June 29, 2008 San Miguel, Morgan, Patty, Jim, Kevin, and Barbara.

 

Yesterday, the five of us and Troubles (Jim’s perrito), in Jim’s car, drove to Pozos, home of the defunct and historic oro y plato minas, gold and silver mines.

 

On the way, we stop at ruinas of haciendas, we figure, of the rich mine owners and managers. The ruins are surrounded by rusted barb wire fences, but we don’t think anyone will mind if we look around. There are a couple other folks in there checking it out. Kind of like Pompei but no lava-entombed people running under the archways. They must have leisurely moved house when the mines emptied of gold and silver. There was an open well, a brick pit, in which you could see a spot of water at the bottom. Dropping a rock, we counted 5 or 6 seconds before we could hear it hit bottom. Kevin couldn’t even look over the edge, it was so frightening. It freaked me out to see Troubles near it. So he got carried away by Jim. I impulsively must look over the edge, but am certain to have nightmares about, having done so. I can’t imagine how many rocks Morgan, Barbara and I threw down the well, counting seconds. How deep was the thing?

 

When we got to the casita, I e-mailed Mike (my brother) to find out how deep that would be. 460 to 576 feet, he responded. Kevin observed it would be less, for the time it took the sound to return to us. I e-mailed Mike to find out how much less. It would take the sound about ½ second to reach us. So, anyway, it was damn deep. Maybe 450 feet.

 

At the actual mines, we spoke to the toothless caretaker (el viejo), using our Spanish, as it is. He and I looked into a hole in the ground as he told me that it was 100 meters deep, and ran this way and that way (abajo) running under ground for kilometers. You think about those Indios who were down there chiseling at the walls. This mine was Paloma, this one was Esperanza, and this, Francisco. Of course there was a parrochia (church) among the ruins. The beautiful hacienda over yonder is now the power plant for lights. I walked down a long narrow free-standing corridor with Troubles. Regular slit windows let in just enough light for me to see my way, most of the time. (It was scary, but I was reminded of the Creamery—the deserted factory of my childhood where Karla and I played, and where Monica would bring her boyfriend so Karla and I could hide and scare the living daylights out of them). A low-ceiling tunnel fed into this corridor, and somehow it must have had to do with heating and smelting the precious metal, I think. I gave the man 20 pesos ($2) wondering if he’d be insulted, but he seemed pleased. I think this is how he makes his living. He said he lived up this way, in what, I didn’t see.

 

We had a lovely lunch in the courtyard of the B&B in town, amidst bougainvillea and roses. The town specializes in indigenous musical instruments, all made and sold by one extended family. I bought a beautiful painted-gourd maraca made by tres hermanas –three sisters (or one of them, I suppose) and Morgan bought a frog ocarina. Jim bought a wooden flute, which its maker played so beautifully, hauntingly. Barbara bought ocarinas too. Then on to Dolores Hildago (because we couldn’t find the route to San Miguel) where we stopped for its world famous ice cream and, yahoo, I had a mango ice and—damn my wheat restrictions—ate the hand-made sugar cone. We stopped into the parrochia where Saturday evening mass was being celebrated.

 

After making dinner of leftovers, and eating it on our patio, Kevin, Barbara, Morgan, and I went to hear an Andean band at Mama Mia, just beyond el jardin. All great musicians, but the best one played the bass line (and melody) on an Irish harp, as well as playing 12 string guitar, wooden flute, and spoons—las cucharas. Wow, it was so freaking sensual, and beautiful listening and watching him play those spoons. Morgan sent me up 😉 to ask where they’re from. Aqui in San Miguel. And the spoons—one is oval and the other round tablespoons. I’m determined to learn to play the spoons like that.

 

Salsa didn’t start until doce, midnight. Yikes. We drank the most magnificent mango margaritas in tub-sized cone-shaped glasses rimmed with chile powder. Sublime. Even Morgan danced. And it was fun. Kevin and Barbara dance so beautifully together and I had so much fun dancing with Kevin. Makes me feel confident that I could go out dancing salsa anywhere. If I can stay up past eleven at night. Which is early for salsa.

 

Then we’re slowly, drunkenly, walking home up the hill on the cobblestone Calle Correo, Morgan and I, the caboose, when I hear, down the hill, a woman yell, Stop it, stop it. I turn around and only a couple blocks from the still VERY active square, el jardin, I see two people struggling and I’m thinking it’s some kind of date rape scuffle. But he knocks her down and is on top of her, so I run down the street yelling, stop it, stop it. The guy runs away down a side street, two Mexican men come up the street and ask if she’s okay and then go away. I ask her, (obviously she’s gringa)  if she’s okay, what happened. The very young guy had her by the throat, she tried to give him her purse. All the time we’re talking, she’s looking for her keys in her purse, and M, B, and K are down with us now. The well-dressed blond woman lives just up the street, she just left her husband with a friend downtown and she’s going home to her rented casita, to her children (the oldest is 14 she assures me). Her sandal is broken. Kevin finds her keys in the street where she’d been assaulted as well as a bent earring. And now a cadre of police in cars, on cycles, on foot, rush up the hill and start asking questions in Spanish. She knows Spanish like Barbara and I know Spanish, but she’s absolutely freaked. So Barbara and I are  answering the policia’s questions. And the officer gives me his notebook to write down the woman’s name, age, and address. Mignon Jones, 45, who lives at #6 Murillo. What a name, huh? So we walk her home, a block away and she probably gets in and has a breakdown. San Miguel is normally SO safe and this really has freaked out the police who are now tearing off in all directions. So I’ll be walking WITH Morgan and or Jim at night.

 

We stumbled home and went to bed at 2:30 a.m. So unlike us.

 

So that was our exciting yesterday. Probably more than you wanted to actually hear, but I thought I’d record it for us, as well.