APRIL 1997
A Japanese American in Mexico
Letter from San Miguel de Allende, Mexico
by Holly Yasui
I
'm not going to write about the Mexican
mañana attitude, which is exaggerated in the complaints of many gringos
who feel like everything should be done right now. Things don't ever get
done "right now" in the U.S., either. But it is true that in Mexico
some things do take more time.
Mail, for example. A letter
to or from the U.S. takes from six days to infinity, the latter meaning
it never arrives. On the average, I expect two weeks, unless it is something
important, then I use "overnight mail," which usually takes five
or six days, given the many official non-working holidays in Mexico.
Bathing. During the day,
when the washerwoman next door runs water into her basin, the pressure declines
to nearly zero. It takes five minutes to dribble enough water to work up
a lather and another ten to get most of it off. Since my shower is so feeble,
once a week I feel the need to really get at the grime in a bath. I have
no tub, so I bought a plastic storage bin into which I can fit, somewhat
folded up. Though it is small, my water heater is smaller. But there are
people who don't even have water heaters, so I'm not complaining. I turn
the water heater up to max and set four big pots on the stove in the kitchen,
which, as in many Mexican houses, is a separate room with an outdoor entrance.
If I time it right, the shower water running into my makeshift tub is just
beginning to cool when the pots begin to boil. After four trips to the kitchen
and one to the water heater, to turn it back down, I have a nice, hot bath.
Shopping can also be a
challenge to the hasty. I don't like going to the American-style grocery
store up the hill, called Gigante, because it's a long way and it's ugly.
The rest of San Miguel is so picturesque that Gigante feels like Disneyland.
I prefer the mercado viejo, the old market. Separate stalls sell
vegetables, fruits, grains, meat and dry goods. Though they all adjoin,
quality and price varies substantially, so you have to really shop unless
you don't mind paying more for less (I do mind). No automated scan-sensitive
cash registers or credit cards here. They weigh your selection on balance-scales
and count out your cash. Often, the vendors don't have change so they send
a kid running off to make change from someone else during which time they
persuade you to buy something else, and you have to go through the whole
process again.
Then there are the lines,
in which you wait: for service at stores and gas stations, to go to the
bathroom, to cash checks, to pay your bills, etc. The concept of remitting
by mail is foreign in San Miguel. The line for paying electricity bills
snakes down Calle Loreto, where the electricity commission is located, for
two or three blocks. The first time I went to pay a bill, I waited almost
two hours. When I was within sight of the door, they closed it. Lunch from
2:00 till 4:00. The people around me simply sighed, sat down on the curb
and took out their tamales and tacos, but I had to go home to eat. I discovered
later that you can hire someone to wait in line for you. Which I did the
next month. I went to the post office, showered, and shopped, before my
"waiter" reached the threshold of the electricity commission.
I gave him ten pesos (about $2.50 at the time) and the people around me
were so astonished at that amount that I felt embarrassed . . . for having
so much money, and for valuing my time in such a gringa way.
I am rich here, though
I earn about 1/10th of what I made in the U.S. At the end of a busy day
of waiting, I come home and sit on my plant-filled terrace, looking out
over spires and cupolas of the old churches of San Miguel. The unhurried
sunset lingers along the horizon of hills in the distance and reminds me
that time, like anxiety (about time), lasts as long as you pay attention
to it: sometimes it's better to just let it go.
About Holly Yasui and past articles.
© The Raven Chronicles 1997