Local Color Mexico Style
Chapter 15: Let the games begin
Hola Amigos! Mexico Soul presents a condensed version of Where the Sky is Born, my memoir on building a house and opening a bookstore. Earlier chapters in menu at top.
Paul’s initial visit to the land site went quickly and he returned to San Francisco full of stories and hope. All we had to do to hold up our end of the bargain was send money. It seemed a simple task. Joe Marino had the hard part. He had to build a modern house in the outback Maya jungle in humid temperatures using unsophisticated tools.
When Paul and I discussed the building process, we kept returning to a simple fact: the Maya built the pyramids. Innumerable monuments still stood from those heady days as rulers of the Americas, a thousand years after being created as evidenced by Chichen Itza, Uxmal, Palenque. Why tear apart a foolproof process?
As California’s seasonal rains subsided and winter moved towards spring, we planned another Mexican vacation. Since house construction had been underway for three months, we’d be able to see progress and discuss interior design details with Joe and Enrique.
We arrived at the Cancun Airport in high spirits a few days before the holiday. After renting a car we headed straight to Joe Marino’s where we’d be staying in one of his cabañas. After ringing the bell at the villa, Juan Jose, his caretaker, ushered us in from the sweltering heat of the street to the cool solitude of the garage and adjoining pool and terrace.
“Hola,” Joe greeted us as he came from the main house. “How was your trip? Let’s sit down and catch up.”
He waved us towards deck chairs near the pool. The water looked refreshingly cool, a sharp contrast to the Yucatán heat.
As we settled into the cushioned chairs, Joe took a seat next to us. The thick Mexican tile on the terrace, reflecting the sunlight, felt warm beneath my now bare feet.
“We’re on schedule,” he reported, “and the crew is working well. We have the walls up, but you’ve seen that from the last photos I sent.”
We nodded in unison. Paul’s knee touched mine under the table and we shared a smile. “We’ve finished placing the windows and now we’re getting ready to pour the roof. In order to ensure it’s uniform, we’ve decided to hire a cement company and truck to mix it.
“The roof is so large, we want to make sure the cement is mixed at the same consistency so the roof sets properly. In Mexico, most roofs are smaller than yours, so the crew mixes cement by hand, bag by bag, but with that, you can’t always predict the quality of the pour.
“After the roof is completed, it’s a tradition for the contractor to buy the crew a case of beer. Pouring the roof is the hardest part of the entire building process, and the beer is their compensation for their aching bones,” he said in finishing.
Our timing allowed us to see just what pouring the roof entailed. The work crew assembled and the youngster on the team, Felipe, was literally positioned as low man on the totem pole. He went back and forth from the cement truck carrying five gallon buckets of cement. As he approached the hand-made zapote ladder fashioned from branches lashed together with rope, he lifted the cement-filled bucket onto his head, balanced it, grabbed the ladder with his other hand and ascended to the roof. The process was so strenuous he could have been a trained Olympic athlete rather than a construction worker.
On the roof the other workers poured and smoothed the gritty liquid into place in long, sweeping motions with a mop-like apparatus. While watching this methodical process, I questioned the American myth regarding Mexico work ethics.
We knew these men worked long hours six days a week, struggling to build our house. The only difference in their work schedule was that in Mexico, the hour long mid-day break was scheduled at the hottest time of day—a time to eat tortillas and vegetables, and no matter where they were, time for the famous siesta. Workers could sleep on grass, under trees—anywhere. I think Americans have misinterpreted the siesta and created a stereotype about this hardworking culture that is totally unfounded.
Over the years we observed workers walking to work as few had bicycles. Their work day started at 6 or 7 which meant they had to wake up at 5 a.m. to start a day that lasted until dark. In a country with ninety-six million people (at the time) and only one percent of the population over 62, I knew they weren’t dying from boredom. They were hard workers.
Joe told us the independent albañil enlisted his sons into service early on so someone in the family could continue the back-breaking work of his profession before the father’s constitution gave out at 40. One rarely saw a man over that age in this trade, he assured us. The work was too vexing.
That night we’d been invited to a party thrown by an American couple, Alan and Joan, who sold satellite TV systems for commercial and residential properties. They had a number of noteworthy clients in the hotel zone.
As we walked to the party from Joe’s, he gave us a rundown on the characters in the Puerto Morelos social scene.
“There’s quite a cast assembled here,” he warned. “Don’t be surprised if the party gets rowdy.”
We were just a few blocks away. The evening sky had turned to dusk, a few stars making an early appearance. Springtime has always been my favorite season in Mexico. Tropical flowers everywhere, in every color imaginable.
Party sounds filled the night air along with the scent of night blooming jasmine. As we approached, even in the twilight (Puerto Morelos had no streetlights at the time) I noticed a similarity to the houses on the block. All were shaped like square cement boxes, the only variation being color. Not much imagination had been used. We later nicknamed this strip of homes Gringo Row.
On arriving and entering the house Joe yelled, “Duck!”
He wasn’t kidding. Given normal height, anyone entering would be beaned by the low door entry.
“Thanks for the warning,” Paul said.
“That’s nothing. Wait until you use the john,” Joe replied mysteriously.
“What does that mean?”
“I’ll give you a single word of warning.”
“Duck?” I guessed.
“Definitely, and be glad you took some time with your design details.”
“Hmm. Look at this place. It’s dark as a cave.”
The house was nicely furnished in a rustic motif—colorful wall hangings made from hand-dyed wool, leather furniture, carved frames on elegant paintings—but the design of the living room was far from ideal. Windows were small and made from the cheapest aluminum; the wall finish appeared to be a half inch thick, as though cement had been thrown at it with no attempt to smooth it. That finish was popular in Mexico but it didn’t appeal to me. The house wouldn't win any Architectural Digest awards.
“I’ll introduce you to the hosts,” Joe said as he steered me towards the kitchen, another architectural disaster. It was windowless and the ceiling was barely seven feet high. Thank goodness a door opened onto a backyard terrace for light and fresh air.
“Alan and Joan, I’d like you to meet Paul and Jeanine. I’m building a house for them north of town, where Barry’s old house was.”
“Nice to meet you,” Alan said with a smile that bordered on a grimace. He was late 40s with a receding hairline and a slick appearance. A bit too polished for old Mexico, I thought. Joan extended her hand and smiled. She had duck-tail short brunette hair and doe-like brown eyes. She was wearing jean shorts and an embroidered peasant-style blouse.
“Nice to meet you, too,” Paul said.
“Looks like a great party,” I said as I watched the room start to fill with people, almost before my eyes.
“Oh, the fun has just begun,” Joan said. “How about a couple of beers?”
“Sure.”
Joan excused herself, heading towards the kitchen in search of drinks. I struck up a conversation with Alan, curious about the local gringos who would soon be our neighbors. He was wearing tight black jeans and a black stretch tee-shirt that would have looked good on someone half his age with twice his physique.
“Have you been in Puerto Morelos long?” I said.
“We lived in Cancun until last year then decided to move farther down the coast and found Puerto Morelos.”
“Where are you from?”
“Los Angeles. I was CEO for a software company I started. After a few years the stress got to me so I sold. Decided it was time to bail, leave LA and the smog.”
“Did you sell your home?” I asked, curious about anyone who’d ditched the U.S. and moved to Mexico. I wondered how others afforded the move, how they’d adjusted. Also, being from California, any conversation about real estate was an ice breaker. No one could believe the prices and this was the early 90s.
“Oh, we didn’t own a house there. We didn’t want the responsibility.”
“Well, probably good you got out of the rat race,” I said, but an alert went off in my head. Something didn’t compute. Here was a former software company CEO who didn’t own a home? Having worked in Silicon Valley for several years I knew the rich rewards of the tech industry and the reputations of those CEOs. They weren't shy about owning property and oftentimes their home acquisitions were fodder for the local media. The 80s were the heady days of Apple, Intel, Hewlett-Packard and Sun Microsystems. Then I remembered Joe told me Alan and Joan were renting this house, too.
“We love Mexico,” Alan was saying as I caught myself zooming back to the conversation. “We started a satellite TV business here. We’ve been putting in packages for hotels in the hotel zone plus we install residential services. If you’re ever in the market for satellite, let me know.”
“We’re just building but thanks for the offer. I’m not sure we’ll even have a TV, but good to know we have a contact.”
It wouldn’t be until a year later that my suspicions about Alan and Joan were confirmed. We had just arrived for Christmas and before going to the house, took a drive around the town square to see what was happening.
A Christmas committee had hung a string of lights around the gazebo in the center of the zocalo. Paul pointed out they had tapped directly into the electrical pole for their electric usage, stealing power to run their holiday lights. Christmas time—the gift of giving? Or something like that. We were laughing and commenting on how long it would take to be discovered in California before PG&E figured out the ruse when we noticed a lone figure walking around the square.
“Who’s that?” I asked.
“Not sure. Wait a minute, it’s Joan.”
“Let’s see what’s up,” I said. “Pull over.”
Paul stopped the rental and called out the window to the shadowy form. She turned her head and stared as we called to her. Then she recognized us and walked our way.
“When did you get in?” she said, with a slight sniffle.
“Just now. So what’s happening?” Paul asked.
“Oh, I’m looking for Alan,” she said, her voice cracking.
“Looking for Alan?” I asked, mystified, wondering how anyone could get lost in Puerto Morelos.
“Yes, he’s disappeared. Three days ago. I thought he might be back so I decided to check the square.” She pulled a tissue from her pocket and blew her nose. I wondered if she was going to turn up rocks, look behind trees.
Paul and I exchanged a glance. “You don’t know where he is?”
She let out a little moan. “No, he’ gone. I don’t know what’s happened. We’d planned a big New Year’s Day party. But even if he’s not back I’m having the party. You’ll come, won’t you? I bought a ham and I’m making it with brine. You can’t find cured hams in Mexico.”
For a moment her manner changed dramatically as if preparations for this party could make up for a missing spouse. I wondered about her sanity—not for the first time.
“Sure, we’ll come,” I said as Paul flashed me an evil look. “I hope Alan shows up.”
“Not half as much as I do,” she said, already forgetting her party menu.
As soon as we were mobile I said, “We had to accept that invitation. What could I say?”
“I don’t want to go. Is there any way to get out of it?”
We learned later from Joe that Alan had skipped town a few days earlier, right after collecting for dozens of satellite units that were supposed to be hooked up before the holidays when the bowl games were happening. The units were never installed.
Alan and his spicy secretary, Conchita, left Mexico for Florida to start life anew in the Sunshine State, leaving Joan behind, or so went the rumor.
We were beginning to understand old Mexico by this time. It was way different from the US.
“It seems a weird thing to do for someone who owned a software company,” I told Joe. “What a strange guy.”
“Did you say software company?”
“He told me he started a software company. But moving to Mexico and running away with the secretary? It seems so dodgy.”
By this time Joe was chortling. “He told you he owned a software company? Oh man! The guy pedaled adult films in LA.”
“You’re kidding!”
“Afraid not!”
“And now he’s gone with the cash and won’t be honoring those satellite contracts?”
“You can bet on it,” Joe said. “Let’s just say a lot of people who were expecting to see the silver ball drop at Times Square on New Year’s won’t be watching it via satellite. . . not in Puerto Morelos anyway.”
“Should I watch out for expats selling satellite contracts?”
“Watch out for people everywhere you go, but in Mexico, that’s why we build big walls. To avoid contact as much as possible.”
“Oh shut up.”
“Are you sure you don’t want a quote for a wall, all the way around your property?”
“No. You know we don’t want a wall. I don’t think we need one, besides, I like people here.”
“Okay, but mark my words. Some day you’ll have three things: a wall around your property, a TV, maybe not with satellite, and air conditioning.”
“No way!”
On New Year’s Day we dropped by Joan’s for the fiesta. It was definitely lacking sizzle. Alan hadn’t surfaced and she’d had the entire week to adjust to her new lifestyle which consisted of selling everything she owned. The place was stripped bare. It hardly looked like the same house we’d been to a year earlier. Getting to know fellow gringos was already proving to be an unusual experience. I hadn’t met people quite like this in the US.
“Happy New Year’s, or whatever,” I mumbled when Joan opened the door. I ducked and entered and Paul followed.
“I’ve definitely had better.”
I glanced around the now barren house. Every trace of her belongings was gone except for a lone Christmas tree complete with decorations. There was an awkward silence as I heard the hissing of a pot in the kitchen, no doubt the prized ham. At least she wouldn’t starve to death. Not tonight anyway.
“Nice tree,” I said, breaking the stillness.
“Do you want to buy it?” She was serious.
“No, thanks anyway.”
We hung around for 20 minutes before I remembered we were late for another party.
Joan’s party did pick up speed that earlier night, our first foray into the Puerto Morelos social scene, while we were building the house. People danced, music blared, tequila flowed. Then around 11 the electricity flickered and in moments, a black out. No one seemed surprised and candles emerged from cupboards as if on cue. The party did not miss a beat.
This was our first encounter with the expats—they were festive, restless and rowdy. We weren’t immune to partying and figured we were along for the ride. Bienvenidos. Welcome to Mexico.
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My Backstory—Puerto Morelos sits 100 miles from four major pyramid sites: Chichen Itza, Coba, Tulum and Ek Balam. Living in close proximity to this Maya wonderland made it easy to pyramid hop on our days off from Alma Libre Libros, the bookstore we founded in 1997. Owning a bookstore made it easy to order every possible book I could find on the Maya and their culture, the pyramids and the archeologists who dug at these sites and the scholars who wrote about them. I became a self-taught Mayaphile and eventually website publishers, Mexican newspapers and magazines, even guidebooks asked me to write for them about the Maya and Mexico. I’m still enthralled by the culture and history and glad there’s always new news emerging for me to report on right here on Mexico Soul.
This story was so riveting. It seems like you can meet plenty of characters on Gringo Row!
Great writing, Jeanine! Each person adds a fascinating new layer to the story!