Santa Rosa

On Friday we were going to Santa Rosa, half an hour from here, higher up, much higher up in the mountains. But then we didn’t because the plumber came. Not just a plumber to replace the kitchen sink, but a man armed with hammers and chisels, and an assortment of pipes, faucets and connector rings. It all started with Anna saying to Jose Gutierrez, our realtor and house manager, that she’d like a bigger sink. No problema, Anna, I have a big sink for you, deeper and with two basins. He just happened to have one, or thereabouts. He knew a plumber and, as we are fond of saying: Bob is your uncle. Days later we encounter dust on the second floor. The kitchen counter was constructed with German bunker blue prints as a guide: 3 inches of cement, braced with rebar. It took some hacking and sawing, but six hours later water flowed onto seamless stainless steel, no water dripped from the connections and we could not have been happier. One day, from conception to completion! Only in Mexico! It never fails to amaze us.

Before that we had more railings cut down in the garden, unfortunately also a small section that was the anchor for the alley-side wall.. Now we need a welder to put it back in again. Jose assures us that he can get us someone. ‘And don’t think about the small section of wall you want to build’. Words as sweet as honey.
Then we did go to Santa Rosa, on a dreary day, in the comfort of a long-distance Mercedes Benz bus, leaning back in our first-class airplane seats, climbing and climbing on a twisting mountain road, until we arrived at the Santa Rosa stop, shivering at near cloud-like altitude.
Santa Rosa is at first glance like all other small Mexican villages: a solitary dog on a deserted street, forlorn decorations from a past fiesta, half finished houses a testimony to dreams not realized.

But you walk around, avoiding rivulets of water after a heavy rain, and see the plants and flowers in gardens, patios, and on rooftops. You take in the sweetest smile of the young woman in the small restaurant, and smile in turn when someone says ‘hi’ to you in the street in response to our ‘buenos dias’. A small tienda, a cooperative of five women, with heavenly smells around. What smells so good? we ask, and are led to the working area of the store where walnuts are roasted with sugar. Two bags, for sure, you don’t want to run out. And a jar of that mango jelly.
We had heard of a pottery in town, and found it easily. Hundreds upon hundreds of plates, vases, cups and dishes, as far as the eye could see. Made for export; big cartons with markings that said ‘Canada’. Pretty ugly stuff though, if you ask me, but we did find a small dish we liked. What can you do? Here we are, two gringos, walking into this deserted store, stretching out over three levels, a young and hopeful woman hovering around, ready at the first suggestion of interest? You buy something, that’s what you do. The small square dish now sits on the living room table. Five years from now we will look at it and say: ’Remember that day we went to Santa Rosa?’
Santa Rosa stays with you. The cathedral rises above all, across from the garage and feed store. On our way we shared the ride with several old women, holding large bouquets of flowers. We found them again in the church yard, waiting for a funeral. We looked into the church (its doors were still closed), and saw inside the simplicity of a Shaker or Moravian church. Plain benches, a table with green cloth serving as altar. Old women who had come to pay their respects. This you can not ignore: the passage of time. Mexicans do it better than we do. In that, I think, lies the appeal of a village like Santa Rosa: the continuation.

Santa Rosa has power but no running water. Children and old people bring buckets to the street and fill them with water gurgling out of rubber hoses, mostly buried below the pavement. If no one is there to fill a bucket, a drum is placed to receive the water, which will serve as reserve supply until the next bucket. There is only one Pepsi Cola sign, and it is right behind the Elementary School. At the edge of town, where the pavement of rough stones is losing the battle against eroding rain waters, where old cars wear out their clutches on the steep incline, a young boy bursts forth from a small house to greet us. He had seen us from his garden.

We attempted to get money out of an ATM. All of that started with the desire to simplify our life. Jose had told us that we could pay our utility bills directly via our bank, a great idea, given that our power had almost been cut off two weeks before for non payment. It seemed like a good idea to put some pesos into our bank account, but our bank’s ATM was out of commission (or out of money). Next door, behind Alcatraz-like bars, we found another ATM. There are very few variations on our experiences with Mexican banks and offices, and we should not have been surprised. I enter the amount I want (need is another story), and nothing happens. Except that the receipt shows that the money was taken out of our account. We know how to grin and bear it. Eventually it all worked out, after meeting some very solicitous and unwaveringly polite managers.
Tomorrow, Monday, we’ll go to San Miguel de Allende for a few days. Our friends Gill and Jerry Schofer were more than generous in offering the use of their house while they were away, and we will put it to good use. We’ll go shopping for garden furniture, and spend endless hours in the Immigration Office, trying to figure out what papers (and how many copies) we will need to re-new my Mexican visa.
Meanwhile we wait for a delivery of garden plants from Julie and her architect husband Pepe, and we’ll wait until their VW bus is running again.
Pepe is a Gaudi, the wilder the better. In California he built a houseboat for himself and Julie, floating on Styrofoam. It rocked like crazy. An office he built in the top of concrete palm trees, and the birdcage in their nursery is constructed from a wheelbarrow, toaster lids, chicken wire and a carfender. A man of great and playful imagination, We hope they can fix their van and we'll have them over for drinks and dinner.