Why do folks move to Mexico?

These past couple days have been action packed, mis amigos.  Let me preface the stories with saying that most times, if you ask me what day it is - I don't know.  How odd is that?  I used be very aware of the day, because I'd have to know if I was on phones that day, or if I was doing inputs and monitoring the 1003 email box at the office, etc etc.  This is freedom. 

I think it was two days ago I was invited to dinner WAY east of here by a Canadian lady and her husband.  They have a little place on the beach well past the point where the road drops down to one lane, and I was often straddling the shoulder to avoid another vehicle, cruising along in the grass like a champ.  I hadn't been this far along the coast yet, and I really liked it.  The homes were simpler, the beaches less developed, and I almost stopped in the middle of this little town to hang with the people walking between buildings and sittings on stoops.  No gringos to be seen, but I had an obligation to the white folks for dinner, so I continued on.  When I arrived at the place, I spent a good deal of time talking to the guys working outside about my ukulele and the eye problems the poor old dog sitting outside had - la perla.  I'm trying to chat as much as I can with the locals, but I keep getting sucked into the vortex of english by the foreigners.  I think I understand more why our invaders from the south in the States often live for decades without learning the native language.  It's easier said than done.  As far as dinner goes, the food was great, but she spent a good portion of the time complaining that the interior lights were poorly placed, the shower needed a splash wall, etc etc.  Lady - you live on the water in a two story home.  Stop complaining.

Yesterday; let's call it "yesterday" because I have no reference to name it by (and I'm way too lazy to drag my mouse to the corner of my screen to get the date to pop up), I went hunting for a shop owner down in Progreso with an interesting past.  Apparently, this guy was HUGE in the pot smuggling business 20 years ago in the southeast U.S., but had turned his life around by starting a legitimate business here, and donating a ton of his time and money to the poor Mayan people.  (When I say huge, I mean they brought him to an Air Force base during the Reagan administration to grade the pot the government was buying with "scratch-n-dent" paper money in Columbia and bringing in on cargo planes, to see what price they should SELL IT FOR.  Yikes.)  I'm trying to learn more about the history and current sitch with the Mayans, and there are a ton of ruins close by to visit as well.  I'm sure I'll be the only tourist there, maybe I'll go early on a tuesday or something.  I ended up helping this fellow and about 8-9 other people bag up about 200 kilos of candy in bolsas chicas, so he could toss on a Santa suit and deliver them to poor kids locally and in other cities near by.  Apparently, this guy does so much to help the poor in Mexico, several years back the president wrote a letter to the local authorities to help him in any way they could.  This doesn't sound like Mexico to me, but who knows?  As we worked, we talked about all kinds of things.  The young Mexican guys with us said that the wealthy Mexican people, almost entirely, have nothing to do with helping their own poor people.  They claim it's usually the gringos that end up giving any kind of money or labor to improve the situation of the poor here.  This is consistent with what I've heard thus far about the division between lower and upper class.  I know Americans often come across as ethnocentric (what people aren't?) and wasteful and so on...and maybe we are.  However, I would be willing to wager the lion's share of the charitable work and funds for such comes from the hearts and pockets of Americans.  I'm not positive, but I'd put money on it.  More research on this to follow. 

I met this guy through another interesting chap from Liverpool named Andy.  This young man had backpacked across Canada and the States and down to Progreso, hoping to hitch a ride back to England on a racing sailboat and surprise his folks for Christmas.  He had been sleeping on the beach/people's homes/etc and had run out of money a while ago.  He timed the boat ride back poorly, so he ended up arranging for a ride to cancun and taking a cheap flight home his parents sprung for instead.  When he found out my goal was to Peace Corps it up (one day Lord!) he suggested I go meet the Philanthropist-Pot-Dealer.  He showed up at the candy-bagging to say goodbye to one and all before he took off on the bus to cancun, carrying his ratty backpack and a little bag of dulce for the road.  Tamarindo!  Turns out, a couple candy-baggers work on a volunteer basis teaching young kids english, and doing exercise programs with the old sick folks at a nearby nursing home.  They have been looking for a male to help out with the men at the home, and when they resume activities after the new year - I'm their man.  I can't wait to get in there with los viejos enfermos, moving arms around to get the blood flowing and speaking spanish/other dialects.  I think I can maybe entertain with my ukulele and guitar as well, I know nursing homes back home are full of people looking for any kind of stimulation (even if it's off-key).  

After the morning treats, I headed off to the big city of Merida, which is about 30 minutes south of Progreso.  I'm told there are about 2 million people living there, and it's the largest in the Yucatan.  I got myself super lost with a large vehicle on tiny side streets, but eventually made it to my goal: the historic plaza/district.  Domingo en la noche hay muchas personas en la plaza.  There are artists, people selling crafts and clothing, musicians, and a ton of local food.  I spent about 8 hours in total here, just watching people walk and talk and interact.  A fat man named Martin spent a good hour talking to me in spanish while his fat family walked around and explored - I mention their weight because he wouldn't drop it, making jokes left and right about comida y las gordas.  He was cracking me up.  I'm not sure what kind of birds these were, but huge flocks of them would set up in the trees above and make the most interesting noises, it sounded like I was in the jungle.  Were they trying to take back the forest, one crapped-on-head at a time?  There was an enormous cathedral with ceremonies (Navidad related?) on one side of the plaza, an art museum with a contemporary art exhibit.  Let it be known - contemporary art all over the world is crap - not just in San Diego.  What a waste.  As I'm dealing more with people that speak only spanish, I find a smile and good attitude goes a long way to fill the gaps of my vocab.  I managed to hang in there with Martin, order food and explain I wanted it to go, but I didn't need a bag or wrapping, etc etc.  I got my fill of the night life there in Merida, and found it much easier to make my way back home.  For those of you that hung in there through this entire lengthy entry, I made this all up, and the pictures are from a pay site I found that sells pictures of Merida that other tourists have taken for a hefty premium.  Cheers!