Water, the distant water

Copyright, Terry Turner, 2009

Following are a few remarks that pertained to my experiences of one sort or another in Old Mexico. A few of these were addressed to family, friends, and, a few to my long-suffering brother-in-law. The events apply, roughly from 1968 to 1975 when I was in permanent residence in Jalisco, near Guadalajara, and later circa 1991 when living briefly in Mexico City.
Of course, we should all note that most of my impressions are now a quarter of century old and much has changed.

I mainly wrote these with a view to trying to explain the “flavor” of Mexico because it was often difficult for my business associates and for tourists to understand the reality of day-to-day life and business for those of us in permanent residence.

I should hasten to add this comment. I lived in Mexico about seven years altogether, and I regard Jalisco as my second home. I have Godchildren and friends as dear to me as my own family there. I surely do not want you to conclude that I dislike Mexico or Mexicans, even though I have a variety of “crow” to pick with the Government of Mexico. To be clear, I love Mexico, Mexican culture, Mexican customs, Mexicans, and Mexican food.... and the Mexican attitudes about family and friends which make Gringos seem primitive indeed... and speaking of food, I would gladly pay twenty-five dollars for a fistful of carnitas from a road side stand in Jalisco.

That having been said, here are a few brief lines from what I often think of as the “stone age.” The Stone Age, of course, is not a time, for I am not that old, but it is rather a state of mind.

In 1991, while living near the Zona Rosa, in a small penthouse that afforded a grand view of assorted laundry, large polka dot underwear in particular that belonged, I suppose, to a man who must have weighed near about four hundred pounds. I never saw him, but I saw a good deal of his underwear over a period of a year or so.

One evening, about nine pm, my wife and I were feeling ill, we were out of bottled water in our little penthouse, and beginning to feel a bit dehydrated due to a slight fever. I called the hotel manager, Senor Carmona, for help. What follows is the dialogue that I jotted down that very evening.

When he answered the phone, I said, “Senor Carmona, I’m sorry to bother you so late but my wife an I are ill and we need water before we become dehydrated.”

Senor Carmona, clearing his throat, said, “ Mr. Turner, did you have a nice day?” To which I replied, “Yes, thank you, very nice, but we do not have any water in the suite.”

“Water?” Carmona said thoughtfully. To which I replied, a bit edgy now, “Water, yes we need water!”

Carmona was silent a moment, seeking a comfort zone with the English tongue, then said, “What kind of water?” To which I replied I with a little exasperation, “Any kind of clean water.”

“Do you want the water in the little green bottles?” Carmona inquired. “Yes! Yes!” I said, “The green bottle kind will be fine. The maids are supposed to leave some green bottles of water, but they did not.”

“Yes. You want the green bottles?” Carmona patiently replied.

“Yes! I want the green bottles!” I was near to shouting.

“Yes, yes, the green bottles. But we do not have any green bottles.” Carmona stated matter-of-factly.

This reminded me that I had asked him to see that the hotel kept a large five-gallon bottle water in the room. I had asked for it when we took the accommodations and some two months later, having twice paid the deposit for the glass jug, we finally received it but it was rarely filled with water. I said with a bit of anger, “Senor Carmona, you are supposed to keep a big bottle of water in our room, but you never do.”

Very firmly, but politely, he replied, “The bell boy brought a big jug of water to your room only two weeks ago. Why don’t you drink it? It is good water.”

“Senor Carmona, we drank all of that water. You know I make coffee with that water. We don’t have any water of any kind right now and we need some water, right now!” I was getting rather red around the edge of my ears and the volume of my voice was beginning to float down to street level from my lodgings.

“Perhaps,” he said, “you would like to send the bell boy to buy some water for your wife?”

“Yes! Yes!” I cried out, “let’s send the bell boy for some water.”

Soothingly Senor Carmona replied, “What kind of water?” To which I replied, “The green bottle kind will be fine.”

“Senor Turner, it is very hard,” he said, “ to get that kind of water this late at night.”

“Fine!” I said, even though nothing was fine, “Just get some other kind.”

“They say the kind form Tehucan, the water with gas in it, is very good for a bad heart.” Senor Carmona carefully explained.

“Great!” I shouted, “Great! It will be good for my stroke!”

“Please?” replied Carmona, a bit confused, “Please?”

“Never mind, never mind!” I said, “The kind with the gas will be fine. Just tell the bell boy to bring six bottles of the kind with the gas.”

“Senor Turner, “ came the calm reply of the ever patient Senor Carmona, “Senor Turner, the bell boy cannot do it right now.” To which I replied, “OK, OK, later will be OK! Just get it as soon as possible.”

“Very well.” He sighed, glad to have the exchange near an end, “Tomorrow Fausto will bring the water.”

“No!” I shouted, “NO! Not tomorrow! I need the water tonight!”

Firmly Carmona replied to me as if to a wanton child, “Fausto can’t bring your water tonight.”

“Senor Carmona,” said I, “Senor Carmona, why can’t he bring it tonight?”

“Senor Turner, please, Fausto is not here tonight.” To which I demanded, “Why isn’t Fausto here?
“Senor Turner,” came the patient reply, “It is his day off.”

“Mr. Carmona," I shouted, “yesterday you said couldn’t find my shirts because yesterday was Fausto’s day off!”

“Yes, Senor Turner, we will find your shirts, probably tomorrow. But today Fausto’s friend died and left a widow and six children. So, naturally, Fausto has to help them. Perhaps a person like yourself would like to contribute to the funeral to help this poor widow and her children?”

Desperately trying to control my anger and frustration, I mustered a bit of calmness and said, “Mr. Carmona, I must have water tonight. Will you tell me where to get it?”

‘Yes! Yes, of course. I am always pleased to be of service to you and your lovely wife. We want all of our guests to happy.” Carmona cheerfully replied.

“We are very happy here, “ I replied, “but where can I get some water at this late hour?” To which Senor Carmona quickly replied, “The Holiday Inn won’t give you any water unless you are a guest.”

“Yes, but I am not going to the Holiday Inn,” I said, wondering why he even mentioned the Holiday Inn that was just a couple of blocks down the street. “I just want to go to a store, to a tienda.”

“Do you know where the farmacia is?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, “there is a farmacia, a drug store, next to this hotel.”

“Oh no, Senor, “ he replied, “not the farmacia next door. I mean the farmacia down the street next to the taco stand that sells hog’s head tacos. Those tacos are delicious.”

“Thank you, “ I said, nearly exhausted from the conversation, “Thank you. I will go down there and get some water.”

“Senor Turner,” I braced myself as he said, “you cannot bring water from the farmacia by the hog’s head taco stand right now.”

“Why not?” I was near to screaming.

“Senor Turner,” he said calmly, “they have closed since eight o’clock this evening. They have been closed almost two hours.”

Feeling very frustrated I said, “Senor Carmona, I really must have some water.”

“Senor Turner,” he said with a good deal of cheer, “I will personally take care of it! And tomorrow you will have your water! Some green bottles and the big bottle too! Please rest well; it is best thing for a happy heart. Good night, Senor Turner.”

The click of the terminated phone call was loud in my ear and the water, like many desired things in this life, was very distant.

Old Crow and the Invisible Crow

Copyright, Terry Turner, 2009



Old Crow flew down to inspect my newly displayed
flag.

"War!" he cawed, "War!"

Young Crow landed by him and loudly barked "War! War!
War!"

Limping Crow barked from a nearby tree, then flew down
joining the other crows on the sign post which
supported my flag.

Mostly they stared at the flag and occasionally glared
at me --- they still are not sure that I fully
acknowledge their ownership of the territory
hereabouts.

Finally Young Crow, weary of the unfamiliar war word,
asked, "What is war anyway?

"War!" cried the old crow, "War!" then he shuffled out,
tenuously, from the sturdy sign post to the more
fragile flag pole and, seeing that the thin pole
did not fail him or the flag, he settled down over the
field of blue to have a good luck at the stars. Old Crow
had lived long enough to know that many things are
edible which may not seem so on first inspection.

"War," he finally replied, "war is a bloody human game.
When they play war there is plenty for crows to eat.
Here in these very mountains my great, great,
grandfather once feasted on an Indian chief for a whole
winter. The humans often have given us such sacrifices
and they like killing it seems."

"War! War," the crows cried in unison, "War!"

Young Crow said, "I have never seen a war. Why war
they?"

Crippled Crow barked. "The human fools do not believe
in one God. They believe in many Gods. Fools, they!
Fools who do not yet know of the Great Crow, the
only God. Being ignorant of the Great Crow, humans
fight and die."

"Die?, Die," the word seemed to shock Young Crow, "die.

What is it to die like they do?"

"You can never know that, " said Old Crow, "they die,
but we crow live forever! When we crow grow old, we
become thin and flat, but we never die, we just slowly
disappear. But war, ah war, war will keep all crow nice
and fat!"

"War! War! War!, Bloody war!" they cried, "Bloody war!"

Old Crow, found the bright white stars inedible.

He flew away, looking for something to keep him nice
and fat, After all, being an old crow, he knew that
neither he nor any crow within his long memory had
ever spoken with an invisible crow. For that reason he
wanted to remain nice and fat.

Note: I wrote the original of this in Taos, NM September ’01