Saturday, March 17, 2018
I have a new camera.
Before those of you who had nominated candidates in The Great Camera Sing-off get too excited, I did not buy a Sony a9 or a Sony a7 iii (the nearest equivalent to my late lamented Sony a6) or even a Sony RX10 IV. In fact, it is not even a Sony.
The winner is a Samsung. The just released (as of yesterday) Samsung Galaxy S9+.
If you think it is just a telephone, it is not. The camera is an improvement over my Samsung Galaxy S8+ (whose screen died an untimely death in a fall from my nightstand two nights ago).
The Samsung has dual 12 MP cameras on the back and a single 8 MP camera on the front. Because I am not a selfie guy (said quickly, the reverse would be true), the front camera does not interest me. It is that dual back camera that is tempting me to rely solely on the telephone camera for shooting, and forget about a stand-alone camera.That will put an end to the lens or no lens debate.
Samsung cameras have long had a tendency to slightly wash out colors in sunlight. But that is easy to correct with the camera's settings. I like fiddling around with them because they offer a great opportunity to take control of what you shoot. (The same reason lots of computer enthusiasts prefer PCs over Apples.)
Where the camera shines is at night. It has an impressive 1.5 aperture to capture low-light subjects. Even capturing almost-true colors.
I have not yet experimented with the telephoto lens. But I will.
For the next week or so, I will use the Samsung for the photographs that accompany my essays. Then, I will decide if I need a separate camera. After all, I have a wedding in April that will require high-quality shots.
Until then, it's time to go shoot some essays.
Thursday, March 15, 2018
Roll Jurassic Park, Lord of the Rings, and The Last Crusade into a barrel of monkeys, and you will come close to the day we spent yesterday.
It was Kaitlyn's last full day in town. So, we needed to do something special. The choice was easy.
Last year, Ray Calhoun, the owner of The Only Tours, took Darrel, Christy, and me on one of his standard tours.
"Standard" is misleading. In this case, it means one of his advertised tours. But, standard it was not (city slickers duding it up).
The vote was unanimous. We would reprise our adventure. Both Omar and Kaitlyn are motorcyclists, and were looking forward to using their skills on the ATVs.
For outdoor enthusiasts, there is plenty to see in our area. It is an agricultural society. Dirt roads run Kansas straight through fields and orchards of pineapple, papaya, bananas, coconuts, watermelon, truck crops, mangoes, and a few not-so-easily identified crops. And cattle. Plenty of cattle.
The dirt roads are great for bicycles. They are even better for ATVs.
But we did not stick to roads. The major portion of the trip is on an almost dry river bed northeast of Barra de Navidad. And it is perfect driving for ATVs. Lots of sand. Open spaces. And amazingly little dust to interfere with bird-sighting.
That is, if you let your attention be diverted from the adrenalin-churning ride up the river. Mine is a motorcycle family. And there are very few things in life that can toss hormones into the body furnace more effectively than a revving engine sliding through sand.
Our ultimate goal was to reach a fall line where the river squeezes into an extremely narrow channel. Narrow enough that we had to abandon the vehicles and clamor over rocks that could have fallen out of Tolkien's imagination.
And, just like Petra, as we turned a corner, the small (but spectacular) waterfall revealed itself. Along with a precariously-lodged boulder acting as a roof over the cascade to add to the Hollywood effect.
This is Christy's favorite spot. On both visits, she said she would be content to spend the rest of the day there. But that was not to be. After all, having made it to our watery Henneth Annun, we still had to return home.
Ray always puts on a good tour. But Kaitlyn and Omar added an element of youth, of style, of playfulness that we missed on our last trip. The fact that we were all drenched from the waist down was proof that we had not had a staid drive in the country.
Kaitlyn flies away today. We will miss her. But I am certain she will return for a reprise.
Like an Agatha Christie novel, we are now down to four. My advise is that no one leave the library on his own.
Unless they are going for another ATV ride.
Wednesday, March 14, 2018
No visitor to our little pocket of Mexico is spared the mandatory march through the crocodile refuge in La Manzanilla.
When I lived on the laguna in Villa Obregon, leaving home was not required to snuggle up to one of life's most fascinating creations. All you needed to do was to wait until nightfall, grab a flashlight and a camera, and step out my back gate. There were usually one or two good-sized crocodiles lurking just a few feet from my back door.
No more. Now, if I want to show off a collection of American crocodiles, I need to pile visitors into my Escape for a short drive to La Manzanilla. And I do like showing them off.
The crocodiles at La Manzanilla live in a protected reserve. That was not always so. When I first moved down here, the crocodiles freely roamed the beaches and streets around their mangrove home.
But the presence of crocodiles attracted tourists. And that was a volatile mix. Several lap dogs suffered the consequences. So, the local authorities decided to round up the crocodiles, fence them in their own area, and charge an admission fee. It was a perfect mix.
Over the years, the ability to see the crocodiles and the other inhabitants of the mangrove wetland has been improved with the installation of a boardwalk, observation towers, and two suspension bridges right of The Temple of Doom. Disney could learn from this refuge about creating the thrill of true danger.
Of course, what we go to see are the crocodiles. They are not really in their natural setting. Regular feedings cause them to congregate near the chicken table.
But most people would never get to see these magnificent beasts if the refuge did not exist. Their existence was once threatened through hunting and loss of environment. Even though they are still listed as "vulnerable," they have made a steady recovery in Mexico. Mexican efforts to keep the mangrove wetlands undeveloped has been their best survival technique.
And it has provided tourists with a taste of what life is like in the mangroves.
We took our cue from the crocodiles and indulged in our own predatory behavior by driving a couple of miles furthrer north along Tenacatita Bay to one of our favorite haunts -- Chantli Mare, a boutique hotel that offers a great lunch and opportunities for walks on flat beaches.
Of course, it is also one of our favorite stops to play Mexican train -- a version of dominoes that is almost addictive. It certainly stirs up the competitive hormones in our family.
George M Cohan, the perfect showman, always played the sad scene against a happy background. We had one of those, as well, at Chantli Mare.
Most of the guests had left their tables to crowd around a lump at the tide line on the beach. It turned out to be a turtle. A badly injured turtle who looked as if her final hour was near.
She was a reminder, that in this world of joy, tragedy is always present. She probably did not know she was dying. Only that she no longer had the strength to swim in the open water. And her time, like our own, would soon be over.
Maybe that is why we flock to see the crocodiles. They carry the potential of danger. And we cling to our rickety boardwalk hoping that today is not the day we will end up as part of a crocioile's bouillabaisse.
Let me add a coda. We are in the midst of celebrating the feast day of the local patron saint -- San Patricio. That means fireworks. More particularly, the spectacle of the castillo with its spinning wheels and shooting projectiles.
Even though the best castillo will be on Saturday, we stopped by to watch the ritual of young men braving the scars of fireworks. In the video, I particularly like the father in the blue shirt teaching his son how to jump the fire.
No crocodiles are included.
Tuesday, March 13, 2018
"Because I could not stop for Death --
He kindly stopped for me."
And so he did. Emily had it right.
Yesterday was the day to show off Manzanillo to my niece Kaitlyn. For the past week, we have been familying around Barra de Navidad and Melaque. But Mom flew north on Sunday. So, we are now down to five members.
Our goal was the iguana sanctuary. We had all (with the exception of Omar) been there last year. The place was fascinating enough to call for an encore.
That is, if we could get there. The drive is not long, but it means driving through old town Manzanillo -- with its streets and traffic that would be right at home in a Zeffirelli recreation of medieval Padua.
We were almost there when I took a wrong turn. Not to worry, I would just loop around on a one-lane side street and get back on the main road.
But God had different plans for us. This hearse was parked in the middle of the residential street blocking any forward progress.
There was nothing to do but wait. And consider the meaningless emptiness of existence known as life. (For some reason, to me, hearses are always far more evocative of Kierkegaard than Dickinson.) After all, why was the hearse there? Where was the guest of honor? Would there be noshes at the reception following the funeral?
I only managed to get up to "worldly worry always seeks to lead a human being into the small-minded unrest of comparisons, away from the lofty calmness of simple thoughts" when the driver of the hearse appeared (sans casket or corpse) to pull forward just far enough to let us pass.
It was an auspicious overture to our day. After all, our first stop was one of those cores of human kindness. I wrote about it last year (st. francis of iguana).
Forty years ago, Ramon Medina Archundia decided to open a sanctuary for the iguana in the Manzanillo area. Iguana can live in lots of environments. But, in urban areas, they are subject to sudden death syndrome -- from cars, humans, and other animals. They often star in a rather stringy stew.
To give them a fighting chance, Ramon started taking them in as if he were the embodiment of an Emma Lazarus poem. The injured. The hunted. The healthy. All were welcome.
Four decades later, he has a sanctuary that houses up to 600 iguana. That is the number bandied about by the employees. And last year, it was quite credible.
Not so much this year. There were noticeably fewer dinosaur stand-ins this year. But those that were there were still the subject of the program's on-going educational program that the animals are worthy in their own right to be honored. Kant would approve.
The site is also home to several birds, raccoons, wild boars, and other animals. Some visitors to the sanctuary have written on social media hows the sight of the caged animals reduced them to tears -- followed by the usual "someone other than me should do something about it."
I understand the sentiment. The cages are not ideal. But most of the animals were brought there in an injured state. Several of the birds would be unable to fly if released. Like most things in life, there are hard choices that cannot be resolved by Disney reductionism.
But our day was not over. We stopped at La Marina (a department store in Manzanillo) to get some clothes for Omar. Because we thought one of our favorite eateries (Monster Burger) would not open for another two hours, we bought some game credits for Kaitlyn and Omar, and let them loose on the shopping center arcade.
Darrel, Christy, and I enjoyed the show. Both Omar and Kaitlyn are about as competitive as people can be without turning into one of those skating freaks who seem to lose all contact with reality.
I have probably said it several times now, but having my family with me in Mexico changes me -- and often for the better.
Probably not as much as death. But close.
Tuesday, March 06, 2018
“The tone of your writing certainly has changed since you moved down here.”
So Darrel announced on our walk to the Barra de Navidad ATM (a mission that, as it has on so many occasions, resulted in a dry hole). We had been discussing the possibility of having dinner at Lora Loka’s in La Manzanilla. He loves her baked shrimp enchiladas with salsa verde.
In anticipation, he had searched my blog for references to her restaurant and found one of my first posts after moving to Mexico. The families of two other fellow bloggers were in La Manzanilla and wanted to know if we could all get together for an informal blogger conference. I thought it was a great idea (having just had dinner with two other bloggers in Guaymas).
I suggested Lora’s because I knew her from my stay in La Manzanilla in 2007. It was all going perfectly.
Until the Mexican government declared a health crisis due to the swine flu. People were prohibited from gathering in large groups. Theaters were closed. Shopping malls were closed. And, most importantly for our group, restaurants were closed.
I had not yet been exposed to the ingenuity of Mexicans. A blogger who lived in La Manzanilla talked with Lora. The next thing I knew, we were dining as a group -- on the beach.
She had complied with the closure. We were not in the restaurant.
Darrel pointed out that the more cynical Steve of today would have led with that hook. Instead, I did not even mention it. If I recall correctly, I was still concerned Lora might get in trouble, and I did not want to be the vessel of retribution. I now know the likelihood of that happening was about as likely as Donald Trump signing a rational order on free trade.
But, he said, there was more. Back then, I wrote like a wide-eyed, slack-jawed visitor from Chippewa Falls. Everything was new. And amazing. And enthralling. I write about a place that could exist only in the mind of someone new to an area. There was a good reason for that. I was.
And now, I asked. What is my tone now?
”Ironic with an overlay of world-weariness,” he responded.
”Do you mean sophisticated and mature?”
“Nope. I already told you. Ironic with an overlay of world-weariness.”
I am content with that. Even though it does make me sound a lot like Doctor Ottensclag in Grand Hotel. It could be worse.
And I think he is only half correct. There is no doubt that I love an ironic tone. And my writing often sounds as if I am typing through long sighs.
But I still have that sense of adventure that animated my writing style nine years ago. I still wake up every morning not knowing how I am going to get through the day. And I still search for experiences in which I have never dabbled.
Today is one of those days. Mexpatriate welcomed a new cast member this morning: my niece, Kaitlyn. She will be with us for about a week. She will be a good mix to our older set.
Her arrival presented a minor problem. All of my bedrooms are full. To make room for her, I decamped to the hotel just down the street from my house for the duration.
While I was in bed last night, I started musing about adventure. The next thing I knew, Nancy Walker was singing in my ear from Do Re Mi. One of those older musicals that had a plot, believable characters, and a heavy slathering of philosophical musing.
While I sit by the hotel pool, I will let you chuckle at a woman trying to justify her rather frustrating life with a husband who cannot find satisfaction in the moment.
I may have a love for irony, but I am also a sucker for sentiment.
Monday, March 05, 2018
Some things are best done alone.
Walking. Biking. Running.
There are few things worse in life than having to modify your own pace downward for the pace of others. At least, when you are exercising.
When my family was here last year (and I was in Australia), Darrel and Christy bought a pair of bicycles from two Mexican-American brothers who bring the bikes down from The States. The bikes looked good enough that I bought one, as well. And for the rest of their stay, we pedaled all over the area on social rides.
Darrel and Christy headed back to Oregon in the spring, and the bicycles went into storage. I put mine away because walking is my usual exercise regimen. My step counter is set up for a walker, not a bike rider.
That is not quite fair. My telephone automatically starts counting my steps when I start walking. It also has a cycling mode. But it does not start without me taking the telephone out of my pocket, finding the cycle mode, starting it, and stowing my telephone. Then, I need to stop it when the ride is over.
So, I satisfy my jones for numbers by relying on the walking step counter. Even if it does cheat me out of some credit.
Darrel now has all of the bicycles pumped and oiled for this riding season. I took advantage of his generosity by jumping on mine and heading out alone this past week.
From my house in Barra, the number of alternative routes is almost limitless. If I head west, I will end up in the Pacific. South, I will splash into the lagoon. But pedaling north or east takes me through shady lanes where horses, cattle, and goats share the lanes.
This is an agricultural area. Coconut. Mango. Banana. Papaya. Watermelon. Truck crops. Even while pumping my legs off, I enjoy the change of scenery. Even the packs of dogs that chase me down the road like some threatening beasty out of Revelation.
And it is a nice change. My walking track has been fixed for three years now. The only reason I do not modify it is that I know exactly where the segment markers are and if I am maintaining my pace.
The bike is a little different. I ride until I break through the wall, and once I hit that pace, I can keep riding as long as I like through some of the most bucolic landscape imaginable.
But I need to do it alone.
Sunday, March 04, 2018
Barra de Navidad is a homey place.
My more cynical English friends might substitute the word "ropy." And they would be partly correct.
Barra does not reflexively pop to mind when tourists describe pool-side drinks served by attractive wait staff. Not that we do not have some of that here. After all, the town lives on tourist dollars. And there were plenty of Mexican tourists in town this weekend -- rehearsing for the semana santa onslaught in four weeks.
But Barra is also a place where people live their daily lives. And in that is its charm.
Most of the people I know say they moved permanently to this area because they liked the weather. Or the food. Or the beach. Or the low cost of living. I am not one of them.
I decided to live here because I like the ambiance. The feel of the place. The manner life is lived out by rather ordinary people in a rather ordinary way.
My portion of Mexico reminds me of the little logging community where I grew up in southern Oregon. Admittedly, Barra is much larger and there is a beach. But the feel of the two places cannot be mistaken. They are as much alike as New York and Paris. But in a much nicer way.
They are small towns. Filled with small town people living out small town lives with small town values.
I know that sounds as if I am rooting for the Bernie Sanders - Rick Santorum Nostalgia Team who imagine an America of the 1950s that probably never existed.
The real version rolls along daily here. On my walk this afternoon, I encountered a boy, perhaps ten, barefoot, fishing pole over his shoulder, dog at his heel.
It was one of those Norman Rockwell moments that translates well across borders. If I had been thinking, I would have snapped it for you. But why? I already told you about it.
When I walked past my neighbor's house, their twelve-year old grandson was standing in the courtyard holding his fighting cock. Even that translated well to my youth.
I had a bantam hen named Susan as a pet. She was buried alive by our Chihuahua, Buttons. It is just as well. I doubt she could have gone many rounds with a fighting cock.
Sometimes, small town values can be a little gritty. Or, as a Mexican friend of mine put it: "Small town heaven; small town hell." With the intimacy of knowing almost everyone comes the diminution of privacy and isolation prized by urbanites.
For me, it is a fair trade. There is something very moral centering about everyone knowing your business.
A lot of my questions in Mexico are met with the same response: "It is none of your business." In Spanish, of course.
But no one really takes it seriously. As in most small towns, everything is everyone's business. And you can find out almost anything you want to know if you know the right person.
So, there it is. Why I chose to live here in Barra de Navidad. Chickens and fishing poles.
Sometimes, life's answers are simple.