You Buy My Junk, I’ll Buy Yours…

heading to the swap meet (and recycling centre...)

“What is that?” I asked Evan who was holding something metal with wires coming out of it.

“A boat part,” he said

“For what?”

“Something we don’t have anymore…” he mumbled, as he headed out of sight.

I wanted to ask why we had a boat part we don’t need, for something we don’t have, on our very weight sensitive catamaran. I wanted to point out that I had sacrificed some of my cutest shoes in the name of saving weight. I wanted a chance to complain. So I followed him. And found him with a stockpile of stuff sporting wires and metal. Some of it still in packages, new packages.

And all of it was stuff we have no need for. But that Evan would like to be compensated for, or at least assured that the crap we’ve carried for 2000 miles doesn’t end up in the basura…

To a non-boater, a cruiser’s swap-meet looks more like a bizarre junk bazaar than anything. Every boat has a supply of random stuff that is potentially too useful or valuable to toss, but that still takes up precious real estate in our ever-shrinking living space. It might be spare parts for an auto-pilot that went kaput, or a worn, but still functional, outboard that was replaced with a shiny new one, or charts and guide books for the place you’ve already been.

The solution is a swap meet. But unlike a swap meet that occurs in harbours further north, cruiser swap meets often have more sellers than buyers. The good news is this means that if you do find just the right part you can get a screaming deal. The bad new is that most people want your metal bits with wire coming out of it even less than you do.

What typically happens at a swap meet is you go home with pretty much the same amount of stuff you left with. Anything you get rid of ends up being replaced by something you find. It’s kind of like taking the contents of your garage and dumping it in your neighbour’s yard, while your other neighbour offloads his stuff into your yard… And if that’s not bad enough you need to keep an eye on your kids. When you’re not looking, people give them stuff…

So the moral is I should have just kept my cute shoes and sworn off swap meets.

Posadas, pinatas and us

cruising kids ready for the show

When I told Evan and Maia there was a fiesta on shore last night—they didn't seem nearly as excited as I would have expected. In truth, we've seen (and heard) a lot of very enthusiastic (but maybe not so talented) performers in the past year. And we're pretty much Folkloric Ballet-ed out...

But, I told them, this one was different: It was the Posada—which actually means quite a few things in Mexico.

The Posada in its purest sense is the re-enactment of Joseph and Mary's search for room at an inn. For the nine days before Christmas, friends and neighbours set out and go door to door with candles, only to get turned away at each stop, until they reach the home where that night's party is being held. Once they get to that place (usually the third stop) everyone is invited in and the kids get to whack a pinata.

the posada

Posada is also the generic name for any kind of Christmas party--from the one at the office, to a lunch with friends. And it is also the name for bigger celebrations: like the one we attended, where hundreds of locals come out to see a procession of Joseph and Mary, then sing carols, eat food and dance...

So, I explained, this wasn't just going to be the standard fiesta we've become used to and maybe even a bit jaded about. This was going to be good.

The other element that had me excited was that the performing troop was from Ballet Folklórico de México the group where baile folkloric, itself, originated. In the 1950's a researcher, Alura Angeles de Flores and choreographer, Amalia Hernández Navarro collected information on all the regional and indigenous dances (many which were dying out) and together they created a new form of dance which combined the style and costume of the regional dances, with the discipline and techniques of ballet.

The dance troops go through up to a dozen costume changes and often perform with a live mariachi band—which plays without music behind the dancers. When done well, folkloric is breathtaking. And as last night's performance began—with an achingly beautiful song and a lush posada procession, we knew we were seeing the good kind.

By the end of the night we were all giddy—and grateful and one fiesta closer to Christmas.

A Cat Story

Travis in his prime

I noticed him first—a big orange cat, standing in the water, clearly hunting for fish. But it wasn't just his unique behaviour that caught my attention--almost fifteen years ago we adopted a tiny orange kitten from this very stretch of beach. An orange kitten that grew into a 30 lb cat and who sailed some 8,000 miles with us—having adventures, terrorizing our friends and fishing straight from the ocean, just like this cat.

I watched that orange cat for a while, then pointed him out to Maia, who was busy playing with friends. “He looks like Travis,” Maia told me. So I told her that Travis had been born just a few steps from this beach and that maybe we were looking at his great grand-nephew...

Maia then asked exactly where we had found Travis-- an animal who has grown to mythical proportions in her life, and who died over two years ago. So I walked her over to the little corner store across from the beach. When we went in, I explained to the man at the counter how fifteen years ago we had adopted a tiny orange kitten from the store's inner courtyard.

Life is filled with charming coincidences, and the story that came next may only seem special if you've loved and lost a pet. But the man told us he has had big orange toms from the same family for 30-years. And that the first tom was a huge wild one that he found on an isolated beach. He told us that he keeps the orange males, and gets new females from friends, and that every year, and in almost every litter there is one orange cat, and it's always huge, and it always knows how to fish.

The orange cat on the beach was his. And it was the great-grand nephew of our cat--because he remembered his wife had gave one of his cats away to sailors. The man was thrilled to hear how far Travis had traveled (much further than him), and how long he had lived, and he offered us the next orange kitten that came along—even though he doesn't normally give them away.

We don't need a kitten—and thankfully he didn't have one to give. But that urge—to laugh at the insane antics of a half-wild cat that doesn't know fear—came back with a pang. And as much as I think cats need to be spayed and neutered, I envied the man for knowing so many Travis's through the years...

Sort of Like Summer Camp

Evan and Maia on their way home after activities on shore

We rolled out of bed at ten to eight. By eight, I had a steaming cup of coffee in front of me and the VHF was on channel 22. After net control checked for emergency traffic, went over who had arrived in port (and who was leaving), asked who caught fish, and announced who had mail came the part I’m kind of enjoying—a listing of the day’s events.

There is something about La Paz that reminds me of summer camp—it might be the old-timers who are here year, after year and who make sure none of us newbees ever break the rules. Seriously. Want a smack down? Just try tying up your dinghy wrong, or using an incorrect channel on the VHF…But mostly I think it’s all the organized activities.

I’ve never been anywhere with such an organized agenda: today we had a choice of yoga at 8:30, coffee at 9:30, and organic market at 10:30 and a Spanish lecture at 1pm. Tomorrow is the same, with a few variations here and there.

The thing is—I was never that keen on summer camp. I hated rules. And I still like the adventure of finding my own activities. But when someone has gone to the work of planning a posada, organizing a race or running a yoga class—it’s kind of fun to be a joiner. For a while.

But I’m sure it won’t be too long before we tire of summer camp and are ready to jump back into unscripted cruising life. Not yet though…

The Virgin of Guadalupe

 It’s fiesta time. I know, it’s always fiesta time, and every fiesta is the fiesta. But December 12, the Feast of Guadalupe, really is special to Mexicans.

If you were here, strolling through street markets or passing peoples homes you’d see mountains of goods all featuring the image of the Virgin of Guadalupe.With her blue green-robe and serene face her image is ubiquitous in Mexico.

Her story is mythical. On December 9, 1531 a peasant called Juan Diego was walking home across a hill in Tepeyac, near Mexico City, when he encountered a vision of a young woman. Speaking in the local dialect she asked that a church be built on the site. So Diego took her message to the bishop who asked for proof of the vision. Three days later, the peasant provided the proof when the image of the Virgin Mary appeared miraculously on his cloak.

The La Paz church has long been under construction--but that didn't stop the crowds

 So they built the church and a whole bunch of miracles happened. But charming story aside, many will argue that more than any other uniting factor, the idea of Guadalupe is what gives Mexicans their national identity. Language certainly didn’t unite the place, as some 117 of them were spoken in 1531. Ethnic background didn’t provide any kind of glue, not when the people evolved from raping Spanish fathers, enslaved Indigenous mothers, and a bunch of random Austrians, French, Germans, Irish, Black, and Chinese. Not even religion, geography or shared histories were enough to bond the people—there’s simply too much diversity.

But the Virgin of Guadalupe is said to be the common denominator. She combines early indigenous attributes and beliefs with the Catholic ones. The indigenous people who had been worn down by the Spaniards but not fully converted to Catholicism missed their own gods. And when the Virgin Mary of Guadalupe appeared, brown skinned, speaking a local language and cloaked in a hallo of light that could double as Maguey spines--they again had someone to worship—someone who was uniquely their own.

Her arrival is said to mark the birth of a new land and a new people: A country that is neither Spanish, nor indigenous, but both. Even her physical appearance reflects this new world, her face looks neither Spanish nor Indian, “Her lovely features are the pleasant mixture of both - she is a Mestizo, the first Mexican.” Writer Gloria Anzaldua writes, "She is like my race - a synthesis of the old world and the new, of the religion and culture of the two races in our psyche, the conquerors and the conquered."

even the bus gets into the spirit

rather than going from house to house admiring Christmas displays we checked out the neighbourhood virgins...

 And she’s another good reason to throw a party, play loud music, send off the odd firework... Her celebration is also the unooficial start to the Christmas season--from now through January 6th the country is pretty much on holiday.

La Paused

Call it harbour suck, or being stuck, or life. But we’re anchored in La Paz. Still.

 This isn’t all bad. In fact, it’s mostly good. There are a half-dozen kid boats here and Maia is enjoying a rich social life. And, for the first time, the girls are out numbering the boys. The kids have got a routine down. School or chores in the morning, then they meet at the playground at Club Cruceros in the afternoon. Throw in a sleepover, a beach clean-up day and a few other activities--and from the perspective of the under ten set, life is grand.

While the kids are doing kid stuff, the adults are doing all the things you’d expect them to do in-the-last-chance-for-civilization before four months of islands, beaches and more islands. Basically, we’re fixing stuff. And in Evan’s case it’s him we’re trying to mend.

He did one of those missteps that are awfully easy in the land with no smooth pavement and sprained his ankle. Which means he’s been the parent sitting in the shade, watching the kids play, while everyone else works. It’s an important role. But it means we still lack one water tank, haven’t quite got a functioning scuba compressor and have a few other items that need to be checked off before we head out.

 On the good side of the scale it’s giving me a chance to knock off a few deadlines, so that when we do finally get back out there I can savour the life of an unemployed bum with way too much time on my hands, I mean a cruiser, for at least a few days. Before the projects start again.

Unrequited Adventure

 If you read the guide books for this area the entries for aquatic adventures list snorkeling with whale sharks and sea lions as the big ticket items, every time. The guide books tell of whale shark encounters just outside of La Paz—here swimmers can dive with these gentle giants, marveling at their very existence. And a little further north you can snorkel at a sea lion rookery—where the young are as eager to frolic with you as puppies...

We planned to do both this week.

The thing about natural encounters is there are no pools or fences keeping the animals in a convenient location. And after four months of hanging out in roughly the same spot, the whale sharks chose the day before our planned visit to migrate. We may, if we're lucky, find them further north (they apparently hang out in a bay we'll frequent later in the summer). But we may not...

At least, I thought, we still had the sea lions to visit. But the problem with seeing animals in the wild is well, it can get too wild sometimes. And the rookery had strong winds and four foot waves running steeply around it, both days we planned to go—making it impossible. It reminded me, in a rather humbling way, that we are guests in their territory and they are not on display.

 With the two biggies crossed off our list, and I realized there would be no 'chance of a lifetime' experiences to photograph and brag about, it was time to get back to living in the moment. It's easy in this lifestyle to get addicted to the big experiences, sometimes at the expense of the smaller ones. I get this urge to do everything, to fill every moment with extreme wonder. But I've found when I do that I sometimes miss those other moments of magic—the quiet ones.

So when I realized my Bucket List wasn't going to get anything crossed off, I decided to slow down and savour. It may not sound blog-worthy but: We danced on deck under the moonlight, in a Coromuel wind and the boat danced too; I watched Maia master freediving less than a week after she learned to snorkel; we saw turtles, and whales, and sea lions, and dolphins as we sailed past red hued cliffs; I walked alone through the desert counting lizards as I went and found a cave where I startled some bats; we pumped up the water totter (a gift?! From Totem) and giggled ourselves silly as Maia and Allison played; we met a fisherman who we traded with for fish, which we ate with old-new friends in a in an old-new place.