Rancho, Rio, and Revolución: A Velorio in Sonora

So on the way to Cynthia's Nana's (Grandmother's) velorio (viewing) we had to stop to get gas at a little Pemex station outside of Altar, Sonora. Cynthia's Tia Alicia was sure to take us to one of the gas stations who don't cheat you on the amount of liters they pump. I guess there are ways to manipulate the gears of the scrolling mechanical numbers. We were waiting for the gas attendant for a while. Pumping your own gas is not allowed in Mexico. My suegra (Mother-in-law) was getting upset that he was attending to four nice trucks that rolled up after us. So I stepped out to get his attention but quickly realized that all the young guys in the trucks were packing heavy heat on their hips and a couple had AK-47s. Obviously, they get the preferential treatment. I made a business decision to just smile and wave. When the attendant came over he explained that Los Sicarios run the town. "Pero no se meten con gente común". The conversation then turned to the fulfillment of Bible prophecies, while he pumped the gas. He seemed like a very nice guy who doesn't see a lot of white guys getting gas at his station. He offered to accompany me over to the cash register which is located on the other side of the parking lot. I did not reject that offer. We decided it was best to not loiter in Altar any further.

Nana lived to be 93 years old and is now laying peacefully in her casket which is displayed in the living room. Seems to be an inappropriate term at the moment, "living room". Beautiful flowers adorn her every side. The top half of her casket is open with clear plexiglass covering her face and upper torso. I guess to prevent anyone touching her, or possibly because it's over 100 degrees outside and she passed away a few days ago. Almost everyone that passes by the casket mentions the same thing. She looks good, but different. Nana's generation was not accustomed to wearing makeup.

Family comes in from near and far. Neighbors from the surrounding ejidos pop in at any hour, day or night. It's definitely expected to feed them. A huge pot of menudo is simmering on a wood stove. If it wasn't for the tennis shoes of the person feeding wood into the fire, you would think we are about to feed an army of rebels in the Revolución Mexicana. Every time anyone asks if the menudo is ready a different answer is offered. "We are waiting for more people to arrive", "It's not tender enough yet", "it might be better to save it for tomorrow". The menudo is served at 12am, right when Cynthia's brother, Juan Carlos, arrives from Mexicali. Coincidence? I think not. But that's ok, my stomach is long past the mood to consume cow's stomach at midnight. I'll wait till tomorrow.

I ask Cynthia where all these people are going to sleep tonight. She says that some sleep inside the Rancho house and some will go back to their own ranch because they live close. The rest of us will sleep in the cars. I figured we could find a hotel somewhere close by. Turns out the nearest hotel is in Santa Ana, about 30 minutes east. But it's not safe to make that drive at night through Narco-Landia. It's hard to argue with a woman who has been sleeping the past 4 nights in a zero gravity chair at her Aunt's house an hour away from the Rancho. So I don't even try. She has rightly elevated the importance of being close to family over any creature comforts. So we cram all of our belongings into the front and fold down the seats of the Subaru and settle in for the night.

Nobody remembers who built the Rancho house, only that it originally served as a grain storage (granero). Might've been built by Nana's husband's father. Cynthia's grandfather was supposedly born in this house. Think literal, not figurative. I start looking for a hand scribbled date in the corner of the concrete floor, hoping to see a handprint. No such luck. Family is strongly appreciated but the details are forgotten with time. Memories are recounted verbally but rarely written down. Nana's generation is the last ones to enjoy living this Rancho lifestyle. None of her 8 living children, 19 nietos (grandkids) and 24 bisnietos (great grandchildren) wants to even think about living in, let alone maintaining, this possibly 200 year old relic.

The house is obviously built in different etapas (stages). Several of the original doorways are set very low. So low that I have to agachar (duck my head) to pass. Makes me feel like some kind of albino giant. The adobe walls are extremely thick and serve as excellent insulation. No pink panther fiberglass necessary. I ask about the unusual looking branches on the ceiling running perpendicular to the rafters. "They are not branches." It's explained to me that when a saguaro cactus dies and dries out, the skeletal remains can be cut vertically to maintain its strength. If you've never seen a saguaro filled desert, imagine thousands of huge Gumby statues with their arms raised as if they are trying to get your attention by waving at you. But I digress. "So, the only thing holding this roof up is a dead cactus skeleton?" I ask. "Sí." Who would've thought that was possible? But I decide not to argue with the test of time. I will lose. Then I start to think, if a saguaro can live 150-200 years is it possible I'm looking at a specimen that started to sprout 400 years ago in this Sonoran desert? If this particular saguaro had eyes, would it have seen the first Spaniards to arrive in Sonora between 1600-1650 c.e.? They are the ones who named the local indigenous people "Yaquis". Just imagine what this saguaro might've seen, if it had eyes. For point of reference, the Mayflower set sail from Southampton, England in 1620 c.e. with 102 pilgrims aboard.

Fallen work horse turns yard art to possible treasure. A 1941 Chevrolet 3/4 ton sits dilapidated on the side of the ranch house. They call it "el charangón". I ask Tio Raúl to please take a picture of Cynthia and I next to the running board. He seems completely unfamiliar with how to snap a picture on an iPhone. He's looking for a physical button. I let him know that I would like to pass his complaint on to Steve Jobs, but he already passed away. That went right over his head. Blank stare. Tough crowd. Nervous laugh.

The next morning I wake to the sound of a rusty hood squeaking open. Tio Raúl is taking a peek to see what it would take to get the old beast running again. LOTS! So many scavenged parts over the decades and nobody left a parts list. I try to explain the beauty of the patina and the advantages of leaving it the way it is, sunken into the earth. But he doesn't seem to share the same view point and lets me know that if the right gringo comes along, it would be for sale. Then a smile and a wink and another nervous laugh from me. He might not know how to work an iPhone, but he probably could get that old work horse back on the road if he had the resources and inclination.

Land of contrasts. Here they call the flacos, "gordo" and the gordos, "flaco". It will never make sense to me. One of Cynthia's cousins with whom we spent the most time is called "Gordo" and he is anything but overweight. His real name is Raúl but if you are referring to Raúl in a story you can't say Raúl because you will immediately be interrupted with the question, "which Raúl?" His father's name is Raúl, as was his grandfather. I'll give you one guess what he named his son when he was born. Yep, Raúl. So we stick to calling him Gordo so nobody gets confused.

"¿Tecate rojo o azul?" Gordo queries. He's trying to determine if I prefer the Tecate original beer (red cans) or their lighter offering (blue cans). This ain't my first rodeo. It's an age old question and not the first time I've been asked. But from the best I can tell, Tecate light takes away a FEW of the calories and absolutely ALL of the flavor. "Tecate rojo" I respond while fishing 200 pesos out from my pocket. Before he disappears to the nearest OXXO (convenience store) he smiles and seems pleased to be drinking Tecate's original recipe tonight. After the Tecate ran out Gordo found two bottles of Michelob Ultra in another cooler and shows me how to open them with my forearm. In case you've never tried, first thing you're gonna want to do is confirm that the cap is a twist off. Otherwise, make sure a medical team is standing by. Next, dry the cap. Moisture will only hinder your grip. Friction is your friend. Another hindrance is hairy forearms, so either shave your entire forearm before arriving or pay one of those DNA laboratories to genetically remove excess body hair from your future bloodline. That way, at least your progeny will experience the joy of opening beer with hairless forearms. Next, force the top of the cap into the meatiest part of your forearm hard, and twist. Remember, lefty loosey, righty tighty. But technically, the goal is to twist the bottle, with the cap remaining stuck in the forearm meat. So then, righty tighty the bottle and just have faith it's all gonna work out. Exhale when you hear this sound, "pssst". Be sure to smile and take a bow when the applause and inevitable laughter ensues. Take a hearty first sip. This is about the time when you remember that twist off beers are inherently inferior to beer bottles that require an opener. But, hardly seems like the appropriate time to bring it up. I literally just bowed.

Faded photos of my wife are proudly displayed in several rooms. Classic story of hometown girl makes good across the border. Although Cynthia wasn't born in Sonora, her mom was, and that's close enough. Gordo mentions that he wants to sneak across the border to find work. He's a hard working mechanic in the town of Caborca. I explain that the "American Dream" is not all it's cracked up to be. He is not dissuaded in the least. It makes me sad to think of him living and working so far away from his beautiful wife and 3 year old son.

I did not come prepared for this heat. The only thing I was sure of was the need to cover my bald head in the hot desert sun. I found an old fishing hat at the bottom of my duffel bag (think Gilligan's Island). Cynthia immediately laughed at me and says I couldn't look more out of place if I tried. Half of the other men here are wearing tejanas (cowboy hats). I proceed to show her uncles that if I bend up the sides of my hat instead of the front it's very similar to what they are wearing. Again, they are not convinced, but as long as everyone keeps smiling we are good. Tio Javier is untangling and wrapping up a nylon cord. I'm hoping he's not considering to make a noose to string me up. I nervously ask him: "¿Qué es tu nudo favorito?" Lots more laughing. I guess it sounds strange in Spanish to discuss one's favorite knots. Come to think of it, sounds strange in English too. But that was enough to start a heated debate among the men folk. My favorite part comes when they start to correct each other's technique. One knot looked like a bowline and the other like a figure eight.

I can't tell you how glad I am that I was not the one holding the shovel when the main water line feeding the house was broken. We had taken turns digging with the only ancient shovel available. The dirt was extremely hard and dry. But we needed to set poles in the ground to support some tarps for overhead shade. The younger cousin who struck the final blow handed the shovel over and slowly disappeared into the shade of a Eucalyptus tree. I felt bad for him, but it really wasn't his fault. He was told to dig there. I did notice him taking a low profile for the rest of the day. In short time Tio Raúl produced a long strip of thin flexible rubber and proceeded to wrap it around the broken pipe about 30 times. I got the impression that it was good enough. The pole was set and the hole was filled. In Mexico, they call that kind of repair a "chicanada". I think every culture in the world has a word or two to describe a job done, but not done well...

As we were compacting the dirt back down with our feet I noticed Tio Javier doing it with great flare. I asked if he had ever learned the Jarabe Tapatío dance (aka Mexican hat dance). Everyone laughed as we both did our best interpretation. I commented on how nice his cowboy boots were and asked what type of leather skin was the very unusual black and white pattern. He said they were viper boots. But he was quick to point out that they were imitation, and not the real thing. He didn't want me to get the impression that he was the type of guy who could afford boots that cost around 30,000 pesos.

When the digging finished, the drinking began. I was promptly offered a Bud Light. Cancel culture is not really a thing down here, but cheap beer definitely is. I looked at my watch. It was 9:45am. I politely decline saying, "nunca antes del café". It's kinda funny to see how strong brand loyalty is down here. Coca-Cola Classic clearly dominates the minds and hearts of the masses. A two or even three liter bottle was never missing from the table. Someone brought a small half liter of Pepsi and when it was offered I saw several people stick out their tongue with disgust. They would never think of cheating on Coca-Cola by allowing the imitation Pepsi to cross their lips.

A jar of Hellmann's Classic Mayonnaise sits ominously on the kitchen table in full view of the casket. Three large black octagonal warning labels appear foreboding in all capital letters. In English they translate to EXCESS CALORIES, EXCESS SATURATED FATS, EXCESS SODIUM. The Secretary of Health in Mexico now requires these labels on all products sold in the Federation, imported or domestic. There is also warnings for excess sugar and trans fats. Sorry, I meant to say, EXCESS SUGAR and TRANS FATS. All this is being done in an attempt to curb a recent spike of diabetes and heart disease in Mexico. I'll admit, fear is not always the best motivator, but in this particular scenario I'm really starting to think about how better to care for my health and avoid an early casket fitting.

Several of Cynthia's younger cousins make a pact to run out and grab some food to avoid eating any more menudo. I've never been a big fan of menudo myself. But more than anything else, my sense of curiosity motivates me to ask if I could join them on their adventure into Santa Ana. Turns out that the car is already full. Bummer. As they start to drive away I see the brake lights flicker and the reverse lights come on. Oliver is only 11 years old. He will sit on his mom's lap and I'm offered shotgun. Nobody actually hands me a shotgun. It's just an expression, I hope. As I step one foot in the car I realize that I should probably go kiss my wife goodbye. Everyone in the car starts to jeer loudly that it could be our last kiss, so make it a good one. As we drive away I yell, "if we are not back in two hours, call the Embassy..."

Santa Ana is a small town but the main boulevard has plenty of food options. We are on the hunt for pollos asados. Whole chickens that are butterflied open to rest flat on the charcoal grill (aka spatchcock). Great for feeding large groups. After we procure the chicken from a local street vendor we go looking for pizza to feed all the kids waiting back at the Rancho. There in the distance stands a tall familiar sign, Little Caesars. In low pitched voices we all attempt to imitate their famous motto slogan, "Pizza! Pizza!". You might find it hard to believe, but this Little Caesars is a full on restaurant with a large seating area. It might be one of the biggest and cleanest restaurants in Santa Ana. But the pizzas are apparently not "hot-n-ready" as their USA slogan suggests. So we head next door to a coffee shop while we wait. I'm delighted to grab a quick cappuccino. I've been surviving on Nescafé instant mix coffee at the Rancho.

When we arrive back to the Rancho I'm surprised to hear that we missed all the action. A drug-addled youth came staggering into the Rancho, confused and crying. Turns out that he is one of many young guys who work for the local narcos to sit on the high hills with binoculars and a two way radio. They keep an eye on everyone who moves in or out of the area. But, as the expression goes, "never get high off your own supply." He saw the family gathered at the Rancho and in his drug induced stupor, he thought it might be his family. Pobrecito. Before he headed back to where he came from, he was given some water. Earlier that day six fully loaded military trucks rolled through the area at a high rate of speed. Makes you wonder, who's controlling what?

The bathroom experience was "interesting." Someone mentioned that the only toilet on the ranch was not working. Cynthia immediately volunteered my services for toilet repairs as if I had some degree in hydro engineering. Someone had already purchased one of the cheapest looking toilet flappers I've ever seen and was hoping that would be enough. It definitely wasn't but we found a drawer with a few spare parts. We were able to piece together a repair. Definitely a "chicanada." Nothing is thrown away on the Rancho. Except for the food trash and toilet paper, which is burnt in a giant pit about 50 paces past the old "charangón." As a side note, I was very happy to see that the old sarape curtain that originally covered the bathroom entryway was replaced with a door that could lock. I had a bad experience with that sarape over 16 years ago when Cynthia invited me here to a family wedding when we first started dating.

I guess I earned myself a shave and a shower with that chicanada. To shave I was offered a vintage tin painted wash basin. No sink in the bathroom, only in the kitchen. The shower was a 32 gallon plastic trash can filled with water. An old sauce pan was offered to help scoop the water for pouring over oneself. The water was freezing but oddly refreshing. I tried to scrub thoroughly, as I wasn't sure when I would have another chance at a shower. As I dried off I noticed that the only dress shirt I brought for the funeral had its sleeve resting gently on top of a toilet brush that someone had left sitting on the countertop. In the words of Homer Simpson, "D'oh!"

When I finally came out I was half way expecting a crowd to be there applauding or possibly patiently waiting to hear my complaints, but everyone was outside eating. So I put on my sunglasses, walked out with my head held high and said "Tom Cruise ya salió del baño." It got a few laughs, followed by some snickering. But as long as everybody keeps smiling and nobody is seen practicing noose knots, then I feel ok. Now if you'll excuse me, I just finished my coffee...

In memory of María de la Riva de la Riva, aka "Nana."