Recent Posts

There are new pix on Jemima's site, plus some new stuff below. Suzanne, Harriet, Tas And P are working on their next stuff. We are heading down from the Mountains back to the coast at Nexpa (good surf apparently.)

A brave rider hangs on for dear life to a careering bull at the Rebalsito Rodeo. More pix and story below. 

Lago Patzcuaro, the pre- Hispanic Ruins of Tzintzutzan 

The mountains of Michoacan, full of lovely surprises. From the unbelievable Monarch butterfly sanctuary at Ocampo, to the Volcanoes of Patacurin. Occasionally glassy still mountain lakes throw up stunning images in the clear,cold air. 

Suzanne on the beach, she hates this one but I think she looks lovely, so I'm posting it anyway!! 

100 uses for a pickup no.2 The Horse trailer 

100 uses for a pickup no.1 The surf Mission 

The Rebalsito Rodeo

The Rodeo

“Soy Libre!”, I'm Free! Announced the invitation-cum-programme for this surreal event. Below these words the face of a grey haired, jovial, Mestizo man looked at us from an out-of- focus photograph. Juan Carlos Jesus Renardo, a big man in the small town of Rebalsito, where we found ourselves soon after Christmas.

Juan Carlos, in addition to his fund raising, Ejido and community activities, was the president of the Rebalsito Rodeo committee. He had died in February 2005 and this was to be the first Christmas Rodeo for many decades without him.

Rebalsito was gearing up to out-do any party they had thrown for many a year. The Plaza del Toros to be re-dedicated in honour of the deceased. A new concrete tablet at the entrance, inscribed with his name and draped in silk, to be unveiled by his widow. The field and dirt lots surrounding the bull ring was cleared of litter; weeds and scrub burnt. For the few days before it was as if a bush fire had swept through. The town square and surrounding streets were festooned with gaudy bunting, fluttering in the sunlight all day, occasionally dragged in tatters along the streets by over-height vehicles.

The afternoon of the much anticipated fiesta finally came, Christmas had seemed almost like a distraction in this town, celebrated mutely in comparison. The generosity and overwhelming goodwill of these proud people had meant an open invitation to anyone staying in the area was issued. The population of the town and surrounding villages was swelled by Mexican tourists camping in the area; and a few Gringoes dotted around stood out in the crowd, but none was welcomed the less.

By the time we arrived in the town square, at about four in the afternoon, the party was in full swing. Nothing had been left unattended- vast stacks of beer were piled up in the corners of the covered marketplace. Ranks of long trestle tables, crowded from end to end with the chaos of a banquet in full swing: children on their parent's knees chewing at chicken bones. Extended family groups, the very old and the very young, cared for by the teenagers and parents. Men in T shirts bearing the photograph of Juan Carlos and the “Soy Libre” slogan, marched up and down the aisles, disributing with bottles of free beer, before scuttling back to the mountainous supplies for more.

In one corner a twenty-piece Mariachi band was thumping out the Rhumbas, Ballads and Fanfares of the classic Mexican mealtime accompaniment- at five times the size and volume normally seen in the restaurants, or on the Malecon. Dressed in their whites, with the smartest sombreros available; the vocalists sang their hearts out, playing battered, much loved instruments. These musicians were giving it their all despite the afternoon heat. Already a few teenagers were dancing in the aisles, swaying and stepping easily in the rhythm that seems to come so naturally. Why can't we dance like that?

Quite suddenly the crowd in the marketplace moved, although no announcement had been made. As a body they rose, conversations unbroken, the band still playing. A procession was next on the agenda and the band was to lead the way! Through the streets and out of town the crowd swayed and straggled, some dancing behind the band, some walking, some like us, on bikes, others noisily piling into pickup trucks, all heading for the bull ring.

As the procession arrived in the dirt lot outside the ring, the widow of the deceased, with a few close family and friends, gathered at the new tablet. The crowd settled around them and a series of speeches were made to respectful silence; broken, bizarrely, by fanfares from the band and rousing applause whenever the speakers introduced friends or spoke of Juan Carlos's achievements.

The speeches over and the memorial unveiled it was time for the serious business of the evening to begin. Here was the moment one felt the whole afternoon had been building towards. Preliminaries involving dancing horses and twirling of lassos were just a teaser, light entertainment offered to the crowd as they took their places on the concrete tiers encircling the arena. The band played raucously on, perched above the crowd. More mountains of free beer were plied by the attendants. As if on cue, the sun settled over the horizon, dusk quickly came and went. The floodlights came on, and the action began.

This was the point at which the rodeo became a cultural needle. Injected into the proceedings with a sharp rush of adrenaline. Those unaccustomed to the brutality, to the sudden change in tempo were shocked out of their celebratory haze. The first bull, it's young rider cinched mercilessly to it's broad back with a single rope, leaped from the crush into the arena. A few brief seconds of fierce bucking and twisting, of heroic efforts to remain mounted; before the vaquero was flung to the ground, one leg crushed instantly under a single hoof bearing the weight of perhaps a tonne of muscle and bone. Then sickeningly, a fleeting moment of contact between flailing hoof and head.

The cowboys and clowns rushed to distract the bull, the unconscious rider dragged unceremoniously from the ring, one attendant fanning wildly with his sombrero, another emptying cans of cold beer into his face in a vain attempt to wake him. The crowd swayed, the band played on.

It took a while for us to register what we had witnessed, but Suzanne was unable to watch more without at least finding out whether the poor fellow had recovered. We left the children with John and Sharon, our Alaskan friends, and went back to the dirt lot to see what was happening. I paused to look over the floodlit arena. The bull, still enraged, four lassos taught to the saddles of four cowboys, was as strong and fresh as ever. It took a full five minutes for the cowboys to edge him close enough to the gate and out of the arena to safety.

I joined Suzanne in the car park, where she had been watching efforts to revive the wounded rider. She was pretty concerned. I was still high on the euphoria of the crowd, the beer and all that had been going on around us. As we watched, the drama turned farcical for a moment as an open roofed, red sports car reversed wildly up to the spot where the patient was lying in the dust. As roughly as he had been dragged from the ring he was bundled into the back seat, folloewd by three attendants. The car sped off. The last we saw of them they were disappearing in a cloud of dust, four smart white sombreros visible above the sleek red sides of the car, two in the back, two in the front; and a sad, limp, booted leg sticking out of one side window.

It took a long time, and some help from Sharon, who appeared at our side, to persuade Suzanne that this had been an accident, not a foregone conclusion. I wanted to believe that the wonderful, cultural experience we were lucky enough to be witnessing was still just that: machismo was not the only point of the whole thing; surely the gladiatorial spectacle that had just led to a young life being so endangered deserved another look before final judgement could be made. Why injuries happen in all contact sports!

Suzanne was not so sure: for this young man it would have been a matter of absolute pride to have somehow struggled back into the ring, to take his bow in front of the crowd. If he was unable to do that then there was a serious problem- he might well have been killed or permanently brain-damaged. No ambulances in attendance, no safety systems to mitigate the inevitable risks posed by this “sport”. For her any disregard for human or animal welfare is questionable- in the same way as for other outdated and cruel sports: boxing, fox hunting. More importantly, the idea that she should be entertained at the expense of suffering for another human was almost more than she could bear.

I knew what she meant. For me however, that evening was not over, the story not told until every chapter had been read. I wanted to return to the heady fiesta we had been a part of until half an hour before. Reluctantly putting aside her qualms, Suzanne followed Sharon & I back to our places. As we climbed the bank of earth behind our section of the arena, other traumatised tourists were leaving, unable to cope with further shocks.

As it turned out the rest of the action proved relatively uneventful. Between each ride was a long pause while the next bull was maneuvered into the crush, it's rider cinched onto it's back. The beer flowed on, the music became more and more raucous. First couples, then whole families took to the cramped platform to dance in front of the band, high above the arena. We found ourselves swept up once more by the euphoria surrounding us. On the dance floor, blonde haired Jemima was embarrassed to find herself the subject of droopy-eyed attention from a handsome young Mexican lad.

It took a long time- two hours, for the following four bulls to be ridden, some more successfully than others. No more injuries, no more drama. We left before the very end- with one torch between us and a drunken crowd about to hit the roads we wanted clear of the area- and bicycled home to our campsite. The children far less perturbed than their parents by what they had witnessed earlier. “I felt more sorry for the Bulls than the people.” said Harriet.

Awaiting the first Ride 

the band plays on 

The sad tail of Fluffy the Poodle

Fluffy, hot under the collar














A new years tail, the grisly end of Fluffy the poodle.

News from home that Dad has been unwell and unable to come out to join us has been a great blow to the children who were all really looking forward to it. I know Mum would have had a good laugh over this story, so, this is for you, Dad. Get well soon!

We have been staying in a variety of Campsites since arriving in mainland Mexico. There are many that cater to the “snowbirds”, usually Canadian, but many norteamericanos, retired couples who escape the harsh winters of their homelands for the sunshine of these balmy latitudes.

Sadly these tend to be “gated communities” of expensive motor homes, about as far removed from the Mexico around them as it is possible to be, with neat concrete pads, potted plants, proper sewers and electrical hookups, providing space for these winter migrants to set up comfortable lives, living like kings and queens in their palaces, with buying power beyond the reach of those outside the gates.

We have generally shunned these sites as a matter of principle, opting for the beaches and sites catering to travelers or Mexican families, or when we find ourselves approaching dusk with no-where to stay, simply knocking on a door in a quiet neighborhood and asking if it's OK to park outside for the night.

Occasionally however we make a pit stop to charge the batteries, use the washing machines & showers at one of these smarter “RV parks”. Here we meet some of the “snowbirds” and hear their stories.

Suzanne bumped into Reg, a silver haired chap from Northern California, walking his neat little poodle, one sunny morning in December. For want of a better subject, and to avoid drawing attention to the revolting plastic bag Reg was sheepishly trying to conceal behind his back, she cooed some niceties about Georgie's fluffy coat.

Reg explained that Georgie had recently been taken to the dog grooming parlour, a practice now common in California, indeed we had seen quite a few of these places in the high streets and malls when we were there. Turns out Georgie was actually a replacement for Fluffy, a much loved, aged forebear. And so begins the sorry tale of Fluffy's demise.

Reg had taken Fluffy to the dog groomer back home in California, dropped her off at the appointed hour and gone off to do some errands. The three hour session was due to end at one, so Reg pulled up outside the Parlor at five-to, and was getting out of the car when the groomstress appeared at the parlour door, Red-eyed and distraught.

“Fluffy, Fluffy's dead” she blurted out, barely able to speak with the distress evident in her voice.

Reg was stunned: Fluffy, dead! How? He had only dropped her off a couple of hours ago to have her coat trimmed and her claws polished, what on earth could have happened? A heart attack?

“What do you mean Fluffy's dead, what on earth happened?”

“He's dead” wailed the groomstress. “I put her in the dryer and forgot her and now she's dead”.

“Left her in the dryer! You cooked my dog! Where is she? Where's her body?”

“I haven't got her body”

“What do you mean you haven't got her body? Wheres my dog? I want her body now!”

“ I can't give you her body because I took her to the vet and had her cremated. Here, this is her ashes in this pot!” She held out the small box.

Reg boiled over: “This is outrageous! Call yourself a dog groomer! Your'e not fit to look after animals! You cooked my dog and then you had her cremated without my permission and now I can't even say goodbye to her!”

“Go ahead sue me.” Cried the hapless woman. “I'm finished anyway, I've done with this job and I'm off, you sue me if you want, there's no money.”

With that she turned and ran back into the Parlour, slamming the door and leaving Reg, speechless in the road. Bewildered, he got back into the car and drove home. All night he sat at the kitchen table with his wife, Deidre, coming to terms with their loss and trying to decide how to respond to this dreadful catastrophe. The mixed feelings of sorrow and outrage made it hard to decide how to act.

The following day dawned bright and sunny and Reg had to go to the shops to buy some milk. Still dazed from the shock of the previous day he pulled into the petrol station to fill up with gas.

At the pump he saw Lydia from down the road. As soon as she saw him she started purposefully towards him, brimming with gossip. Reg was hardly in the mood for pleasantries, but his defences were low and he was unable to muster any excuses.

“Oh Reg! I've just heard the most awful story, you're not going to believe what's happened at the dog Groomers!”

Reg, as if in a dream, slowly became aware that the story now being recounted, far from being one of Lydia's usual banal pieces of tittle tattle, in fact concerned him.

“..and so there she was grooming this dog, she'd just put the little thing in the dryer when she heard a scream from her litle girl. She's only six you know. Well, anyway, she ran outside to see what was going on and her dear little Scottie, you know the little black one, well it had run out into the road and been run over right in front of the little girl's eyes, poor little dear. “

Reg was only very slowly assimilating the information that was coming to him, he couldn't speak.


“So there she was comforting her little girl, and scraping poor Angus off the road, and all the time trying to be brave, because she loved that little dog; and there was the driver to look after of course... well, it all took a while, and all this time the dryer was going inside and she'd completely forgotten about it!...”

The horrific story needed no further elaboration for Reg- he already knew the rest- but Lydia was in full flow.

“Well, you can imagine! When the mess was cleared up outside she came back in and it was only then that she saw the dryer was still running and the poor little dog inside was cooked to a cinder! She rushed it to the vet apparently but he couldn't save the little dog.”

Reg could bear it no longer, he was sudenly roused out of his dreamlike state.

“Lydia, it was me, I mean it was Fluffy! It was Fluffy in the dryer!”

For a moment Lydia looked at Reg as if he had hit her- and then she recovered her senses and, overwhelmed with the enormity of what Reg had revealed to her, she subsided into panic stricken condolences.

“Oh Reg! I'm so sorry, I can't believe it, you must be so upset! And poor little Fluffy! Oh and what a terrible thing.”

“I know” said Reg, “and I can't think what to do- all last night I was thinking I would report this woman to the animal health inspectors, and I gave her a pretty hard time really- she must be devestated. She didn't even mention the accident! I must go immediately and tell her I know everything. That I understand how it all happened.”

Reg ran to his car, forgetting to fill up his petrol tank, sped to the Dog Groomers. He parked outside and walked briskly to the door- but it was locked. He peered through the glass front of the shop and was shocked to see that the entire place had been gutted. No stands, pictures of show winning dogs, racks of combs and scissors, shampoos and conditioners. Only one piece of equipment remained to indicate what the shop might once have been used for. The shiny metal dog dryer was standing, where it had always stood, against the far wall of the shop.