Miguel and His Murals

The hand painted sign at the entrance to Los Arcos restaurant caught my eye the first time I visited San Pancho: “Nice design,” I thought. “A detail that sets the place apart.” That sign was Miguel’s first project in San Pancho, and now his work is all over town: His mural at the beachfront plaza depicts San Pancho’s history; a huge hibiscus blossom embellishes a satellite dish; Art Deco beauties grace a restaurant wall. You don’t see work like his in every Mexican village.

Miguel Angel Vallajan Estrella was born in 1972 in San Juan de Abajo, about 20 miles from San Pancho. When he was six, his family moved to San Pancho because his parents found work here – his father as a gardener at the junior high school and his mother as a cook at the hospital. Miguel finished ninth grade in San Pancho, and then started high school in La Cruz de Huanacaxtle, the location of the nearest high school at the time.

“I had to drop out when I was 14,” he told me. “I took the bus to La Cruz every day, and it was too expensive for my family. I needed to work, so an uncle in Puerto Vallarta helped me get a job varnishing furniture for hotels. I did that during the day, and at night I went to a taller (an artisan’s workshop) to learn how to paint letters and decorative designs. I didn’t get paid, and I had to buy the paints myself, but I loved what I was doing. I guess I showed ability, because the owner asked me to paint signs for a hotel when I was 15.”

At 18 Miguel opened his own taller in Puerto Vallarta . Business was good, and at one point he had three people working for him. They got big commissions—the Sheraton Hotel, the Collage nightclub— for signs, lettering, drawings and murals. During those years Miguel made frequent bus trips back to San Pancho to visit his family, and on one trip he met Julia, a young woman from the village. They became friends, and after three years they married. Miguel and Julia now have three daughters and a baby grandson.

About 10 years ago business in Puerto Vallarta began to slow down because graphic design had shifted to computer-based processes. Dar Peters, a San Pancho builder, told Miguel he could give him steady work, and persuaded Miguel to move back to the village. Since then Miguel and his helpers have done regular house painting, but his first love is still signs and graphic designs. Besides work in San Pancho Miguel does special projects for the county government, such as murals in village plazas throughout the Bahia de Banderas area.

Paint stores may have computerized color matching, but they can’t outdo Miguel’s infallible eye. Choosing paint colors with him is a pleasure. Should the color of a wall be taupe, mushroom, sand or beige? Miguel mixes up a sample on the spot, paints a swath, and we study the result. Not quite right? He mixes another sample, and we try again. With no sign of impatience Miguel spends as long as it takes to get the color right.

Boring expanses of stucco are transformed under his hand. In our house a 20-foot high wall towers at one side of the dining room, and we wanted to bring the huge mass down to human scale. Our idea: divide the wall in half lengthwise with two colors of paint and add a decorative border. Working from photos we took in a 19th century Mexican church, Miguel came up with a design that solved the problem perfectly. And he did everything freehand—no stencils or computer graphics.

Unfailingly polite, quiet, and a little shy, Miguel’s work gives him the right to brag, but he never does. He is a modest man. And one who has added touches of artistry to the face of San Pancho.

Barefoot in the Kitchen

The first time a scorpion stung me, it was almost a relief. My being stung seemed all but inevitable, given the number of stories my jungle neighbors told about their encounters with the bug. I was anxious to get it over with, just so I’d know how my body would react.

I got my answer early one morning while walking barefoot into the kitchen. A piecing pain suddenly shot through the big toe on my right foot. I turned on a light, saw the scorpion on the floor, and bolted for the bathroom where I had stashed a bottle of antihistamines with this occasion in mind. After gulping a couple of the pills, I sat and waited for a reaction.

It was a short wait. In a matter of seconds, beginning with my now hot and throbbing big toe, the pain rolled up my right side like a wave and left nerves numb in its wake. I felt nauseous. My throat constricted but only slightly. Not enough to warrant a trip to the hospital. Besides, that might have meant missing our “girls’ weekend” in Guadalajara; a friend was picking me up in an hour.

I wobbled a bit the first day of that shopping trip. But three days religiously swilling liquids and I bounced back. Three months later, I regained feeling in the big toe.

Since then I’ve been stung twice more. The third time I acquiesced to my children who told me I looked green and drove me to the hospital, where seasoned staff put me on an antivenin IV drip.

“We do this routinely,” they said. “Don’t hesitate because you think your case isn’t serious. We rarely see a case that is. Just come in; you’ll appreciate the quick relief.”

Two hours and 250 pesos later, I walked out feeling fine. My kids were right; that’s the way to go, I now advise. That and don’t go barefoot, not even in the kitchen.

The Librarian: Lonely No More

Was it only a year ago that I, the “lonely librarian,” sat on the floor in the library at entreamigos surrounded by boxes, tape and markers, packing books for storage? Last April the future of our small community organization seemed bleak. Staying in the building on the main street that entreamigos had occupied for three years was not an option. Its location near the beach was prime real estate; the landlord had other plans.

A large abandoned warehouse at the other end of town had been given to entreamigos but renovating it into useable space was overwhelming. First, it would take a massive effort to clear the building of years of debris and garbage. Then, even with the possibility of a $36,000 grant from The Three Swallows Foundation, the San Pancho community would have to raise twice that amount of money to begin construction.

Did the community care enough to make the effort? When larger cities, including my home town of Evanston, Illinois, are closing their neighborhood libraries, could a project of this size in our small town possibly succeed?

The answer is a resounding “yes.” Having a library and community center did matter. Today entreamigos has a brand-new home; in cash, more than $100,000 was raised. The dilapidated warehouse was restored inch by inch into a completely “green” space through hundreds of hours of volunteer labor and donations of supplies.

A few months ago I sat on the floor in the new library at entreamigos and unpacked all of the old boxes. The newly painted wooden shelves, recycled tires and crates, were ready to be filled. The large, airy space with brightly-painted tables and chairs and comfy pillows beckoned eager readers. It had been a labor of love for all of us, a commitment to libraries and to education that San Pancho was willing to make.

In Evanston, news of a $10 million deficit in the budget sounded the death knell for the neighborhood libraries. Closing the two branch libraries was not a new threat; in fact, it was almost an annual event at budget time. But this year was different, and the end of the neighborhood libraries seemed imminent.

There was one possibility. The Branch libraries received a six-month reprieve to raise $200,000. Could the Evanston community raise that amount to keep the Branches open?

To date, 1000 volunteers have raised $65,000 with more commitments of support daily. But a “For Rent” sign in the window of the South Branch library has added to the pressure.

Come on Evanston. If we can do it in San Pancho…

Our Mexican Medical Adventure

“I thought he seemed pale.” That’s what our San Pancho friends said later. Probably out of politeness no one said anything at the time. I thought he looked pale, too, but we had just arrived from overcast Connecticut, and I chalked it up to lack of sun. We had no idea that a serious medical problem was brewing.

During the next ten days Skip felt tired, then lightheaded and dizzy. We called his internist in Connecticut. “Better get him evaluated,” the doctor advised. Though we didn’t know what was wrong, we suspected the problem might be more than the small hospital in San Pancho could handle. AmeriMed in Puerto Vallarta advertises that they provide “full medical services based upon U.S. standards of health care” and that their staff is bilingual, so off we went.

Lab work revealed that Skip’s blood count was dangerously low. He needed a transfusion immediately. The doctor ordered two units of blood and called in AmeriMed’s gastro-intestinal specialist to do an endoscopy, on the hunch that intestinal bleeding might be causing the blood loss. He discovered stomach ulcers we hadn’t known about and showed me the images on his monitor. He even gave us a DVD of the procedure.

Medicare doesn’t cover anything outside of the U.S., the out-of-pocket costs were mounting, and we wanted Skip to be treated by doctors who already knew him. So we decided to return to Connecticut. After lots of blood work, more transfusions, another endoscopy and other tests, the Connecticut specialist had no conclusive explanation. “I question whether those small ulcers could have caused so much bleeding,” he said. Nevertheless, after a month Skip was fine: no symptoms; blood count normal; no more pallor. The doctor cleared him to return to Mexico, and we booked the first available flight.

Health problems will inevitably arise for expats in Mexico, especially those of us who are of Medicare age. Sometimes the solution is clear. For minor problems we can go to the hospital in San Pancho or to one of the English-speaking doctors in the area. The time I nicked myself with garden shears I got a free tetanus booster in five minutes at our village hospital. If one of us had to be hospitalized for an emergency, we would use our MedJetAssist plan to cover air medical transport to a U.S. hospital.

However, there is a confusing middle ground, as in our situation. The problem isn’t minor, and yet it doesn’t require hospitalization. We have asked ourselves many times, "Did we do the right thing?" We wish we had noticed Skip’s symptoms sooner, but sometimes they take awhile to crystallize. Language becomes a factor. The doctors at AmeriMed spoke English, but the nurses and technicians typically didn’t. We muddled through, because a lot of medical words in Spanish are the same as their English versions, but pronounced in Spanish.

In the U.S. we are accustomed to a large university teaching hospital minutes from our home. In the midst of the crisis we were comparing AmeriMed to Yale New Haven Hospital—not a fair comparison. AmeriMed wasn’t world-class, but the staff was resourceful and they got the job done. The transfusion pump, for example, didn’t work and neither did the replacement. After a lot of tinkering, the nurse improvised a solution: He tied a blood pressure cuff around the bag of blood to prime the pump, blood began to flow, and the transfusion proceeded. When Skip had another transfusion in the U.S., the pump was the same type as AmeriMed’s, but in that high-tech, expensive hospital I noticed with some relief that a sign was attached: STOP! If pump fails for any reason: REMOVE from patient immediately; TAG unit as “out of order”; CALL Clinical Engineering Department.

Since this episode occurred, I examine Skip for signs of pallor, and I ask intrusive questions about bodily functions. But, except for noticing symptoms sooner, we would not have done anything differently.

Aldo's Ambition

I see one of my former students driving a taxi around town, and it makes me sad. I’ll call him Aldo, not his real name. Such a bright kid; what a waste, I think but would never say. I know there’s nothing wrong with being a taxi driver. And staying close to home is O.K., too. I admire the extended families I see in town, maybe even envy their togetherness: three generations living under the same roof; gathering to chat, day after day, as they sit in front of their houses on white plastic chairs.

I also laugh at the old joke about ambition that features a Mexican fisherman. You know the one---about the Harvard MBA who chides the young Mexican for being content with his simple life by the sea, a life of fishing, making love to his wife, and taking his kids to the beach.

“You should buy more boats,” the MBA says, “increase your catch, expand your market. You could make a lot more money, then retire early to enjoy the good life--- fishing, making love to your wife, taking your kids to the beach.”

Still, I thought Aldo's future held more promise. Tall, handsome, quick, book-smart, hardworking, popular, he was a sponge when it came to languages and the best English speaker among the beginners at our high school. He said he wanted to study engineering at the state university in Tepic. He had a steady job in an upscale restaurant to help pay for higher education and a family willing to support him as well. I don’t know what derailed him; other than waving to each other from car windows on occasion, we lost touch after graduation.

Lack of motivation might be the culprit. For all the four-year colleges and universities in our area, the number of professional job opportunities is abysmal. The Bay of Banderas lives and dies on tourism. No major companies are based in Vallarta. Even large hotels and development firms that operate here are branches of larger corporations and, as such, hire advance-degreed locals as peons. Talk to some of the time-share hawkers and you’ll see how many are university graduates.

To get ahead here means to relocate, assuming you are one of the lucky, light-skinned, multilingual employees offered that chance. Your other option is to build your own business from the bottom up. So maybe being a taxi driver makes good sense to Aldo, even as it disappoints his old teacher who saw his potential for more.

Lime Drinks

If the color green had a flavor, it would be that of cut Mexican limes. Their mouth-puckering tartness evokes Mexico for me like no other taste. I love their scent, too: fresh, tangy, clean.



Lime juice is used in every meal in Mexico : as a salad dressing, in salsas, as a marinade, or in drinks. Limones are readily available all year long, and they are inexpensive. At the supermarket nearest San Pancho, I pay the equivalent of 50 cents for a pound of limes. Compare that to 50 cents for a single lime at my grocery in the U.S.

Drinks based on lime juice, with or without alcohol, perk up a meal and add a Mexican flair. The limes that work best for drinks are sin semilla (without seeds). Select slightly soft limes with a hint of yellow in the skin. Store them on the countertop because they will last longer than in the refrigerator, and they will look pretty, too. Lime juice can be kept for two days in a glass container in the refrigerator. To extract the juice I use my citrus squeezer that is imprinted with Hecho en Mexico (Made in Mexico ). I think it makes the juice taste even better.

Here are three time-tested lime drink recipes: Nancy Brown’s Limonada; Ellen Greene’s Margaritas; and Channing Enders’s San Carlos Slush.


Limonada (one drink)
2 ounces fresh lime juice
2 ounces sugar syrup
Sugar syrup (jarabe natural) can be purchased at Mexican grocery/liquor stores, or you can make it by combining two parts sugar and one part water and boiling for five minutes. Cool and store in a glass jar in the refrigerator.
Seltzer water

Fill a sixteen ounce glass with ice cubes, add lime juice and sugar syrup, fill the glass with seltzer water and stir. Proportions of sugar syrup and lime juice can be adjusted to taste.



Margarita (six good-sized drinks)
one part fresh lime juice(1 cup)
one part Controy (1 cup)
one-half part fresh orange juice (1/2 cup)
one-half part confectioner's sugar (1/2 cup)
two parts Tequila (2 cups)

Stir and serve on the rocks.



San Carlos Slush
Note from Channing: This drink was invented/concocted by a beloved retired pastor who lived in San Carlos, Sonora for many years. He died last year but his recipe lives on, at least in my kitchen.

1 cup Tequila
1/3 cup Controy
1/3 cup fresh lime juice
6 tablespoons lime (or other flavor) Tang
2 1/2 cups water

Blend and freeze. Scoop out amount you like, re-blend, and serve.

Can You Hear Me Now?

Gail:

4:30 AM. We are jolted from sleep by the ringing phone. It’s the cordless handset that alerts us to an incoming SKYPE internet call. Instantly awake, we rush to the computer. The number on the screen calms fears, brings annoyance. It’s not family, it’s a long-time customer with equipment problems calling Bill.

When we first came to San Pancho nearly ten years ago, there were only a handful of public telephones scattered around the pueblo. Armed with a stack of phone cards, I would walk from one to the other to find the shortest line. It took two phone cards and a long series of numbers to execute one call. Under pressure, I would inevitably misdial and have to start again. The polite coughs and shuffling feet behind me felt like signs of impatience and that did not make it easier.

Carolyn:

You had it easy, Gail. When we got her fifteen years ago there were two phones and a fax machine in a little hole-in-the-wall a block from the beach. One of the old families was running the business, and it was a life saver. There was a chalk board mounted on the outside wall where your name appeared when you had a fax. If you were awaiting important news you’d be down there every few minutes until your fax arrived.

My husband was trying to have it both ways, keep a software writing job and come to Mexico too. He would take his laptop to the little office and plug it into a phone to download his email. One day, the download went on until his bill was up to 200 pesos (when 200 pesos was real money) and he had to quit. The next, he drove into Vallarta in search of a faster download--no, internet cafes used phone lines there, too, and though they didn’t charge 10 pesos a minute as in San Pancho, the email was still taking too long to come through.

Gail:

Then you understand how excited we were in 2004 when we our house was completed and we could apply for a private line.
“We’re very sorry. No more phone lines are available in San Pancho,” Telmex said. They would put us on the wait list. But the number of people wanting phones had exploded and we ended up waiting two years. The good news was that, by then, we could get broadband, too.

Carolyn:

That was rough. We got our phone when the first twenty private lines were offered, but we were on dial up for a long time.

Gail:

Then SKYPE! We loved it! Then a cell phone tower! Ten year olds in the pueblo had cell phones. Soon we did, too.

Emails—we get lots of them. Many promise eternal happiness if we forward same to 50 of our closest friends and every on-line purchase results in special offers. But my sister gets in touch every morning and we can stay close to family and friends. We pay our bills and read the newspapers on-line, too.

SKYPE calls—we get a lot of them too. Bill’s customers want him to fix their problems. Our sons call with questions about air conditioners and water filtration systems, or when the keys are locked inside the car in a snowstorm. But they also call to check in, to share good news, and to ask Bill for his coconut shrimp recipe.

By the way, Carolyn, did you ever find out what was in that email?

Carolyn:

It turned out to be a video clip of a rhinoceros trying to copulate with a very attractive Volvo.