Dropped In

The Reckoning: Verbal Skills and Communication

Jillian — Mon, 08 Feb 2010 15:34:48 +0000

Language Lab
Most of the Spanish that I speak, I learned my first six weeks in Mexico. I bounded into the English library like a puppy, and in the eyes of the cranky ancients, smoking and mouldering amid the stacks, must have seemed like one about to piddle on the carpet. I signed up for a small class with an elementary schoolteacher from the capitol. We met under a shady tree in the courtyard twice a week in the morning, so I wouldn’t realize how sweltering it was until my perspiring walk back home. Rafi was a good instructor, patient and kind. We worked with grammar and vocabulary, of course, but he also gave us some context clues and social hints that were helpful and germane. To this day I don’t “usted” anybody, perhaps not to my credit. His pronunciation was precise and I think a bit posh, probably, though my ears did not notice such distinctions then. My lexicon swelled from six words to hundreds fairly quickly. Then, we moved to the beach, and I left my formal education behind.

Sea Change
If Merida was an ordered English garden, Progreso felt like a fetid swamp populated with unhelpful and sometimes sinister creatures. Fewer people spoke English, and there were many more from other parts of Mexico – swarthy opportunists in a shady port. It was isolating and far less pleasant. It was then that we met Mari and Marcelo, who became our housekeeper and groundskeeper respectively, but more than that, the people with whom we spoke most often, saw everyday, and depended upon in myriad and unexpected ways. When we locked ourselves out of our house, we found them and they sourced a locksmith. When one day inexplicably there was no water from the faucets, they explained that it was a normal occurrence and directed us to the grassy Gulf for water we could flush with. And when we needed a party organized for the day after our wedding, we called on them to rent tables and chairs and chickens and pickled onions. Because they needed us for income and we needed them to survive the wilds of Yucalpeten they learned to understand our garbled, simple speech and theirs – Mayan-inflected, uneducated, shushy and smiling – was the type we, to this day, best understand and likely imitate.

The Third Act
In which I became kind of an asshole. And all of a sudden, I was sick of Mexico. I wanted to go, I was bored, I was lonely, I was tired of not being understood, despite my efforts. I had always been a good student, adept at languages, but my progress had plateaued and I felt frustrated by my inablitity to communicate. I enjoy a chat, a casual conversation, an extemporaneous dialog-based interaction, if you will. I have been able to make myself understood verbally since I was nine months old. I take pleasure in words, both written and spoken, and here I could do nothing that didn’t elicit laughter or a confused expression. I quit Spanish and all its imperfect tenses. It proved not at all difficult to become insulated/isolated/alienated. Our own house in Chelem was becoming ever more comfortable and Americanized. We had Skye satellite, which meant TV in English, a Vonage phone connection and high speed internet access. I had become the worst kind of expatriated American: we live behind bulwarks and don’t mingle with the nationals.

Resolution
A lot has changed in the last few months. I feel different, more myself but also better than ever. I’m taking stock and challenging this uncharacteristic complacency. I’m finding pleasure in the little things again, Gracias a Dios. I want to be good again here, to be interested and invested and generous and forgiving. It is easier, knowing we are going, to feel lighter, to seek new sights, to accept setbacks and participate as an engaged yet somewhat removed citizen of this experiment. I did not become fluent in Spanish, not even close. But I can on occasion make a little joke, say something not devastatingly clever but at least pleasant and appropriate and understood. That communion means a lot in everyday matters. We have ingratiated ourselves just a little after all; through persistence and patience and practice, we have developed some common ground, though to achieve nuance and verbal dexterity would require more effort than I am willing to exert, I am sorry to say. I’m torn. I hate the thought of leaving incompetent and yet we are beginning the arduous process of extracting ourselves from the only life we’ve known for four years: I have no emotional energy to spare. There will be regrets. I could have tried harder. But rather than thinking of this ending as a final exam, I’ll choose to close the chapter. I know we’ll be back and I hope we will travel to Barcelona, Buenos Aires, and beyond. I will continue my education and learn from this language because one day when I am freezing and cursing the cold and unhappy, I’ll bet I will dream of Mexico and those intimations will come to me in Spanish.

Renovating Our Beach House, Volume 7

Malcolm — Fri, 05 Feb 2010 20:49:08 +0000

If you have been following along, you know it has been a long road to take our squat, one-level “beach box,” a structure whose only intended purpose was to have a shady place for a wealthy Meridano to hang a hammock and drink a Sol in the summer, and turn it into a modern, year-round dwelling. Every room and every detail was stripped down to its barest pieces, and rebuilt almost entirely from scratch. And while the inside became more and more comfortable (making my first nights here a distant memory), the outside still left a lot to be desired. We had a huge piece of land that we had not done a thing with, and didn’t use for anything other than a place to park the car.

Similar to the STFO initiative from Volume 5, we approached our landscaping and facade redesign with one overall goal in mind: to eliminate every bit of sand from our lot. Sand had penetrated too deeply into our lives, not to mention the sheets of our bed; we laughed when we would check into a hotel and dump the sand out of our shoes at the end of the day. Sand blew in under the cracks in the doors, it pelted the house, damaging the paint, and blew in your eyes on a windy day. Along with taking care of our heat and humidity issues, removing sand from our lives was another important step in feeling like we had a bit of a normal life.

When it came to the facade, we had already replaced the front door and windows during previous remodeling projects, which was an improvement. We still had the problem of the house seeming very low, squat, and without a ton of visual interest. Adding the closet to the bedroom, the breakfast nook, and all the air conditioning units and satellite dishes on the roof made the front of the house a bit of a hodgepodge, and we were looking for a way to make the house read a little taller, as well as unify the front.

We built a new overhang to wrap around the front of the house, and covered it with terra cotta Spanish tile. Then, we added a decorative “crown,” which serves to make the house seem less like a squat little bunker from the outside.

We built two natural-stone planters that run the length of the property, brought in crushed gravel for the driveway and utility area on the side of the main house, and built a stone patio and fountain outside the guest house. A few inches of soil were spread out on every remaining bit of sand, and a sod lawn was planted. The lawn is watered by an in-ground irrigation system, which is fed from our well. The overall result is stunning…we think we must have one of the only lawns in Chelem, and certainly one of the only lots that has managed to remove all traces of sand. I keep checking Google Earth, to see if it has updated…I look forward to seeing one green triangle in the middle of all this tan sand.

We could keep working on this house forever, and of course, we have a wish list of new features (A pool! Another bedroom! A new deck!) scratching at the back of our minds. You have to pick a stopping point, though, and for us, for now, we are calling this house “done.”

It marks the end of a long journey, that started in an attic apartment in Connecticut in 2005. Like many of our readers, it began by drinking beer late at night and wistfully flipping through the local real estate websites, wondering if we couldn’t build a better life starting with a wreck of a Mexican beach house. As it turns out, you can. Now, after living in a construction site for years, we can finally relax and enjoy it.

Tacos y Amigos

Jillian — Thu, 04 Feb 2010 18:22:40 +0000

Yesterday we jumped out of bed, had coffee, and were on the road before 10 am. We like to slip out before the arrival of Mari and Marcelo, so that when we come home it seems the house and yard have been magically washed and tidied, as if by Fabuloso-bearing elves. Our Saturday mornings have become rather suburban and routine, as we do errands at Costco, Home Depot and the grocery store, Superama. On the way back out of town we stopped at Gran Plaza mall food court for Subway, and it is here we met a young, English-speaking sandwich artist who wondered why we weren’t eating Mexican food. A valid question, really. Shouldn’t we be getting down at some dirty little taco stand behind a mechanic’s shop on Avenida Jacinto Canek, eating scrambled egg, chaya and calf brains on a tortilla made by a 99-year-old Mestiza? Probably. We’ve become somewhat lazy and not a little cynical lately and should probably take these last few months to dive back into the deep end of impromptu performances, street fairs, out-of-the-way cantinas, and those spontaneous interactions that make you feel more connected and optimistic about the future of humanity.

After spending the rest of the day reading, walking, planting, watering, practicing Nia and watching movies we drove back to Merida to meet friends on the Prolongnation de Montejo at around nine. We found half the group at La Musa, eating fried stuff with dipping sauces and drinking Chope, the Modelo-branded draft beer that’s sweeping the nation, and enjoying the chill in the misty night air. When the others arrived we crossed the busy street to Los Taquitos de PM, a popular sidewalk cafe filled with families, that we somehow never noticed, like the apocryphal tale of Native Americans who couldn’t recognize a European ship because they’d never seen anything like it. I think I’ve forgotten how to look here, how to see lovingly but with a critical eye the things that are interesting, unusual and worthy of further inspection. The way you watch the world when you are carrying a camera or a journal, or even without those tools are feeling stealthy and observant and insightful. It’s time to listen and smell, to use every sense to make memories that I can recall later, when I wish to remember how this time was experienced in the moment.

We never would have ventered there had it not been for our Yucatecan friends. We wouldn’t have pushed through the door at the back to discover a mirror image of the open-aired seating area, where we ate like kings and queens of Merida. It’s good to go with locals to where the locals go. On our own, had we somehow stumbled in, despite our accomplished menu Spanish and years of living here, we would have been treated as tourists. Without our guides and liaisons we would not have known that LTPM is famous for its bean botanas, a puree of frijoles charros, that I’ve never seen anywhere else. Malcolm ordered a bowl of the cowboy beans normal, pintos with gnarly bits in a savory soupy broth as well as tacos pastor, crisp and orange-pink-red like Placido Flamingo. I had taquitos suizos chile poblano con arrachera, an awesome slather of finely chopped peppers and meat on a gooey down of cheese. This was simple food, everyday stuff, but such Platonic versions that were were caught unaware. It was the kind of meal, shared with good friends, that elevates a place you once lived as outsiders to a place that was once your home, and to which you are compelled to return.

Renovating Our Beach House, Volume 6

Malcolm — Wed, 03 Feb 2010 13:59:48 +0000

As we may have mentioned in prior volumes, our house was built by the previous owners one room at a time, as money allowed, with no (as far as we can tell) over-arching plan driving the whole thing. Because of this, the bedroom was tacked on to the house with a separate entrance, which meant you had to go outside in order to get to the bedroom. This was one of the first things we corrected way back in Volume 1, with the addition of a few walls and our first kitchen remodel.

There was just one problem. When hiring workers in Mexico, remember that the definition of “contractor” can mean “University-trained licensed architect.” However, it can also mean, “under-employed drunk fisherman who will occasionally skip a day of pulpo fishing in order to lay your floor tile.” If you happen to assemble a crack team of the latter, as we did, and attempt to lead a project in a language you don’t speak, you end up with our first kitchen renovation: badly-laid, cheap tile, cracking seams, a rotting roof, and not a single level or plumb line to be found in the place.

Though the kitchen was certainly larger, it really wasn’t much more usable than it had been when we moved in…and it was definitely not much more attractive. Fortunately, in the time we had been making do in this kitchen, we had also discovered what has become our secret weapon here: The husband-and-wife architect team of Carrillo y Peon, who we hired again to start over on our kitchen.

At last, we finished our kitchen remodel, a down-to-the-cinderblock gutting. The space was entirely re-imagined, and in the end, we had a kitchen that, though smaller in square footage, still manages to FEEL much larger, thanks to its increased light, storage, and usability. Let’s look at some pictures, shall we?

Just for fun…our kitchen, as it appeared the day we bought the house.

Almost everything you see is new. The countertops are covered in huge tile, with arched nooks underneath. They are also a normal height; our last builders assumed that because we aren’t a very Mayan 5′2″, that we must be giants that needed huge, tall countertops. The backsplash is natural stone from Dzitya. The sink and peninsula it sits in is new, and supports a column with “floating” cement shelf to divide the new kitchen from the breakfast nook, without putting in a full wall or breaking the sightline to the ocean from the front door. The ceiling was also completely resurfaced, with recessed lighting added.

The floating shelf that wraps through the kitchen features recessed halogen lighting. The wine area sits underneath another floating shelf for the microwave. The rusted “stainless” steel sink was replaced with beach-friendly plastic, which is perfectly ridgid when installed. We even put a coat of automotive-grade paint on the fridge, just to spruce everything up.

The new pantry provides plenty of storage, as well as hides the biggest improvement to our life so far: a pump that feeds bottled water into our refrigerator’s ice maker and water dispenser. The counter is polished, sealed cement.

The new breakfast nook sports big new windows, and built-in benches around a small dining table. It has really brightened up the Southern end of the kitchen.

Our new front door, which we had moved five inches away from the corner of the room. Y’know, because we’re annoying like that.

The overall before and after, South view.

… And We’re Back (But Not For Long)

Jillian — Tue, 02 Feb 2010 18:59:06 +0000

As it turns out, as we have proven, you can abandon your pressboard life, board a plane to a place you’ve never been and carve out an existence – and a pretty sweet one at that – in an uncanny valley far, but not too far, from home. We didn’t drop off the edge of civilization, though we did test its boundaries. We discovered a little corner of the world and found within it a small place for our own things; perched on the edge of an ocean, tucked between similar, but shabbier concrete boxes, we ensconced ourselves in our own version of home in Mexico. We haven’t grown roots so much as sticky filaments that keep us connected and, I am sure, fettered to the ground here, which so happens to be porous limestone. We will always come back to Yucatan, where we were married, where we built our first house, where we met our dogs, made some peace, laughed, sweat, swam, grieved, and gained perspective, courage, confidence and many more gifts I am sure will not become apparent until we are well settled back in the United States.

This summer we are daring to return. On or about June 18, 2010 we will pack up the pick-up with clothes, books, art, a dog, a map, and not much more than that. We will leave the house furnished – we hope it sells that way. In the meantime my Mother-in-Law will stay here and keep it safe. It is charming as is and if it does not sell soon it will be a perfect vacation home for us next winter, when we will no doubt find the weather less cozy and alluring than we do now. This summer it will be four years almost exactly that we have lived as foreigners in Yucatan, a state of pride and familial piety, independent in many ways of the problems that plague the rest of Mexico. We spent a college-length tenure honing old skills and developing new interests. We escaped our own fears, a downward spiralling economy, and an ordinary life we couldn’t make fit into our romantic expectations. Only now that familiar place beckons; much of what we weren’t ready for is waiting to be picked up, like a sweater discarded barely begun in the knitting basket.

This was a good break from the status quo, “full of adventure, full of discovery.” I am reminded of CP Cavafy’s Ithaka. Many among our friends and family didn’t believe we would actually do it, couldn’t understand why we might want to try. I had considerable doubts, but my belief that there was more to see and do beyond my ken, as well as my confidence in Malcolm prevailed. I was not always as hale and intrepid as I had hoped I would be, but I faced a few demons and conquered some faults. I saw the world and it recogized me, and I am inspired to keep going, to seek out new landscapes and seas and faces. Just not right now. Right now we are both craving home, for, despite its problems and failings America looks shiny, at once familiar and pregnant with possibilities.

We’re taking a drive up country, hugging the coast to Matamoros, across the border to Texas, traveling East until the Atlantic, then due North. After Houston, New Orleans, and Tallahassee, we’ll ride I-95 from Savannah to Charleston, through DC and Philadedelphia, happily sail through terra cognito and finally we will land in Portland, Maine around the Fourth of July. Patriotism!

We began this blog in the months leading up to our expatriation and we recently realized similar feelings were stirring as this new move approaches. We’re plotting and planning again, imagining a second start. In a new city, a new home, we’re heading back to a different America as changed individuals; we’re married now and we have our mostly loyal dog, Olivia with us. It is a rebirth, and we return as heroes, at least in our own minds. I am nothing short of ecstatic at the prospect of living in my own motherland, close to family and friends and things I love deeply, have missed fiercely, and challenges I am ready to meet anew.

But before that adventure comes a journey. I am looking forward to fleet highways and dusty backroads, to topography and geography I have never seen before, to busting out and seeing more of this enormous, diverse, beautiful country. We’re ending this story the right way this time, with a trip cross two countries, holding hands on the bench seat of a champagne F150. You joined us for the drop in and now we’re moving out. Ko’ox!

Dropped Out.

Malcolm — Mon, 04 May 2009 18:51:45 +0000

Jillian: How will it end, I wonder? In order to address this unanswerable question with poetry and symmetry, I look back to the beginning. Rereading the early entries, from the planning stages to our first enthralled weeks in Mexico, through all the trials up to this present moment; as I listen to the waves, I am writing the final post, for now. That’s right: Dropped In is officially going on hiatus.

Malcolm: All I am listening to is the air conditioner, which, believe me, is awesome. Jillian can wax poetic all she wants; the truth is, writing for Dropped In just doesn’t make a lot of sense, anymore. Things have changed, and this portion of the story has, we think, come to a close, for now.

J: Malcolm and I have agreed that the story arc is ended, the narrative of an engaged couple in their late twenties taking a leap in faith and life has been told. We are married and that adventure will continue for (I hope) one thousand years. We are living in Mexico in a fairly contented situation; the horror stories of our present are mundane and much less humorous.

M: DroppedIn was always about the planning, and the newness. We were just two people making a leap, and recording how that felt. Looking back on the archives, it is amazing to see just how wide open our eyes were, and how excited we were to change our lives. Now that we have settled into our lives here, the writing we continue to do (and want to do) just seems inappropriate for this site.

J: There are surprises, complications, moments of awkwardness, sadness and hilarity, but unless we elect to adopt a smart mouth six year old to keep us on our toes or incongruously enter a water skiing competition I am afraid, friends, that the show may be over.

M: Jillian is right. Only a last-season surprise cast addition would recreate that sense of the new, as, for us, life in Mexico has normalized. We will never become experts at living here, and don’t want to present ourselves that way. We’ve Dropped In, and now it’s time for new projects.

J: It has been a blast to keep this public journal, photo album and record of some of the best events of our lives. We learned more about ourselves and the experience by shaping it into this website and interacting with you, our audience. What began as a place for comedy and complaints evolved into a portal into our world so friends and family could see us and say hello, and went on to become a source of information, a place to cry out, a way to check in and be kept in check, our window to the world that is not a panopticon or a scrapbook, but a thing greater than the sum of its parts. I just wanted to say thanks to all of you for listening, it has been one good journey.

M: Keeping this site going for the last three years has been incredibly rewarding, and we do appreciate everyone’s continued participation and feedback. So, what’s next? A few things:

1. Many of the more nuts-and-bolts articles will be edited, polished, and brought over to Yolisto, where both Jillian and I will continue contributing the occasional article about living in the Yucatan. We will also be continuing contributors to The Truth About Mexico, a country-wide, collaborative magazine authored by some of the brightest authors in Mexico.

2. We will leave this site archived and up, because we do think there is some good information in its pages, and just in case something radical happens that would be inappropriate to discuss elsewhere, though right now, we can’t imagine what that would be. For a quick guide, and to try and shape this project into a story, here are our favorite posts from the life of this blog:

July 4, 2006: Record/Record
July 27, 2006: A Day of Lasts (Reflections on our last day in America.)
August 8, 2006: Entrada (First impressions.)
August 19, 2006: Sabado Gigante: We Nail Down an Apartment (Breaking out of the hotel, and into the city.)
August 25, 2006: Gauging the True Cost of Living
August 27, 2006: House Hunting Along the Gulf of Mexico
September 6, 2006: We Put an Offer on a House
October 3, 2006: First Trip to Progreso
October 15, 2006: Celebrating One Year of Dropping In (First-year website anniversary.)
October 23, 2006: Vivo en Merida (More first impressions)
October 28, 2006: Malcolm & Jillian Interviewed on Yucatan Living (This was significant because, for the first time, we were becoming a part of the resources that we had previously spent years reading and dreaming about.)
October 31, 2006: Food for You Animate Them (Jillian’s Day of the Dead photos.)
January 4, 2007: San Crisanto: The House that Wasn’t (The details of our first offer falling through)
January 10,2007: Continuing to Nail Down a Life in Mexico
January 23, 2007: Progreso Street Scenes, Vol 1 (Photos from our first real rental house, in Progreso.)
January 24, 2007: Merida Costco Invaded by Gringo Marauders (Wherein we learn that living here is, actually, pretty easy.)
March 13, 2007: Daytrippers (If anyone tells you to go to Belize to renew your tourist visa, stop being friends with them immediately.)
March 29, 2007: Look What We Bought (After seven months, we close on a property.)
April 16, 2007: Here are Your “Before” Photos (Or house, as purchased.)
May 10, 2007: More Progress in Chelem
May 20, 2007: Gaining Entry into the Mexican Credit System (Afterword: Never, ever buy a car from this dealership.)
May 27, 2007: Turning 29 at the End of the World
June 28, 2007: Been a While Since I Rapped at Ya (With Jillian in America, I move into our wildly unfinished new house, and sleep in a hammock.)
September 18, 2007: Whatever Dude, We’ve Got Crabs (Our new home has some unexpected pests.)
October 31, 2007: Celebrating Two Years of Dropping In (Our two-year anniversary.)
Novemeber 7, 2007: I Give My Left Arm to the Maya (Now I’m committed.)
Novemeber 9, 2007: The Protean Waters of Yucatan
November 13, 2007: Wedding Photos: User Contributed Edition (Our wedding in Merida.)
November 30, 2007: Renovating Our Beach House, Volume 2
February 12, 2008: La Tratto, Dehydration, Star Medica, and You: A Cautionary Tale
March 4, 2008: Building Community with the New Yolisto (Yolisto re-launches)
April 14, 2008: Expatriation is Freedom (But Not the Way You Think)
April 25, 2008: Welcome to the Gringo House
May 29, 2008: Photo Notes from a 30th Birthday in Cancun
July 1, 2008: The Dark Lady
July 2, 2008: Did I Tell You About the Time We Didn’t Get Robbed? (The police in Merida are fantastic.)
July 31, 2008: Renovating Our Beach House: Volume 2.1
September 4, 2008: Renovating Our Beach House: Volume 3
October 13, 2008: Anniversary Anticipation (The Third Anniversary of Dropped In)
October 14, 2008: Remodeling the Guest House: Take 1
November 10, 2008: Becoming 30 on the Mayan Riviera
November 14, 2008: The Accidental Gringa
December 8, 2008: Renovating Our Beach House: Volume 4
January 28, 2008: It’s Not All Margaritas and Monkeyshines
March 11, 2008: Loading Up the New Living Room
This is just the brief overview. There is much, much more to read. As you browse through the posts above, be sure to check out the automatically-generated links to related posts below the body of each article.

3. Finally, we have launched a completely new site, called “dinnercraft.” The bulk of our new writing will appear there. Check it out, and be sure to read the “about” page for a quick overview. This blog will have multiple authors and contributors, and should be a lot of fun.

M: Thank you again for listening to us for the last three years. I’m sure we’ll talk again, soon.

J: And…we’re out.

Only in Mexico: Electrified Flyswatter

Malcolm — Thu, 02 Apr 2009 19:18:22 +0000

In Mexico, there is a general assumption that you, as a member of the public, are going to try not to do anything stupid. In particular, you are going to take basic steps to avoid hurting yourself. Our favorite working example of this attitude, and one you are probably tired of hearing us repeat, is that if you fall into a hole in the street being dug by the Ministry of Roadside Hole Digging, there is no one to sue if you get injured. The Mexican attitude is that, as a thinking human being, you have an interest in not falling in holes and getting hurt, and if you forget that, you have no one to blame but yourself. Contrast this with the prevailing attitude about personal safety and responsibility present in the United States, where you are constantly warned about the relative heat of coffee and the insides of pies, as well as the dangers inherent in, say, having plastic bags around, or using a hair dryer while showering.

This difference in attitude and basic trust in consumers allows Mexico to sell some astonishingly fun, awesome products, which are often made in China and imported for sale, here. Take, for example, this “Rechargeable Mosquito-hitting Swatter,” a gift from my friend Larry. Behold:

In case the above photo doesn’t properly illustrate the function of this item, I will explain. This is a plastic, undersized tennis racket, which, instead of nylon strings, contains a metal mesh grid, coursing with 2,500 volts of electricity. That’s right. It is a giant, electrified paddle used to swat bugs out of the air. And in case this function wasn’t clear, the designers even opted to put a GIANT LIGHTNING BOLT ON IT. It’s like something a comic book superhero would use. And when it runs out of juice, why, you can even plug it right back in, so the flying-insect killing fun never has to stop.

The decision about whether or not to use this item in the middle of some giant, mystical body of water, filled with rocky, craggy islands, is left entirely up to the purchaser, but obviously, it is suggested.

Imagine, for a moment, the reaction to this object appearing for sale on store shelves in the United States. The only warning I received about it was from Larry, who suggested that it “might be a good idea to read the instructions before using it.” I did as he asked, but, being written entirely in Engrish, the instructions didn’t give me a lot to go on. Here they are, reprinted in their entirety, with misspellings and assorted weirdness left intact:

Directions:

When charging, please use AC 100-240V, 50HZ power source.

Before using, please charge the batteries for 8-15 hours. They can be recharged in recycle for 600 times.

When hitting mosquitoes, which is sucking blood on human bodies, you can easily kill them just by pressing it’s switch.

When the indicator twinkle, it indicate that the batteries run out.

Warning:

For more safety, do not press the switch or touch the ourface of net when swatter is in charge.

Please do not finger the medium-layer net.

Please shake swatter for cleaning off insect carcasses which remain in net. Be sure don’t wash it with water.

The swatter may become without high-voltage or in low-voltage conditions when it absorbe damp in wet weather, the effect will be declined. Then, it can be dried by blowing with electric blower or shining with sunshine. The effect will be recovered soon.

Children must instruce under adult when use it.

Whatever, I didn’t move to Mexico to read badly translated Chinese instructions. Let me tell you something that you WON’T find written on the packaging: This thing is amazing on every conceivable level. The first time you smack a fly out of the air, there is the sharp, cracking sound of electricity, a tiny blue explosion, and a dead fly on the floor, you will know a deep, profound satisfaction. Our dogs are terrified of it…there is something about the sound that really freaks them out, and sends them scurrying under the bed. Of course, it is hard for me not to spend all afternoon stalking around the house like a lunatic, electrified racket extended out in front of me, looking for bugs. Thank you, Mexico, for trusting that I can have this object in my life without hurting myself.

Update: Interested in purchasing one of these? I don’t know where this one came from, but Alibaba can hook you up, if you are willing to buy a container’s worth at a time from China. A container holds 38,040 electrified flyswatters.

Searching for the American Dream…in Mexico

Malcolm — Tue, 31 Mar 2009 22:32:45 +0000

I just wanted to call everyone’s attention to this little nugget, which appeared in New American Media:

“MERIDA, Mex. – At some point last fall, the one millionth American established residency here in Mexico. That makes Mexico the host nation for the largest American expatriate community in the world. There are now more Americans living in Mexico than there are in the U.K. or Canada.

This trend is accelerating as the U.S. recession deepens and job losses across the United States accelerate. ‘We’ve seen an increase of almost 40 percent in the number of American citizens making inquiries about the requirements for moving to Mexico,’ said an official at the Mexican Consulate in New York. ‘There are definitely more Americans emigrating to Mexico than this time last year.’

This is confirmed by recruiters and global relocation firms. ‘Mexico is supposed to be gearing up for a great year right now,’ Annie Levy Sandin, of Emerging Globe Group, a recruiting firm.

That Americans are moving to Mexico is nothing new, but the kinds of Americans who are establishing themselves have changed.

‘For decades you’ve had three kinds of Americans coming here,’ said Ramon Segura, an importer-exporter with decades of experience working with foreign nationals.

‘Foremost are the retirees, who can have a higher standard of living in Mexico than they could in the U.S. Then there were the professionals who were sent here by their companies or were here on business. And of course, there were those trying to make a clean break from their pasts – usually men escaping alimony, child support, business failures or the country that sent them to Vietnam.’

But now there are two other kinds of Americans moving to Mexico: those who are starting or raising families and entrepreneurs seeking greater opportunities.”

You can read the rest of the article here. Enjoy!

Everybody Seems to Wonder What It’s Like Down Here

Jillian — Wed, 18 Mar 2009 20:19:00 +0000

it’s not as difficult or as easy to live in Mexico as I imagined
I have seen exactly three scorpions in three years
don’t bother eating the Chinese food
you will not immediately lose 30 pounds
I still don’t have a good doctor
insurance is cheap
labor is cheap
quality furniture is not cheap and hard to find
we don’t drink beer all day long
I have never been on a bus with a chicken
it’s fun, it’s beautiful, but you get homesick, sometimes out of nowhere and it will surprise you

Bad Expat: Changing My Marketing Strategy

Jillian — Tue, 17 Mar 2009 18:00:41 +0000

I knew there was a mercado in Chelem but I never went inside until today. Waiting for the combi in the heat of early afternoon in centro you can smell sun-drenched entrails, past-peak produce and the overwhelming scent of ripening flowers. I would watch repelled, the lazy dogs that lay in wait for discarded scraps of food. I took pains to step over the river of liquid waste that streamed into the street. You don’t want your chanklas wet with that. Nothing tempted me to venture into the dark arcade.

I did my shopping at the grocery store. Which is not, oddly, the choice I make in the States. There I, of course seek out farmers markets, side of the road fruit stands, and whole foods stalls. I buy the neighbor’s zucchini and tomatoes. I appreciate the local, the seasonal, the unrefrigerated bounty bursting with juicy goodness. But not here. Here, the gigantic brightly lit and briskly air-conditioned supermarkets are a comfort, an easy to identify with aspect of transitioning to life here. The buzzing blue W pulled me into its gravitational orbit; finally, I am fighting to be free.

In the States you feel fresh, pure and organic when you buy direct from the grower. There is a lightness like you get from going to confession. You feel connected but clean. You feel earthy but never dampen your canvas flats. Everything you see is chlorophyll colorful and glistening, untainted like the lotus that grows from the muck. It is a beautiful, sun-filled, pleasing experience. Nothing like the markets here.

Here it is so vivid and exposed, visceral, but balanced really. You see the ugly insides of animals but also the beauty of violet red radishes. You get the dirt and sweat and filth and all, the whole picture, the reality. Sometimes it reeks. Sometimes it seems difficult to look at directly. And then you realize that it isn’t terrible or tragic. It’s kind of divine. It is women who are smiling selling onions and apples, peppers and bananas and garlic and melons and chickens and roses. It’s just life like it happens every single day here and I can choose to participate more because it makes me happy.