San Pancho Vida

Let's Go to the Globos!

We are in Ajijic, Jalisco, beside Lake Chapala south of Guadalajara. It is the weekend of celebration for Día de Independencia. On Saturday, Ajijic opens the festivities with their festival of globos.

Globos, as you may know, are un-personed hot air balloons made of tissue paper held together by tape and heated by flaming fuel. Small ones are marketed here in Mexico, three foot tall balloons which are glorious in their beauty and fragility. Even these take the cooperation of three or four people to launch, as all hands must pull aside the tissue during the lighting process to allow the balloons to fill with hot air without catching fire. 

Now imagine teams of people cooperating on designing, hand-crafting and launching tissue paper balloons that are ten feet tall, fifteen feet tall, twenty feet tall. Welcome to Ajijic.

A huge crowd always attends. In mid-September, the weather is often an issue. A tissue issue. The teams need some breeze in order to motivate the balloons to float away. Wind is a different story. Wind tips and tilts the lightweight paper balloons as they rise, presenting the constant danger of the tissue contacting the flame that keeps them aloft. Rain is yet another possibility, and not a happy one. Raindrops make holes in tissue paper, allowing the hot air to escape. Even if the water doesn't tear the tissue, it weighs it down. Both those eventualities cause the tissue walls to sag dangerously, sometime fatally, toward the flames.

This particular September, with a hurricane off the coast, the weather in Ajijic is erratic. It is overcast on Saturday morning. Then it is drizzling. The drizzle stops for a while. Then, as the three o'clock start time approaches, it begins to rain.

What will they do? Cancel the event? That is so not the Mexican way. But how can they launch in this weather? We have to go see. 

The rain has not discouraged the crowd. The bleachers are nearly full when we arrive. Down on the field, some of the teams are obviously missing. Others are sending up their smaller balloons. The crowd is highly supportive, cheering at every successful launch...

...and groaning in sympathy at the less-successful.

People stand around under umbrellas watching and encouraging the teams. Children scamper everywhere, checking out the vendors and their wares.

By and by, the rain lets up a bit and more teams arrive, carrying their balloons wrapped in tarps, watching the sky.

Some beauties rise perfectly and float off into the white sky. Every launch is suspenseful.

Oh no! The crowd moans in unison as many of the balloons collapse and fall in flames.

But this art is like ice sculpture, like the building of sand castles, like Tibetan and Navajo sand paintings. Everyone, including the artists, know it is temporary. The globos teams accept the risks, the non-permanence of the works. No sooner does one destruct than they are unfolding another.

As the afternoon progresses, the teams up the ante, sending up elaborate creations they've worked on into the wee hours, long after their normal days' work is done. This year's designs surpass any I've seen in their intricacy and elegance. Close up, it appears that many of the patterns are made with small tissue paper shapes glued together into larger pieces that are joined by the ubiquitous cinta: tape.

Up, up, up!

And down, down, down.

What goes up, as they say, must come down. The globos that fail land anywhere they please, including on the nearby streets of the town.

As their fuel burns out, the successes land who-knows-where, as they often will fly for miles before they drift back to earth.

Many do fly, although fewer this year than in sunnier years. The teams do not give up.

Maybe an umbrella will help. This man stands patiently on his ladder the whole time while this globo inflates, hoping to protect the paper from the rain.

He stays on his ladder to view the launch. And here's the part I love the most: as it rises, their giant pink and orange balloon tips sideways in a gust of wind, the flame licks the tissue, it ignites and falls burning to the ground...and look at the expression on his face as he watches it happen.

This, to me, is the greatest joy of the globos. The celebration is one of art and chance and risk and beauty, of disappointment followed by renewed intention. I have laughed 'til my muscles ache watching this wonderfully absurd dance, and the humor to me is earthy, real and raw and so very much an expression of the human condition.

Shit happens. But do we give up? NO, we do not!

Do we throw in the towel at the fiery demise of Spongebob Squarepants?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Heck no! Instead we launch Hello Kitty, who floats off prettily, pink bow unscathed, to land, perhaps, in the back yard of some wonderstruck child.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In my book, though, here's the one that takes today's prize.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Finally the immense balloon is inflated and begins to rise into the sky.

But maybe it's not quite full enough. It wobbles in the wind. The crowd sees smoke and yells in alarm. And it drops.

In moments, it is cinders.

Meanwhile, on the ground under this formerly friendly shade tree, several families are enjoying picnics while watching the action.

The ashes of the smouldering globo rain down upon them. Do they scream in terror? Do they curse the team who launched the firestorm? Do they sue??

No, they do not.

And there you have it: the agony and the ecstasy of this entirely and perfectly Mexican celebration. 

Into the Highlands

So as I was saying, Jalisco's high country is on the same planet as San Pancho, but it's a different world.

We drove the long and winding road behind Puerto Vallarta and began our ascent, leaving behind glossy jungle and air the consistency of peanut butter. In less than two hours, we were in San Sebastián del Oeste and pine country, relishing the feel of coolness on bare arms. 

The following morning, after a night of cozy fleece blankets and mountain air, we drove the long and winding road down the other side of the Sierra Madre and into the valley of Mascota. 

I first visited this verdant valley in 2005, when, in a stroke of amazing luck for a geek like me, I was able to view recently excavated burial sites dating back to 800 B.C. by Dr. Joseph Mountjoy of the University of North Carolina. (If you click on his name, you'll find his telling of this grand discovery.) On the day I visited with my friend Guy Lawlor, Mountjoy's son gently un-tarped several of the perfectly preserved graves so we could see them. They were due to be photographed by National Geographic on the following day.

I told this story to Craig as we continued our journey. Our destination, a few more hours away, was Ajijic on Lake Chapala south of Guadalajara. There we would stay with Travis and Allen and Rafi the giant bull terrier to visit and view the weekend Independencia festivities.

This year, though, the weather was being influenced by Hurricane Odile who was tossing clouds all the way inland. It was overcast. It was windy. Off and on, it was raining. This did not bode well for Saturday's festival of Globos. Would the teams give up in despair? Would the huge tissue paper balloons tear and collapse in the rain? Would any sail through the raindrops into the sky? And if they did, would an errant gust of wind set them aflame?

You'll find out next week. The Globos deserve a post of their own.

Now back to the story. Sunday, the day after the Globos, is the day of the charros, the horseback riders of Mexico. Craig and I went to the plaza. After a superb bootshine by kind Arturo as we awaited our breakfast...

 

 

 

 

 

 

...we walked to the church to watch the blessing of the charros. Some of them were inside, their horses tied to the church wall and to trees in the big churchyard.

It's not fair to call the charros "horsemen", as they come in both sexes and all shapes and sizes and styles.

By and by, the priest and all the people came out of the church for the blessing...

...which was followed by a parade...

...which ends up at the Charro ring where, most years, teams from all over the area come to compete in races and bull roping and such. Unfortunately, as soon as the parade was over, the skies split open and dumped enough rain to turn the clay ring into a slippery swamp, so the other teams stayed home and the Ajijic riders mostly just goofed off.

So we went out to dinner at Tango with Travis and Allen and ate steaks and baked provolone and roasted asparagus.

On Monday, we bid farewell to our dear hosts and headed to Tonala for a day of shopping for our new project which also deserves a post of its own. We spent two nights in beautiful Tlaquepaque, during which we had the fun of seeing the actual Día de Independencia celebrations.

Two years ago, I told you about the festival of San Miguel Arcangel in San Miguel de Allende. There, I first witnessed the castillos and fireworks that are part of any big holiday in Mexico. Tlaquepaque's show was much smaller than San Miguel's, but it was a real delight to give Craig his first glimpse of this exuberant insanity.

Notice, please, that the crowd is near enough to be showered at times by the shooting stars of hot sparks from the exploding castillo, a flimsy looking structure of sticks and pinwheels that sprays succeeding cascades of fire accompanied sometimes by earsplitting whistles. In San Miguel, the operation was more professional than here where at times the attendants had to approach the castillo and shake it to get the next fuse to light.

Immediately after the castillo's finale, in which a flying saucer shaped disc shooting sparks flies screaming into the sky to the cheers of the crowd, fireworks exploded directly over the plaza, raining burning cinders down upon the laughing spectators. Here in Mexico, we live life on the edge.

We headed home a couple of days later, completing our wide loop through Jalisco and Nayarit, this time on the zoomy cuota, the super highway that passes through Guadalajara and skirts the town of Tequila. We stopped in Jala, town of miracles and witches, where we met a marching band and I took some photos of the church of the miraculous healing saints and had a lovely talk with a witch.

On the way down the mountain to the beach, not being much in the mood to cook, I pointed out a country birrieria to Craig, and he pulled over while I ordered a quart of birria, delicious spicy mezquite-roasted pot roast which we devoured later as we admired the views from our little table on the terrace.

So here we are at home, enjoying the past few cooler days, painting and brainstorming in preparation for our next magic journey, which will manifest right here in San Pancho.

Next week, put on your fancy duds and let's go to the Globos.

Re-entry

Just back in San Pancho after a little road trip. Happily, it cooled down some while we were away, a result of the two hurricanes off the coast I suppose, which did no damage here. We went down to the beach in the early evening to see how it had changed with the recent wave action. Sure enough, the beach is flatter than it has been in many months, the dunes erased, the estuary water escaping directly out to the sea instead of languishing in front of the beach restaurants causing no end of problems.

We ordered a couple of cervezas and watched the waves and the clouds. The sky was all dark grays and purples, and off to the north the sea was a very peculiar and unusual combination of greens. We could see black stripes of rain falling.

Pretty quickly, a swirling wind came up and the rain started. We abandoned our table under a palapa umbrella in the nick of time, scooting to a table under the fairly waterproof and fairly permanent palapa.

Then the real rain arrived.

We sat, surrounded by storm, for twenty minutes or so. It was purely elemental being inside it. Eventually, we came to our senses and realized we'd best skedaddle.

We drove my spunky little RAV4 up Avenida Tercer Mundo through water nearly to the tops of the curbs, sending up a decent rooster tail. The topes (speed bumps) were nearly covered, the dammed water behind them even deeper. 

Finally at home, we sat in dry safety, wrapped all 'round in clouds and rain, flashes of lightning revealing in silhouette the majestic thunderheads to the south and west.

The night was my reminder of why I love summer in San Pancho, one of those nights when the heat index and humidity fade in importance compared to the drama, the silence, the thrill of being witness to the planet's tempestuous nature. 

Of course, we are fortunate (or wise) to be in a place where that temper is seldom damaging. You know what happened to Cabo San Lucas a few days ago when Odile smashed headlong into the tip of the Baja Peninsula, and I certainly don't want to minimize that truth.

But here in San Pancho last night, as happens often in the summer months, we had just enough to allow us to appreciate the power of Earth doing what she does. 

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I'm working on photos and stories about our trip away from the beach into the higher country and will post again later this weekend. It's a whole different world up there. Nos vemos pronto.

On the Road Again, Rainy Season Edition

I write this at 9:20 pm from my favorite hotel, an old hacienda in San Sebastian del Oeste in the mountains east of Puerto Vallarta. It was a lovely drive with hardly any landslides, considering the humongous storm that hit Vallarta and San Pancho and the coast mountains last night.

We are on our way to Ajijic tomorrow, down the curvy mountain road into the agricultural valley of Mascota then through sugar cane fields in a shortcut to Lake Chapala. On Saturday we will go to the festival of globos, weather permitting and I sure hope it does. You remember the globos, giant balloons built of tissue and tape, the air inside them heated by questionable flammable compounds in order to lift them high into the air, if all goes well.

You know I'll have photos from there. Meanwhile, here at the hacienda, our peace and quiet has just been radically altered by the arrival of a large troop of Mexican bicyclers in Spandex who are on some tour of the hinterlands and have chosen this hotel for their overnight.

We're happy enough, though, our stomachs full of Walter's homemade canneloni and ravioli and bread and his delicately crafted liqueurs. Walter is Italian and owns, with his fabulous wife Coco, the restaurant Montebello, which is reason enough to spend a night in San Sebastian. We had a perfectly delicious two hours there, chatting with Walt and Coco as thunder and lightning cracked overhead and the rain poured down.

Plus we get to sleep under covers tonight, a treat not on the current menu in Sauna Pancho, where the heat index reached 110 yesterday. I can't even tell you how good a chill in the air feels to us. 

So I will report in again next Friday from Ajijic, Tonala, Tlaquepaque, and whatever other pueblos beckon along the route.

Wishing you a week filled with texture and color and exquisite moments.

xo

C

 

The Shapes of a Life

We'll start this one in a field of dreams.

One thing I've noticed is that fields of dreams are all different. I think we all have them: that raw material from whence our dreams are born into reality.

They can be about things we want to do or about how we want to be. They can be vague or precise visions of the future we desire, or treasure troves of collected wishes, ideas, inclinations, or stuff. 

They might lie fallow for long periods during which we either ignore them or step timidly around them, not bearing to look. Over time, we may add or subtract elements, changing and refining them, shaping our dreams as we mature and learn more about ourselves. Often we cherish them, but save them for later like dessert.

With intention and attention, with consciousness and devotion, and with a dollop of luck, we may one day step into our own field of dreams and bring it to life.

Here in the little town of Elba in the countryside at the base of Mt. Rainier, Dan Klennert has been living life in his field of dreams for years. His passion started when he was just a child, cruising neighborhood junk piles with his little red wagon. As a young man, working as a mechanic, he was intrigued by discarded gears and sprockets and metal shapes; he learned to weld.

His four-acre park, open to the public, is testament to a lifetime of creative inspiration and work. Ex-Nihilo, as he calls it (which is Latin for "something from nothing"), is both workshop and museum, with Dan's work scattered across the sprawling lawns.

He works in scavenged metal and in found wood, constructing his menagerie of creatures, structures, and people.

He stockpiles the pieces for his sculptures, then spends days combining them, letting the shapes of the objects guide him to the final design. 

Amid the bigger-than-life animals, a trio of musicians performs.

Look closely at the parts and pieces, the whimsical placement and arranging of everyday objects into sculptures that speak to us.

Some of Dan's sculptures are immense, but that doesn't prevent him from transporting them to shows and festivals all over the west. One of his choppers was a main attraction in Sturgis...

...and, the day we visited, he was preparing to transport this giant fish.

The tricycle, an irresistible photo op, is staying home for the moment.

A donation is the price of admission for all this wonder.

So what's happening in your field of dreams? Are you tending it? Grooming it? Making it real?

Mine is growing like mango trees in San Pancho's summer rain. Things are sprouting that I don't even remember planting, but I know I did because that's how it works. I find myself gliding into it as smoothly as a dancer on a waxed floor, waking up each day to the reality of its reality. Am I amazed? Totally. Grateful? Of course. Excited? Oh my, yes.

Something fantastic is hatching. I'll tell you all about it. Soon.