. Keep it small and keep it simple.
Since I started coming to Mexico, I’ve learned to listen to my intuition a lot more than I did previously. When language is a barrier, you really have to feel into what is potentially sketchy, and what feels alright. I realize that in most situations people are genuinely trying to help. When I met my landlord, Pako, I got very suspicious when he was trying to ask me for a security deposit and decide which day to pay rent each month. He even brought his brother Dani over to translate, who speaks great English. I had to call my cousin to make sure I wasn’t getting bamboozled. I wasn’t. It was a fair deal.
My Spanish has improved in the past 9 months, and I now have enjoyable chats with Pako, and he’s starting to learn a few words in English, although we stick to Spanish. Since then, Pako helped me push my car off the side of the road when it broke down, along with helping me with a few other car logistics for “El Blanco,” the name that has naturally evolved when referring to my white Ford Fiesta. His brother has hooked me up with getting my clothes and sheets washed (his wife runs a laundry service out of their house). I have been doing things like going to the dentist and getting my cell phone repaired. While many people speak un poquito de English, I’m doing all of this, for the most part, in Spanish.
Since coming to Mexico, I am starting to understand community in a way that I never knew before. Brothers, sisters, cousins, neighbors, they all look out for each other. Life is celebrated every day and if the music next-door is too loud, you join in. Community is prioritized over career. And more and more Mexicans, it seems, are feeling called to return home. Mexicans want to live in Mexico, but they have gone abroad in search of means to help their families to survive in a world that costs dollars (or pesos) to live in. But they know that the big house and the fancy car do not necessarily buy happiness like the American Dream tells us it does. It’s community, food, and celebration that brings happiness, at least in Mexico.
Outdoor spaces are gathering spots, whether it’s a covered carport or entryway, or in my case, on the side of the soccer field. Outside of my apartment is a sitting area with plastic chairs and a table where the residents of my complex and the one next door gather almost every evening. Some nights there are soccer games, either for the kids, or the regional games that are a bigger deal, where teams of adult men from San Pancho rival the surrounding area teams. Just off of my patio is a giant avocado tree. There are chickens and roosters in the garden. One neighbor waters the pot that holds a giant-leafed monstera-looking vine that’s creeping up the tree that grows through my porch. Pako takes great care with the garden, raking the grounds and planting plants. He proudly sends photos of the new plants when I’m absent.
Yes, Mexico has its problems like anywhere in the world. And no, I am not worried about being kidnapped. That fear propaganda campaign, I believe, has something to do with perhaps wanting to keep Americans at home. If they knew that the world was actually a wonderful place outside of the USA, they might all go flooding over the border in the reverse direction. As with anywhere, be smart, and keep your wits about you. You can get robbed in Paris or held at gunpoint in Chicago. Strangely enough, I actually feel safer in Mexico than I do in cities of the US that seem to be rampant with weird-o’s, homeless communities taking over the streets, and graffiti on architecture.
Life is vibrant and alive here. Even death feels alive, as I experienced when I was here for the celebration of Dia de los Muertos. If you don’t speak the language, if you don’t make an effort in your community and isolate yourself with other expats and gringos, you’ll have a different experience. I’m slowly opening up, exposing myself to the vulnerability of grammatical mistakes when I’m speaking and texting. I allow myself to delight in the surprise of the unexpected, instead of resisting and being fearful. As with many places in the world, there can be a sense of angst about foreigners taking jobs, or affecting the cost of living, but people can also sense those who are respectful and truly want to be a part of the community, versus those who just come here because it’s “cheap” and insulate themselves in gated communities. Yes, it’s hard not to seem like an ignorant foreigner at times, looking lost, saying the wrong things, but if there is goodness in your heart, I believe it is intuitively felt. Now, all of this is only my perspective from my brief time here, so take it for what it’s worth.
And so, as I walk the streets of this pueblito, and as I take in the sights and smells, and absorb the constant chatter of unknown words, I wonder what it would be like to do this elsewhere. What if we had the opportunity to reinvent ourselves in any town in the world? What if there is a different and surprising version of ourselves waiting to be discovered in various places? Who am I when I step outside of my comfort zone? I’ve certainly found a new version of myself here, although I feel as though I’m only scratching the surface of uncovering who she really is.
This new chapter in Mexico has been magical, but not without its challenges. I have no idea what is unfolding and what is on the horizon, but I am doing my best to embrace it. Mexico has drawn me in and captivated me, and it doesn’t seem to want to let me go quite yet. Let’s just sit back and enjoy the ride, shall we?
As it says on t-shirts and bags around here…pinche Mexico, te amo.
