2012 02 18
Mexico officially welcomes retirees and tourists, at least in part because they want to get hard money from something other than drugs. Well, pharmaceutical money is from legal drugs, anyway. And granted, there is a lot less money in retirees than in ignoring the killings and other problems concomitant with the drug trade, so one should be prepared to be coddled somewhat less than Don Pendejo. There are published rules about what is required of persons wishing to retire here, and then there are the rules of the assholes in the Inmigracion office. Those rules are not published. So, we decided that I should apply for my FM3, which would allow me to leave the country at my convenience instead of arbitrarily every 180 days. We had oodles of fun with G's application, but we finally got the little plastic permission slip. We were prepared. We got all the documents for me that we needed for him, including getting my Canadian passport renewed because the one on which I last entered the country was slated to expire right around the published limit of six months after filing the application.
There is one office in which one can apply - 3 hours away in Morelia. There is a form on-line that one must fill in - done. One must have photos both full-face and profile - done. One must have proof of income - done. Proof that one is living in some kind of housing in Mexico - done. One fills in another form, which is an application to apply for an application for a visa - done. One needs copies of passport pages, including entry visa stamp - done. We're looking pretty good, here. Saint Paul and I get in his car and take the first all-day trip to Inmigracion. Oops, wrong form, you need to fill in this other one which is precisely the same but has a slightly different title. Oops, you are wearing earrings, you have to take them out and get new photos. Oops, the address of one of your proofs says c. de las tenistas, the other says circ. de los tenistas, you need to use that one instead of this one. It's your fault Mexicans can't fucking spell. Oops, your Canadian passport wasn't issued by Canada, it was issued by the Canadian Embassy in Mexico, therefore you have to state that the issuing country is Mexico, not Canada. It's your fault Mexicans can't fucking think. Oops, in the blank that says state, province, city, you weren't born in Alberta, you were born in Barrhead. Oops, I think your post code is wrong on no you're right forget about that. Oops, I think your bank statement is using the wrong colour of black ink, oh never mind, I made a mistake. After waiting four hours to see this asshole, he has made four mistakes in 'verifying' my forms, identified completely spurious 'mistakes' in my forms and, it turns out, has forgotten to mention one or two other invisible requirements. So, back home to change the forms. Cost: nearly $100 in gas and food.
So, get other forms from my bank. Change silly little shit. Kill another tree printing our new versions, and back we go. Wait around another four hours. Get the same fuck-wit agent. Oops, this is the wrong form. Run around the corner and use another precisely similar form with the name he gave us this time. Oops, I've decided that this needs to say that instead of the thing I told you last time. Run around the corner and reprint form. Oops, I have purposely kept you waiting so long that it is now too late for you to take the form I won't give you to the bank and pay the fees. Oops, this is all your fault because you are a foreigner. Oops, I forgot to mention that you have to include a cover letter that includes all the information in the other two forms plus a request for permission to apply for the visa. No, Paul can't go change the form and get the receipt because it is after 13:00 and nothing can be brought into the office after 13:00. If you leave, you won't be let back in. The police officer manning the door can't hand me the stuff I need if I stay and Paul goes. Cost: $100 dollars in gas and food. And my patience.
I said: we have been here all fucking day and you have... by which time the agent was yelling at me not to yell at him, you used a bad word, you better be careful you will be in a lot of trouble....
It would be funny if it weren't so fucking pathetic. And on top of that, the little cretin had the gall to remark how difficult my Welsh middle name is - this from a twat named Eduardo Pascual Rodriguez Vidridones. Who said: a little power corrupts absolutely?
20120208
2012 02 08
My G-man has been watching a BBC series on Auschwitz in particular and, more generally, the history of persecution and the Nazis in Germany from the end of World War I to the end of WWII. This led the G-man to remark that he hadn't learned anything much about this in school and he quoted some examples of what he found surprising. Some of you may remember that this is not a stupid man, he has a BA in Biology and an almost Master's in social work. From ordinary middle-US schools in Tennessee to U of Minnesota. Because the BBC is known for trying to get all the research done before they film anything, one is predisposed to believing that the series was accurate - and there were a lot of interesting things that I had not heard before, too.
The second thing that pushed the Education Button was the translation of a line in a US-made movie so memorable that I can't recall what it was called. We were watching it on Netflix with subtitles for our friend Lalo, who speaks English pretty well, but sound-tracks and movie actors being what they are, the subtitles help him keep abreast of the action. Anyway, for some reason one of the female characters stole some Shakespeare: "[character name equivalent to Romeo, Romeo] - Wherefore are thou [Romeo]?" which got translated to the Spanish by the indubitably US-educated service as: "[character name equivalent to Romeo, Romeo], dónde estás [Romeo]?" Clever readers have already figured out that it should have read: "¿por qué estás Romeo?" because wherefore did not mean where, it meant why.
The third push was a Republican candidate named Rick SanctimonousVomitori-um spewing hate and misinformation. I know, that is basically the definition of 'Republican' in the US, but still, this one is a real piece of uneducated unthinking work, even by the low standards of the US. I should of course feel flattered that he is an equal-opportunity hater, but equating being gay with the evils of Islamic terrorism, abortion, social conscience and, just generally, thinking for oneself, is a new low even for the party that gave us Reagan and the Bush Clan. Here's the link to the quotes: http://www.addictinginfo.org/2012/01/05/31-rick-santorum-quotes-that-prove-he-would-be-a-destructive-president/
The positive upshot of this crap in a thinking country would be the re-election of Obama. In the non-thinking US, no-one knows for sure what will happen. Obama has been ineffectual and less than perfect, in large part but not wholly because of pointless obstructionism from the opposition, but that is a treatise for another day. This one is about education. Or lack thereof. I know that general education in Canada and England has slipped to new lows as well, but I fervently hope that it is not nearly as low as in the US. The brass-plated-shite standard, I call it. A really good education can be had in all three countries - if you have enough money to buy it. Unfortunately, by the time one gets to university age, it is really late to start trying to learn how to think logically, so the expense starts in kindergarten. We know who can afford that, right? And you probably remember how I feel about private 'charter' schools and home-schooling: may as well just run out a kill the T-Rex (dinosaur) living next door watch out for the glacier. The Republican method of surviving is to kill any hope of actual education in the general public: keep them ignorant and afraid and you can do what you will.
It is unfortunate that the rest of the world - and more sadly, I - needs to pay so much attention to the bullshit in the US, but that is a fact of life: they are bullies with big guns, and they need to be watched. Yes, Virginia, even the Democrats, however much better than the other guys they may be. If you can only chose between certain death and probable death, what kind of choice have you got?
The second thing that pushed the Education Button was the translation of a line in a US-made movie so memorable that I can't recall what it was called. We were watching it on Netflix with subtitles for our friend Lalo, who speaks English pretty well, but sound-tracks and movie actors being what they are, the subtitles help him keep abreast of the action. Anyway, for some reason one of the female characters stole some Shakespeare: "[character name equivalent to Romeo, Romeo] - Wherefore are thou [Romeo]?" which got translated to the Spanish by the indubitably US-educated service as: "[character name equivalent to Romeo, Romeo], dónde estás [Romeo]?" Clever readers have already figured out that it should have read: "¿por qué estás Romeo?" because wherefore did not mean where, it meant why.
The third push was a Republican candidate named Rick SanctimonousVomitori-um spewing hate and misinformation. I know, that is basically the definition of 'Republican' in the US, but still, this one is a real piece of uneducated unthinking work, even by the low standards of the US. I should of course feel flattered that he is an equal-opportunity hater, but equating being gay with the evils of Islamic terrorism, abortion, social conscience and, just generally, thinking for oneself, is a new low even for the party that gave us Reagan and the Bush Clan. Here's the link to the quotes: http://www.addictinginfo.org/2012/01/05/31-rick-santorum-quotes-that-prove-he-would-be-a-destructive-president/
The positive upshot of this crap in a thinking country would be the re-election of Obama. In the non-thinking US, no-one knows for sure what will happen. Obama has been ineffectual and less than perfect, in large part but not wholly because of pointless obstructionism from the opposition, but that is a treatise for another day. This one is about education. Or lack thereof. I know that general education in Canada and England has slipped to new lows as well, but I fervently hope that it is not nearly as low as in the US. The brass-plated-shite standard, I call it. A really good education can be had in all three countries - if you have enough money to buy it. Unfortunately, by the time one gets to university age, it is really late to start trying to learn how to think logically, so the expense starts in kindergarten. We know who can afford that, right? And you probably remember how I feel about private 'charter' schools and home-schooling: may as well just run out a kill the T-Rex (dinosaur) living next door watch out for the glacier. The Republican method of surviving is to kill any hope of actual education in the general public: keep them ignorant and afraid and you can do what you will.
It is unfortunate that the rest of the world - and more sadly, I - needs to pay so much attention to the bullshit in the US, but that is a fact of life: they are bullies with big guns, and they need to be watched. Yes, Virginia, even the Democrats, however much better than the other guys they may be. If you can only chose between certain death and probable death, what kind of choice have you got?
20111227
My Balls
Ok, so for the first time in thirty years, I cooked a turkey. Why is it that the smallest turkeys available seem to weight 8 tonnes?? and you know what that means: left-over turkey for the rest of the millenium. I decided to experiment with uses for left-over turkey and, having horrible memories of home-made turkey soup from my childhood, I decided to forgo the boil-the-bones approach and ground up the meat. Then I ground up some left-over ham. And some raw pork pieces that ponged a bit but didn't seem poisonous. Add some Chinese "five spice", an egg or two, some dry bread and stale crackers and voila! Depending on your level of masochism, sit or stand to make the goop into balls. And because we basically don't have a hope in hell of telling when they are cooked, make little balls. Then (deep-)fry them until they are dead. I mean crispy. Then throw some flour and shite together to make a gravy. Serve with aplomb. They are not going to taste like turkey - in fact they are guaranteed to taste like almost nothing you have ever eaten before.
Ok, así que por la primera vez en treinta años, he cocinado un pavo. ¿Por qué es que los más pequeños disponibles parecen pavos de peso de 8 toneladas? y ustedes saben lo que eso significa: el pavo sobrante para el resto del milenio. Me decidí a experimentar con el uso derestos de pavo y, con horribles recuerdos de sopa casera de pavo de mi infancia, he decidido renunciar a la ebullición-los-huesos y he molido la carne. Entonces anadir un poco de jamón sobrante. Y algunas piezas de carne de cerdo cruda que fue disputada un poco, pero no parece venenoso. Agregue un poco de chino "cinco especias", un huevo o dos, un poco de pan seco y galletas rancio y ¡voilá! Dependiendo de su nivel de masoquismo, sentado o de pie para hacer el pegote en bolas. Y debido a que básicamente no tienen una esperanza en el infierno de contar cuando se cocinado, hacen pequenos bolitas. Entonces (profundas) se fríen hasta que estén muertos. Quiero decir que estén crujientes. A continuación, echar un poco de harina y unas mierda para hacer una salsa. Servir con aplomo. Ellos no van a sabor a pavo - de hecho, se les garantiza a gusto como casi nada de lo que han comido antes.
Ok, así que por la primera vez en treinta años, he cocinado un pavo. ¿Por qué es que los más pequeños disponibles parecen pavos de peso de 8 toneladas? y ustedes saben lo que eso significa: el pavo sobrante para el resto del milenio. Me decidí a experimentar con el uso derestos de pavo y, con horribles recuerdos de sopa casera de pavo de mi infancia, he decidido renunciar a la ebullición-los-huesos y he molido la carne. Entonces anadir un poco de jamón sobrante. Y algunas piezas de carne de cerdo cruda que fue disputada un poco, pero no parece venenoso. Agregue un poco de chino "cinco especias", un huevo o dos, un poco de pan seco y galletas rancio y ¡voilá! Dependiendo de su nivel de masoquismo, sentado o de pie para hacer el pegote en bolas. Y debido a que básicamente no tienen una esperanza en el infierno de contar cuando se cocinado, hacen pequenos bolitas. Entonces (profundas) se fríen hasta que estén muertos. Quiero decir que estén crujientes. A continuación, echar un poco de harina y unas mierda para hacer una salsa. Servir con aplomo. Ellos no van a sabor a pavo - de hecho, se les garantiza a gusto como casi nada de lo que han comido antes.
20110908
2011 09 08
Cat news! Bruce and Muttney have reached detente! Shadow and Bruce have reached detente! Shadow would rather that Muttney cease to exist but occasionally forgets to try to hiss him to death. If this is to be the usual state of affairs, some of us are going to be really unhappy.
Last Friday was Cele's birthday - 28! - and we were unable to host a dinner for her because of compromising events. The cleaning lady comes Tuesdays and Fridays, so the house was sparkling. She taught me how to make mole this time as well as cleaning. Tuesday night the kids came over to celebrate her day: Cele, her husband Fernando, Saint Paul and Miguel. I made a herbed pork roast in my pressure cooker and risotto with shrimp and tomato. Desert was peaches warmed in butter, vanilla and brown sugar and sprinkled with cinnamon and cream. Gary cobbled together a big enough table, draped it and made it all look pretty. Everyone had a good time and ate lots of food and laughed a lot. We are still washing up. I wonder where I was on my 28th birthday...
Speaking of birthdays and dates with which to mark the passage of time ... Gary and I will have been together for 10 years December 4th. Bruce is 14 or 15, Shadow is 12, Muttney is 7. We are in the usual state of health, Gary is fine and my knee is being a pain. We are discussing how and when to go back north to get the truck across the border and have a couple of ideas that seem to make sense. What we actually end up doing is anybody's guess. Muttney has decided that his bed is the bathroom sink, which he fills completely and inconveniently.
We are going to look at hand-made wooden furniture this afternoon. And that is all the excitement we have for this post. It is rather nice to be retired - Tuesday was the most stress we've had in two weeks.
R
Last Friday was Cele's birthday - 28! - and we were unable to host a dinner for her because of compromising events. The cleaning lady comes Tuesdays and Fridays, so the house was sparkling. She taught me how to make mole this time as well as cleaning. Tuesday night the kids came over to celebrate her day: Cele, her husband Fernando, Saint Paul and Miguel. I made a herbed pork roast in my pressure cooker and risotto with shrimp and tomato. Desert was peaches warmed in butter, vanilla and brown sugar and sprinkled with cinnamon and cream. Gary cobbled together a big enough table, draped it and made it all look pretty. Everyone had a good time and ate lots of food and laughed a lot. We are still washing up. I wonder where I was on my 28th birthday...
Speaking of birthdays and dates with which to mark the passage of time ... Gary and I will have been together for 10 years December 4th. Bruce is 14 or 15, Shadow is 12, Muttney is 7. We are in the usual state of health, Gary is fine and my knee is being a pain. We are discussing how and when to go back north to get the truck across the border and have a couple of ideas that seem to make sense. What we actually end up doing is anybody's guess. Muttney has decided that his bed is the bathroom sink, which he fills completely and inconveniently.
We are going to look at hand-made wooden furniture this afternoon. And that is all the excitement we have for this post. It is rather nice to be retired - Tuesday was the most stress we've had in two weeks.
R
20110902
2011 09 02
We went out for supper the other night with Saint Paul, a new-to-us restaurant near downtown. I'm fine but the G-man has the usual symptoms of food-borne illness. Unlike the cats, boyfriends don't give any warning before they vomit on your feet. Speaking of cats, hissing and spitting are no longer at fever pitch, but detente has not yet been reached.
Now where did I get to ...
Trip Two to the border
Our Intrepid Travellers left the Nogales motel with mostly functioning air-conditioning and in relative calm. They reached the border crossing, and did the routine with American Customs, then paid the toll to drive to and arrive at Mexican Customs. This is actually when the lack of import sticker screwed things up. So, he paid the toll to drive to and arrive at the American border, where he did the routine with the bike and the door and the cat and the door and the bike and the cat (in that order) and then crossed back to the US side. Much conversation with yours truly ensued, and we decided that returning to the scene of the actual crime would maybe possibly in some way be better easier smoother or at least cooler than continuing to muck about in Nogales.
Trip Three to the border at Agua Prieta
After much searching the previous night, G had located a lot of paper proving that the vehicle to which the sticker had been attached was no longer in Mexico, and was in fact no longer his. (California had impounded it for various reasons.) This, to our minds, should smooth the cancellation of the previous sticker and the issuance of the new. Somewhere along the 114 miles from Nogales to Douglas, the pump and or the clutch on the air-conditioning ceased functioning. What else is new? The border crossing did not involve American Customs (I don't know why the same at Nogales did involve the US agents) so he proceeded to Banjercito with his papers to discover that yes, it looks like this will be sufficient to cancel the sticker. So, you need to send it with these forms to Ciudad Mexico and in three months you will get confirmation that the sticker has been cancelled. At no time in this conversation did G get the impression that a little cash under the table would smooth the process. We are intrinsically honest and don't really know enough Spanish to offer a bribe nor to read the signals requesting one in the first place, so this whole Corrupt Mexico thing seems to be mierda del toro to us. Therefore, our Intrepid Traveller gathers his papers, reaches the American border, goes through the routine with unloading the bicycle etc. and re-enters Douglas irritated and not relishing the prospect of spending more time baking in the autumn desert heat spending money we can't really afford on food and motels. More conversations with yours truly and we have a plan.
Precis: I have an appointment in Oakland to see the quack, and will return to Guadalajara on August 26th. Gary can find a place to store the truck, get himself and the cat on a flight to meet me, and then we will bus home together. All, of course, does not go as planned. I get to Guadalajara and discover that G&M will not be flying because the airline doesn't like the carrier. He gets a new carriers, gets on the flight the next day and we catch a ride home with The Doctors, all as previously described. I think. I write this shite and then promptly forget it, so if this is news, let me know and I will tell you alllll about it.
So we are back home. He found a place to keep the truck safe for a small fee each month, so we are not unduly worried about The Bloody Possessions. We are without the things that I have been missing, but we are home safely and in (relatively) good health. The cat thing will sort itself out. The plan for trying the border one more time will come together when it comes together, and we will (or he will) fly/ride/float back to the US and re-attempt the penetration of Mexico. As usual, I think that whatever we have planned will change before we return to Zamora, but hopefully our household goods will return to Zamora with us next time, whatever the changes to the plan may entail.
I'm exhausted just thinking about all this shite.
R
Now where did I get to ...
Trip Two to the border
Our Intrepid Travellers left the Nogales motel with mostly functioning air-conditioning and in relative calm. They reached the border crossing, and did the routine with American Customs, then paid the toll to drive to and arrive at Mexican Customs. This is actually when the lack of import sticker screwed things up. So, he paid the toll to drive to and arrive at the American border, where he did the routine with the bike and the door and the cat and the door and the bike and the cat (in that order) and then crossed back to the US side. Much conversation with yours truly ensued, and we decided that returning to the scene of the actual crime would maybe possibly in some way be better easier smoother or at least cooler than continuing to muck about in Nogales.
Trip Three to the border at Agua Prieta
After much searching the previous night, G had located a lot of paper proving that the vehicle to which the sticker had been attached was no longer in Mexico, and was in fact no longer his. (California had impounded it for various reasons.) This, to our minds, should smooth the cancellation of the previous sticker and the issuance of the new. Somewhere along the 114 miles from Nogales to Douglas, the pump and or the clutch on the air-conditioning ceased functioning. What else is new? The border crossing did not involve American Customs (I don't know why the same at Nogales did involve the US agents) so he proceeded to Banjercito with his papers to discover that yes, it looks like this will be sufficient to cancel the sticker. So, you need to send it with these forms to Ciudad Mexico and in three months you will get confirmation that the sticker has been cancelled. At no time in this conversation did G get the impression that a little cash under the table would smooth the process. We are intrinsically honest and don't really know enough Spanish to offer a bribe nor to read the signals requesting one in the first place, so this whole Corrupt Mexico thing seems to be mierda del toro to us. Therefore, our Intrepid Traveller gathers his papers, reaches the American border, goes through the routine with unloading the bicycle etc. and re-enters Douglas irritated and not relishing the prospect of spending more time baking in the autumn desert heat spending money we can't really afford on food and motels. More conversations with yours truly and we have a plan.
Precis: I have an appointment in Oakland to see the quack, and will return to Guadalajara on August 26th. Gary can find a place to store the truck, get himself and the cat on a flight to meet me, and then we will bus home together. All, of course, does not go as planned. I get to Guadalajara and discover that G&M will not be flying because the airline doesn't like the carrier. He gets a new carriers, gets on the flight the next day and we catch a ride home with The Doctors, all as previously described. I think. I write this shite and then promptly forget it, so if this is news, let me know and I will tell you alllll about it.
So we are back home. He found a place to keep the truck safe for a small fee each month, so we are not unduly worried about The Bloody Possessions. We are without the things that I have been missing, but we are home safely and in (relatively) good health. The cat thing will sort itself out. The plan for trying the border one more time will come together when it comes together, and we will (or he will) fly/ride/float back to the US and re-attempt the penetration of Mexico. As usual, I think that whatever we have planned will change before we return to Zamora, but hopefully our household goods will return to Zamora with us next time, whatever the changes to the plan may entail.
I'm exhausted just thinking about all this shite.
R
20110901
2011 09 01
Does anyone have an opinion on how irritating it would be to have ads on these pages? After some threshold, I would get paid. Real money. It is tempting. Opine away, please.
20110831
2011 08 31
Guarded warfare continues, although Shadow has decided that his Two-legger allies are to be tolerated and that Bruce is his bosom buddy once more. Oh goody, cat hair in the sheets once again. We are hoping that the situation continues to improve and that detente is reached among the herd in short order.
Where were we? Oh right, Las Vegas. Did you know that the name means 'fertile lowland' or 'meadow'?, actually the plural thereof, but you can manage that on your own. Kind of obvious to anyone who has visited Las Vegas that the name is a joke. Anyway, brand-new tyres, 114F, no air-conditioning and our intrepid travellers hit the road. Leaving Las Vegas is always more fun than entering Las Vegas, in my humble opinion. The sense of relief ... The road rapidly takes one to the Hoover Dam, over which one drives. On a two-lane road, with millions of tourists. The fun in that is not immediately apparent. However, the scenery is fun, sand-coloured rock hills surrounding sand-coloured concrete dam with a lot of blue water off to one side and a precipitous fall to the other. The G and the Mutt suffered the heat for many miles until the belt on the fan for the air broke. Changing the belt required a step-tool, padding on the hot radiator and still resulted in a third-degree burn on Gary's arm. Finally reached Phoenix, where G thought they might find somewhere cool to hang out until evening. This proved harder than he had anticipated, but they survived until cooler temps and then got to our friends' place in Tucson. Our chums made them welcome, and happened to know a mechanic who, for a reasonable fee, did what he could to repair the air. Oooo, that rhymes! He also did something else to the truck that I can't recall, and things were looking up for the remainder of the trip. After a few days' rest and recuperation, they were once again on the road, heading for Nogales Arizona/Sonora. At 114F. With the windows open the interior temperature was probably only 130F.
There were a couple of snags that we expected to complicate the crossing, so G was prepared to spend some time sorting some bureaucratic shite in Nogales. The first of these is called 'menaje de casa', which is either required or not required or being phased out. It is a list of everything that is being imported into Mexico, with serial numbers and ages of the articles and maybe cubic size of container but maybe not and is required to be in quadruplicate, translated into Spanish, and approved by the Mexican consulate. This G duly wrote up and translated and printed and copied and submitted. The Consulate added its stamp of approval and a cover letter.
Trip One to the border
Under the current American state of permanent paranoia, American customs agents stopped G at the border, asked all the usual asinine questions and then made him exit the vehicle, remove the bicycle from its rack at the back door, unlock the truck and then wait 'over there'. They opened the door. They gazed in awe at the solid wall of things that greeted them. They conferred briefly with themselves and then waved him away. G closed the door, mounted the bicycle, caught the cat, got in the cab and proceeded into the almost Mexico zone that exists between the two countries. There was a man standing in the middle of the road, leaving G the option of running him down or stopping. He chose to stop, which in retrospect he might change. No uniform, no identification, no proof that the man was what he claimed to be: 'working with' Mexican Customs. He instructed our hot and tired Intrepidness that he would have to drive 12 kilometres along this road, where Unidentified Stranger and his partner would meet him and deal with the rest of the process of entering the country. Twelve kms and 88 pesos toll later, the G pulls up to a parking area and gets out to talk to these guys. At 114F. With no shade. They glanced at the approved menaje. They said: 380.00 US fee, please. They then escorted G to Aduanas, where G continued through the identification process, the wait around and see process, the I don't know what to say process and the maybe this maybe that process. During one of these mysterious goings-on, the Customs agent discovered that the Consulate had used the legislation that applies to Mexicans returning to live in Mexico, not foreigners moving to live in Mexico and refused to accept the menaje without alteration. Meanwhile ...
Problem Two. There are some strict rules about importing a vehicle into Mexico. Drugs, slaves I mean illegal emigrants, guns, bombs, gangsters and prostitutes cross the border with impunity, but if a foreigner manages to leave Mexico without returning the Temporary Vehicle Import sticker, all hell ensues. At 114F. With no shade. Guess who left Mexico without returning his sticker three years before? The Unidentified offered to fix the problem for $600US and three days. Banjercito, the company that actually is responsible for the issuance and control of said stickers said well, no, maybe, sometimes, in the future, or maybe never. How the Unidentified intended to deal with this in three days remains unknown, as by this point, the G-man had decided that this was nuts. He returned to the truck, paid 88 pesos to drive the 12 kms back to American Customs. Usual asinine questions, park over there, remove bicycle, open door, take cat and go wait in there because we are using dogs. At 114F. With no shade. Sniff, stare at wall of things, talk amongst themselves, and wave G back to the truck. Close door, mount bicycle, enter truck and the G is back on the road to a motel on the Arizona side. Next day, visit Consulate, get proper wording on paper. Be really fed-up with treatment at Nogales crossing and decide to drive to Douglas Arizona/Agua Prieta Sonora, where the problem sticker was issued in the first place.
Stay tuned! Coming Soon! Will our Intrepidness really get across the Border? Trip Two next time!
Where were we? Oh right, Las Vegas. Did you know that the name means 'fertile lowland' or 'meadow'?, actually the plural thereof, but you can manage that on your own. Kind of obvious to anyone who has visited Las Vegas that the name is a joke. Anyway, brand-new tyres, 114F, no air-conditioning and our intrepid travellers hit the road. Leaving Las Vegas is always more fun than entering Las Vegas, in my humble opinion. The sense of relief ... The road rapidly takes one to the Hoover Dam, over which one drives. On a two-lane road, with millions of tourists. The fun in that is not immediately apparent. However, the scenery is fun, sand-coloured rock hills surrounding sand-coloured concrete dam with a lot of blue water off to one side and a precipitous fall to the other. The G and the Mutt suffered the heat for many miles until the belt on the fan for the air broke. Changing the belt required a step-tool, padding on the hot radiator and still resulted in a third-degree burn on Gary's arm. Finally reached Phoenix, where G thought they might find somewhere cool to hang out until evening. This proved harder than he had anticipated, but they survived until cooler temps and then got to our friends' place in Tucson. Our chums made them welcome, and happened to know a mechanic who, for a reasonable fee, did what he could to repair the air. Oooo, that rhymes! He also did something else to the truck that I can't recall, and things were looking up for the remainder of the trip. After a few days' rest and recuperation, they were once again on the road, heading for Nogales Arizona/Sonora. At 114F. With the windows open the interior temperature was probably only 130F.
There were a couple of snags that we expected to complicate the crossing, so G was prepared to spend some time sorting some bureaucratic shite in Nogales. The first of these is called 'menaje de casa', which is either required or not required or being phased out. It is a list of everything that is being imported into Mexico, with serial numbers and ages of the articles and maybe cubic size of container but maybe not and is required to be in quadruplicate, translated into Spanish, and approved by the Mexican consulate. This G duly wrote up and translated and printed and copied and submitted. The Consulate added its stamp of approval and a cover letter.
Trip One to the border
Under the current American state of permanent paranoia, American customs agents stopped G at the border, asked all the usual asinine questions and then made him exit the vehicle, remove the bicycle from its rack at the back door, unlock the truck and then wait 'over there'. They opened the door. They gazed in awe at the solid wall of things that greeted them. They conferred briefly with themselves and then waved him away. G closed the door, mounted the bicycle, caught the cat, got in the cab and proceeded into the almost Mexico zone that exists between the two countries. There was a man standing in the middle of the road, leaving G the option of running him down or stopping. He chose to stop, which in retrospect he might change. No uniform, no identification, no proof that the man was what he claimed to be: 'working with' Mexican Customs. He instructed our hot and tired Intrepidness that he would have to drive 12 kilometres along this road, where Unidentified Stranger and his partner would meet him and deal with the rest of the process of entering the country. Twelve kms and 88 pesos toll later, the G pulls up to a parking area and gets out to talk to these guys. At 114F. With no shade. They glanced at the approved menaje. They said: 380.00 US fee, please. They then escorted G to Aduanas, where G continued through the identification process, the wait around and see process, the I don't know what to say process and the maybe this maybe that process. During one of these mysterious goings-on, the Customs agent discovered that the Consulate had used the legislation that applies to Mexicans returning to live in Mexico, not foreigners moving to live in Mexico and refused to accept the menaje without alteration. Meanwhile ...
Problem Two. There are some strict rules about importing a vehicle into Mexico. Drugs, slaves I mean illegal emigrants, guns, bombs, gangsters and prostitutes cross the border with impunity, but if a foreigner manages to leave Mexico without returning the Temporary Vehicle Import sticker, all hell ensues. At 114F. With no shade. Guess who left Mexico without returning his sticker three years before? The Unidentified offered to fix the problem for $600US and three days. Banjercito, the company that actually is responsible for the issuance and control of said stickers said well, no, maybe, sometimes, in the future, or maybe never. How the Unidentified intended to deal with this in three days remains unknown, as by this point, the G-man had decided that this was nuts. He returned to the truck, paid 88 pesos to drive the 12 kms back to American Customs. Usual asinine questions, park over there, remove bicycle, open door, take cat and go wait in there because we are using dogs. At 114F. With no shade. Sniff, stare at wall of things, talk amongst themselves, and wave G back to the truck. Close door, mount bicycle, enter truck and the G is back on the road to a motel on the Arizona side. Next day, visit Consulate, get proper wording on paper. Be really fed-up with treatment at Nogales crossing and decide to drive to Douglas Arizona/Agua Prieta Sonora, where the problem sticker was issued in the first place.
Stay tuned! Coming Soon! Will our Intrepidness really get across the Border? Trip Two next time!
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