Life in the "Village"

The morning show off the balcony: a school of dolphins or porpoises fishing within a large circle just off shore. Eventually a small boat carrying three fishermen takes their cue and approaches, pelican entourage in tow. The dolphins give them space but don’t abandon their site. The fishermen are encased in large plastic aprons. Two toss and retrieve large nets. The third pulls their catch from a returned net, placing “keepers” in a sizable covered box, while the others continue with a different set of nets. The discarded fish are heaved overboard to the satisfaction of their pelican camp followers. All energetically engaged in obtaining the resources that they need for the day.

Two of the young men who work in the lobby – one who works the desk, the other who provides back up and security functions -- are terrific fellows and we are fond of them. My assumptions were that they were young, single guys as they might be in Canada, but no, both have families: Esmile, about thirty years old has three children; Juan Carlo, who just turned 24, has two. They will go further up the river than on their last excursion, have a swim and eat lunch at one of the small restaurants up there. All three enjoy the occasions of these voyages, getting away from the usual round of work and having a time with some guys.

Our condo building shares some features of a small village. For example, if you want some information or need something done, you ask one of the women how to proceed. If she doesn’t have the answers handy, she will usually know who does and will put you in contact with that person. It reminds me of the way that the communities around Calabogie, Ontario functioned in my grandmother’s day. She had two telephone lines, one at each end of the house. They were fastened to the wall, had a one-ear receiving end, and were operated by cranking in a designated code: one long and two shorts for Mrs Stewart on the Calabogie line. This code would ring in every home on the line but all would recognize it as a call for Mrs Stewart. Of course anyone could pick up their phone, and I’m sure sometimes did, and listen in to the call. Because my grandparents’ home was situated more or less between Calabogie and Hopetown, they had a line for each community. Mrs Stewart might need to know what Mrs Hendrich wanted her to bring to the Clyde Forks bean supper, but having no access to the Hopetown line other than going through an expensive long distance modality, she would call Gramma, who would run around to the other phone just off the parlour, call Mrs Hendrich for the information, and run back to inform Mrs Stewart. Their home was a hub for local communication.

There are particular women here who serve a similar function. They have lived for some time in Puerto Vallarta and particularly here in this building. Their Spanish is good and they are invariably willing to spend time advising and assisting neophytes like ourselves in topics varying from home decor, good restaurants, and, something currently of interest to us, finding tenants for our unit when we are not in residence. We had only to mention this interest to one of the women, Margaret, to be given within the day two possible candidates. Quickly the word gets about that our place will be available during two of the most sought after months: December and January next. (This is because as I mentioned in my last post, I will be travelling then.)

A second site of communal communication is on the roof at the swimming pool – akin to the water well of earlier places. Each morning that we go up for a swim we see and often chat with whoever is sharing the pool with us. Some are owners of units but many are people who come regularly as tenants but who sometimes have difficulty finding a spot for the period that they desire. Three women who come each January from Oregon told me that the unit that they rent is for sale. If sold they fear that their regular berth here will no longer be available. They came to view our place and took my email address to contact us if that happens. Three days ago I spoke to a youngish woman who had been doing strong lengths for some time. As we both rested at one end of the pool, I commented on the seriousness of her swim. She told me that she had had an accident some months back from which she was recovering and that the swimming greatly helped her. One thing led to another. She was visiting her parents who were renting in the building for the first time and the question of availability for a longer period next year came up. I told her about our place.

That is how we came to meet Bill and Marjorie of White Rock, BC. About an hour after I had spoken to Kathy, her daughter, at the pool, Marjorie came to the door, wanting to see and talk about our place. She is a lady about our age, born and brought up, as she said, in Edinburgh. Her brogue testifies to this fact. Marjorie had a look about and a brief chat and returned about an hour later with her husband Bill for a further look-see. They would let us know. The following morning Marjorie came by once again to say that they would like to rent our place and asking for a time when she and Bill could come to discuss it with us. We set a time and that is how we have obtained a very pleasant connection with a couple mutually pleased with the arrangement. So that is how things are managed around here.

Last night I went to an art auction held to raise money for the local library – bibliotecha -- as we say here. All of the works were donated by local artists. Only about thirty of them were auctioned; the others, perhaps about a hundred, were given a list price and could simply be purchased. The library doesn’t receive any government funding and this yearly sale is its most important sustaining event. I had volunteered to help. We arrived an hour early to a building a-buzz with people and activity. On the lawn outside were rows of chairs. Inside artwork was set up on partitions erected throughout the library’s main hall. The works were quite diverse in size, style, modality, and accomplishment. The sale portion of the event was to start at 6 PM so we had plenty of time to acquaint ourselves with the works. Inevitably we were drawn to particular pieces. We focussed on three that we felt we could afford and as soon as the sale opened, advanced to the cashier with our selections. Very exciting.

Unfortunately, for some reason unknown to us our cards would not agree to be processed by the available machines. What to do? The cashier said that we could return the next day with cash to pay for them, but not to be put off, I left and took the bus back to our condo to scoop up my little envelope of pesos, hidden not too convincingly in my bureau. I wasn’t sure that there would be enough to cover our purchases and by then the banks were closed, so I formulated a back-up plan. Sure enough, I was about 300 pesos short. I took what was there and headed down the hall to see our neighbour Marion, another denizen of White Rock. I interrupted her in mid-Skype call with a friend, and demanded the loan of 300 pesos to complete our purchases. But of course! She grabbed 400 for me from her “secret” store and off I went on the bus. By the time I arrived the sale portion of the event had been completed and the thirty pieces to be auctioned were being brought out one at a time to the front of the building for the consideration of a large crowd. It was night by then and the lights, the lawn, the lovely trees, the building itself, and the people made a scene of real beauty. After paying for our now wrapped artworks, we headed home by taxi – a rare extravagance, though in Canadian dollars only about $6 or $7. It was all fun.

On the day last week that I found Alan Patton’s book at the library, I also picked up another book that I had read decades ago: The First Circle by Alexander Solzhenitsyn. The action of the novel takes place in just a few days during the last year or so of Stalin’s reign, so probably in 1953 or 1954. Most occurs at a special prison, part of the infamous GULAG of prisons dotting the USSR at the time, undoubtedly with comparable places today. This particular prison, unknown to locals, was in a building on the outskirts of Moscow. Its approximately 280 inmates had been brought together because of their scientific credentials to work on projects of interest to the Boss of Bosses. Most had spent years already in far less appealing circumstances (though this is relative), arrested and given ten to twenty-five years of prison plus five years of exile on completion, for the heinous crime of “allowing” themselves to be captured by the Germans. They had "clearly" returned to Russia after the war in order to undermine the state for the benefit of their Western masters. Solzhenitsyn is a powerful writer, giving voice to the inner lives of these men as well as to their interactions with one another and with their guards, civilian co-workers, and the powerful leaders of the institute, who despite their positions stand in chronic terror of their own supreme leader. Solzhenitsyn pulls it off with masterful vignettes, great dialogue, a searing sarcasm, and humour. The title is a reference to Dante’s “first circle” the best place in hell that he posited for the great philosophers of the ancient days, unwilling to condemn these men to the fire and brimstone of the orthodox Christian hell for all not sanctified in Christ.

Reading is the best! It costs so little and yet takes you so far. Adios for now.