Arched stone bridges have been built since the iron age. A 3,000 year-old example is still in use in Greece today.

Miriam’s bridge is built of undressed stones so they have to be mortared, which accounts for the thick columns. The construction utilizes one 20th-Century innovation: steel rebar strengthens columns and spans.

Semicircular arches compress stone when the bridge is under load, strengthening the spans. Ramp-shaped structures on the upstream side deflect water and flood debris, shielding the columns from erosion. Function dictates the shape, yet makes a form that is esthetically pleasing.

An old wall was quarried to build the bridge. Local masons mold irregular rocks into rectilinear planes, a skill I admire. That the land itself provides construction materials is somehow satisfying.

The bridgeworkers are descendants of the builders of Teotihuacan. I visualize ancient construction methods being handed down through centuries—a not-unreasonable explanation for the high level of masonry skills prevalent in Mexico.

The newspaper recounts the kidnapping of Eduardo Garcia Valseca, a San Miguel resident. It makes chilling reading; not for the squeamish or easily frightened.

I often dismiss the concerns of my north-of-the-border friends, chiding them for living in a culture of fear. I point out the serenity of San Miguel living as we expats experience it. I cite the assertion made by Mexico City author David Lida in First Stop in the New World, that the crime rate in our capitol is lower than in many U. S. cities.

But reports of lawlessness and violence seem to be increasing, and the stories are beginning to hit closer to home. Felipe writes about a shot-up police station a mile from his ranchito in Pátzcuaro. Islagringo, vacationing in Huatulco, encounters the military burning tons of marijuana. This year, the owner of my gym was kidnapped and ransomed: he now is a broken man.

My friends and I are not prominent people, not wealthy, do not traffic in drugs or loansharking. We live peaceful lives, unnoticed by criminals other than the occasional pickpocket, easily avoided with a little vigilance.

I disapprove of U. S. media fearmongering. But blanket insistence about secure living in Mexico may be a little naïve.

Throw in a few chickens, and this place could be my childhood home in rural New Jersey.

A grassy path winds through huizaches and nopales. Fifty meters from the house a casita provides quarters for guests.

The dry laid stone walls of the original cabin crumble under the weight of time and weather. Grandpa used to vacation here, finding renewal in nature before returning to smog and big city traffic.

A gate made of site-grown mesquite and carrizo leads to a vacant field. Weathered wood and stone are organic: a natural part of the countryside.

Shaded by a large tree, a garden makes a pleasant place to enjoy the smell of blooming plants, to feel soft breezes, to listen to birdsong.

I sat here for hours listening to Laura, Miriam, and her sister speaking softly in Spanish. I caught maybe half of what they said and offered the occasional awkward comment. Toward evening, creek frogs started up, staccato croaks punctuating our conversation.

Nature and serenity in the country. Culture and stimulation back in town. Miriam chooses one, we the other. That she invites us to the other side is a blessing.

Summertime is Mexico’s most beautiful season in the altiplano. My path takes me though swathes of matapulga (pinkweed) and rosilla (dogweed). The former is said to kill fleas, hence the name.

Parque Landeta authorities aren’t prissy about mixed use in the preserve. A cornfield occupies the eastern end. Sheep crop lush plants that grow where floodwaters have receded. Opportunistic egrets mingle with the flock, gobbling up insects disturbed by grazing.

An inviting path winds among huizaches, past ruins whose original purpose is anyone’s guess.

To the west, the path passes through a gate marking the boundary of El Charco del Ingenio. Neither farm animals nor dogs may trespass here, nor hunters with slingshots.

Within El Charco, wetland restoration has created a summery place. I hear continual birdsong and quacking. Dragonflies hover over water weeds, hundreds of butterflies sip at mud puddles.

Just a year ago, great yellow machines belching black smoke labored to return old silted-up Obraje to wildlife habitat. I wrote then about my satisfaction seeing instruments of environmental destruction so redirected.

Along the track, a lichened rock catches my eye. Colas de caballo (pink throat morning glories) bloom everywhere.

Red tunas ripen on the nopales. I pick some and eat them out of hand. A friend will make syrup and jelly from these cactus fruits.

Lower left, a cholla blooms. No cactus has sharper spines nor attaches itself more aggressively to careless passers-by.
In All the Pretty Horses, Cormack McCarthy captures their indifferent cruel nature:

...they passed a stand of roadside cholla against which small birds had been driven by the storm and there impaled. Gray nameless birds espaliered in attitudes of stillborn flight or hanging loosely in their feathers. Some of them were still alive and they twisted on their spines as the horses passed...

During the two nights I spent in the hospital, I turned responsibility for my well-being over to my doctors. For another week I had to remain in a Houston hotel until I was strong enough to travel. During that time, I depended on Laura for my care and feeding.

Abdominal surgery is traumatic, and I often found myself teary and depressed. Withdrawal from narcotic painkillers dampened my spirits. The emotional support Laura provided was critical.

St. Lukes is one of the world’s great hospitals and I was fortunate to have surgery done there. The entire procedure from pre-op to discharge was confidence-inspiring: professionalism, quality control, information management.

Just one example: In the seven years since I was last hospitalized, hospitals have switched to computerized patient charts. Nurses rolled carts bearing laptops into my room. They scanned my bar-coded wrist band, scanned labels on all medications, and entered vital signs right at bedside.

The carts are called COWs, for Computers on Wheels. Nurses hate them. Doctors and patients love them, as do hospital administrators and their lawyers. (I’m being cynical: meticulous procedures and record-keeping reduce wrong site surgeries and other tragedies.)

(A red duplex power outlet on a hallway wall labelled with a sign “Plug COWs Here,” mystified me until a nurse explained what it meant.)

Now that I’m home and past the early recovery stage, my comeback becomes entirely my responsibility. Fortunately, St. Lukes provided me with a handy guide.

The information contained in the booklet is useful, succinct and complete—obviously written by a medical professional. But as so often happens in corporate life, the communications department got hold of it, adding graphics that left me less informed than discouraged. The inanely happy model in the cover photo clearly has not had prostate cancer—at least not recently. Nor, I imagine, has the pamphlet designer who in all probability is a recent UT journalism grad named Tammy-Jean.

But I digress. My responsibilities today include lots of walking, kegel exercises, good nutrition, lots of rest, and maintaining a positive attitude. Finding energy to see friends is tough, but the encouragement they offer more than repays the effort.

I also call my surgeon’s office when I need to.

I’ll return to the gym in September. I’m planning a month of bus travel through Mexico in November. Each day is better than the previous one.

Over my 68 years I have survived four diseases, any one of which would have killed my grandfather: perforated colon, lodged kidney stone, heart attack, and now prostate cancer. In each case, I was saved by surgeons.

We live in an age of miracles.

—§—

I chose surgery as treatment for my prostate cancer. The procedure is called radical prostatectomy—removal of the entire prostate gland. Major surgery, today it’s usually done laparoscopically using robots. Unfortunately, I have too many abdominal surgery priors for this approach. My doctor will do conventional open surgery, picking his way through scar tissue and adhesions to reach the prostate. Remember that frog you dissected in Biology 101A? I’m going to look like that.

Six months ago, I didn’t even know what the prostate gland was for except to cause problems for aging men. Now I’ve learned it’s pretty darn useful, and I’m gonna miss it.

Shortly after prostate surgery, urinary continence can be a problem, so preparation includes learning how to do Kegel exercises. Laura took this photo in the lab where a lovely Nurse named Kara helped me learn proper technique using biofeedback.

Kegel exercises strengthen the muscles of the pelvic floor. Biofeedback involves using sensors and computers to monitor one’s ability to properly flex those muscles. I’ll leave it to your imagination as to how flexing is sensed.

Throughout the training, Kara entertained us with the story of her semi-arranged marriage (she’s from India).

“... my cousin knew this medical student over in the States that she thought was just right for me... Oh! I think that sensor has slipped. Let me just fix that... There. Now it should stay in... so she wrote my mother and suggested she talk to his mother...”

I found the whole encounter kind of homey and almost pleasant, if a little surreal.

—§—

Pre-Op was hugely stressful. Surgery will be much less so since I won’t be present when it happens. It’ll be harder on the surgeon, the anesthesiologist, the nurses, and especially on Laura, than it will be on me.

I’m feeling sadness from the realization that I’ll be changed. Hereafter, my body will function differently. I won’t know if I’ll be cancer-free until a month afterward, when the biopsies are complete. I won’t know how functional I’ll be for up to a year or eighteen months afterward, as the affected structures and nerves slowly heal.

This isn’t my first major medical milestone and with luck, it won’t be my last. The surgery should be completed tomorrow afternoon. Then recovery, a process that’s becoming all too familiar to me, will begin.

Many, many people have shown concern for me and have told me they are keeping me in their prayers. I cannot begin to express how grateful I am for all the support I have received.

Blessings to you all.

Shanti is a day spa, an oasis where visitors can seek respite from the social and cultural whirl of San Miguel.

An alcove beside the pool offers games and books.

A shaded rooftop invites meditation or scrabble, your pick. Yoga classes are held two mornings a week. Two rooms contain carved Indian massage tables. A small shop offers Indian fabrics and art.

Water flowing in a small garden provides welcome contrast to the arid semi-desert of the surrounding Bahio.

A friend invited us to meet with her for a late Sunday lunch at Masala, Shanti’s Indian restaurant. I was pleasantly surprised to find good, authentic Indian cuisine in Mexico—aloo korma, channa masala, thali, garlic naan. The day I visited, the banana-cardamom lassie wasn’t available—a minor disappointment. To compensate, I imbibed two mango lassies.

Brett says “I’m all about India.” Unable to make a life in India, she brought the feel of India to Mexico: the mountain to Mohammed.

It’s said that people come to San Miguel to reinvent themselves. The place exudes an energy that enables some—among them Brett—to turn their dreams into reality.

Until now, most construction here has been low-tech. Men mix concrete in piles on the ground and haul it up ladders in five-gallon plastic buckets. They shape stones by hand with hammers. A large job might employ a hundred abañiles, few of whom own tools and none of whom possess safety gear.

By comparison, this work is being done in modern mechanized fashion by developer Bald Mountain de Mexico. Their operation is more like what I would expect to see in the States.

Called Rosewood San Miguel de Allende, the project will comprise a five-star hotel and high-end residences. One source claims house prices will start at $800,000. I haven’t heard what hotel tariffs will be, but I bet I’m safe estimating they’ll be somewhere north of $500 per night—well out of my price range.

Development projects like this have triggered protests. A group called Basta Ya a la Destrucción de San MIguel has mounted demonstrations.

Photo: Basta Ya

One thing is for sure: San Miguel has changed from the sleepy little village discovered after WWII by aspiring artists come to study under the G. I. bill. Today the well-heeled are visiting and moving in. We saw it happen in SoHo. We saw it happen in Sonoma. Like it or not, the trend is inexorable: artists discover a place, the wealthy follow, and the artists, priced out, have to move on.

Curiouser still, the sign on the left advertises kidney transplants. Storefront surgery?

I like the graphics: Robbie the Robot with tubes snaking under a masked patient’s smock.

Wandering musicians present themselves uninvited at our table. This man vigorously strummed his blue guitar—apparently last tuned in ‘98. A chicken-choking grip on the neck revealed an absence of classical training. No matter: his atonal music was vibrant, enthusiastic, and most entertaining.

Something about his appearance reminded me of the Simpsons character, Hans Moleman.

The itinerant guitarist-singers, playing as they were to groups of Mexicans, avoided gringo tourist favorites—Cielito Lindo, La Paloma. The tunes and chords were unmistakably Mexican; the lyrics were unique and playful.

Most street musicians are not very good, but we don’t expect them to be. A Guanajuato plaza ain’t La Scala.

But their tunes contribute to the lazy pace, the uncomplicated food, the quiet warmth of the afternoon.

He’s about the size of a terminal finger joint. His markings look like an eerie clown face.

I post his portrait, hoping a reader can identify him. And can anyone identify that face on the bug’s back? I looked all over for it—I know I’ve seen it somewhere.

Yesterday I found this photo on a Russian website. Go figure.

Kiwis call speed bumps judder bars. Mexicans call them topes. Here is a photograph of some topes.

OK. That’s a cheap shot. Lest we leap to a generalization that only Mexican policemen slack off while on duty, here’s a photo taken in Washington.

Photo: videograss.com

“Good-night, sweet prince; And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.”

Before entering, it’s worth taking a moment to pause and examine the sign. On it, a musician depicted in Aztec style plays a drum and sings. We know he is singing because a serpentine blue shape emerges from his mouth: a typical pre-hispanic speech bubble.

Photo: Paul Latoures

An image from the 16th-century Codex Borbonicus employs swirly speech bubbles to illustrate two Aztec gods conversing. Ehekatl’s logo employs the same convention.

Image: FAMSI

On display at Ehekatl is a variety of musical instruments patterned on old indigenous designs. Here we have drums, a flute, and seedpod rattles. Barely visible at the top of the frame there’s a rib from a steer, serrated to produce a rasping sound when stroked with a wooden stick. The instrument in the foreground appears to be a sort of xylophone. The five bars are stones that produce high-pitched “plinks” when struck. They are not organized into a scale of any kind. Apparently this xylophone is used to produce rhythm rather than melody.

The store was open but nobody was inside when we entered. Paul picked up a drumstick and sounded a drum carved from a hollow log. In response, Juan Suárez Terán—instrument builder and owner of Taller Ehekatl—appeared. Here he demonstrates one of his drums. His technique is sophisticated. He striks it near the rim and then draws the drumstick across the head toward the center, producing a chirping sound that swoops as it rises in pitch.

Juan digs blues. The photograph on the wall is B. B. King—one of his heros. Juan is a musician first, a student of ancient instruments second.

He plays one of the flutes for us: it has a haunting tone. This instrument belongs to the fipple flute family: wind instruments that produce sound the way recorders, tin whistles, and organ pipes do. Instead of the usual slot cut into the top of the tube (called the voicing), Juan employs a carved block (called a fetish) secured with a leather thong, to control the size and shape of the slot: critical for establishing the tone of the flute.

Juan makes, demonstrates, and sells pre-hispanic musical instruments. He also does gigs with a band consisting of talented friends. They make rockin’ music, suitable for parties.

Juan Suárez Terán
Taller Ehekatl
Centenario #26
Minerál de Pozos 37910
Guanajuato

Tel: 442-293-0121
Cel: 045-468-105-3693

To view hundreds of images of pre-hispanic codices, check out the website of the Foundation for the Advancement of Mesoamerican Studies, FAMSI.