A Mexican Village Wedding, by Gabriel Blair

By Gabrielle Blair

“Come at 6:00 pm sharp,” our Mexican maid, the bride-to-be, instructed me, “but the Mexicans are invited for 5:00 pm,” she explained with a gig-

gle, “because they’re always late.” So I strode up the hill from Seis Esquinas to the venue to be there at 5:45.

The big open-air eventos was already packed, the guests seated at white-clothed tables with center-pieces of real roses. As I took in the crowd— there must have been well over 200 people and more still rolling in—I realized that I was the only non-Mexican. One of the bride’s many sisters led me to a table marked reserved, close to the head table, which was decorated with bunches of balloons, flowers, and artificial strings of vines, defining the area where the civil wedding would take place. At one end of the huge space was the bar and open kitchen where four or five women were balling and patting mountains of tortillas. No one would go hungry. Men and women waiters, smartly dressed in black, dashed back and forth across the concrete yard taking orders for drinks and returning with bottles of beer and cold jamaica tea or orange juice in plastic cups.

The male guests were dressed casual, but the women made up for it in tight, form-fitting evening dresses with lots of makeup and long hair stylishly coiffed. The little boys were in suits and the girls wore fluffy dresses and bows in their hair. I had chosen to wear a skirt and very light summer blouse, but the evening was hot and soon the sweat was running down my back.

The disc jockey, contentedly beating time with his fingers, kept the music cranked to conversation-diminishing levels and then, at 6:00 pm sharp, the wedding march was piped in and the bride and her father, slowly hobbling with a cane, made their way to the head table. The bride’s floor-length dress was of a soft, metallic material in deep mauve. Her long, black hair was loose, adorned with a white-and-silver headpiece pinned to one side. The groom wore a white, short-sleeved, black-embroidered shirt and grey pants, the ensemble topped off with a white sombrero and dark glasses.

The marriage ceremony was short, followed by family and friends taking turns at the microphone to spontaneously congratulate the couple. I was surprised when the mic was offered to me and, knowing my bit of Spanish would not do justice to what I would like to say, I spoke a few words in English, which no one seemed to mind. Then the guests lined up to hug and kiss the bride and groom and to give them their presents. Some loud fireworks announced the formal part was over and the fun was about to begin.

A twelve-piece brass and percussion band, dressed in gold lame jackets and white pants, took their places on the raised stage, each with microphone. Their announcer, speaking faster than a machine gun, fired up the band to ear-splitting volume as the wedding couple took the first dance. The groom had changed into a pink shirt and jeans, but for some reason kept on his dark glasses and sombrero. Waiters scurried from the kitchen carrying trays stacked with Styrofoam plates of meat, rice and beans, and piles of tortillas. Children twirled and pranced on the concrete dance floor, and one tiny little boy marched in perfect timing worthy of a military parade, while almost no other couples chose to dance.

When my eardrums were fit to burst, I decided not to wait for the wedding cake and took my leave. Way down the hill, when I reached home, I could still hear the music and I wondered whether others, stoked with a few more beers, might have ventured onto the dance floor. Surprisingly, other than the really loud music, the whole event was quite subdued. I think I was hoping for more of the extrovert joie de vivre that I have come to expect of a Mexican fiesta.

Gabrielle Blair

Ready or Not

The 1960s were a turbulent time. I was a child during a period of fear of nuclear power and discord in

Cuba. Castro was discussed often, along with Russia and missiles that could hit U.S. shores.

Parents mirrored concern and tried unsuccessfully to act like everything was under control.

At my parochial school we received a memo to take home to our parents. This was unusual. The memo outlined the requirement that we each were to be assigned “dog tags” with our personal information and wear them at all times. We had to have an emergency evacuation bag at school. The bags contents were listed on the memo, in a list which outlined the following:

Canned goods such as soup

Several pairs of underwear

A change of clothes

Toothbrush and toothpaste

I’m sure there was more survival gear, but it was so long ago I can’t remember it all. What I do remember is that our getaway bag had to have our name on it, for identification purposes. My mother, a frustrated artist, took this task as an art assignment. She sewed a beige bag with a drawstring top. A bright red band of fabric closed the top firmly. The final touch was my name, embroidered in bright red script, large and beautiful across the front of the sack.

When I arrived at school, other students had pillowcases with their names inked hastily and sloppily as an afterthought, rubber bands closing the tops. I was so proud of my bag, I turned to the back wall of our class often to admire my mom’s handiwork, standing out amongst the pile of sacks.

I had concerns about wearing my dog tag. I asked my mother why I needed a tag when I could just tell people where I lived and who I was. She paused, carefully weighing her words. She did not want to mention that I may be dead, so instead she informed me we may have to go far away when escaping and I might not be able to explain where I lived. I accepted her explanation reluctantly.

To make everything even more frightening we had to watch a black and white government training film on what to do in case of an atomic bomb attack. There would be a huge bright flash and we were to hide beneath our desks and listen to our teachers. There was no mention of our instant incineration or radiation poisoning that I recall. Things were all hastily handled by teachers trying to underplay nuclear obliteration.

Decades passed. Today I see our world once again talking about which countries are nuclear armed. Leaders are claiming allies and having photo opportunities with them. International groups are in perpetual meetings to address the state of the planet, and how to avoid nuclear annihilation.

I stay perplexed that humankind has made so little progress in half a century for how to relate to other countries. I want to be optimistic, yet the news offers little positivity.

I feel as helpless now as I did in the sixties. I want our world leaders to find a way out of the chaos, military aggression, and discord of our era. I cross my fingers in hope.

Katina Pontikes

By Christina Bennett

Every so often The Ranch is fortunate enough to have volunteers from all over the world happy and willing

to walk and feed dogs, play with puppies and interact with our local staff and other volunteers. Sometimes those volunteers are teenagers that bring their enthusiasm and energy, brightening everyone’s day.

Although most teenagers want to spend their spring break at the beach, Ian Shreve would rather work with rescue dogs. Eighteenyear-old Ian just finished his second spring break volunteering at The Ranch. He attends an International High School Program in Eugene, Oregon, and has also been in Spanish Immersion since age five. As part of his school requirements, he needed to perform some volunteer work in Spanish. His former neighbors now live in Ajijic and they connected Ian with The Ranch while he was vacationing here.

An experienced “dog person,” Ian has also volunteered at a shelter in Oregon. He was very impressed with The Ranch, noting that the dogs have more space to run around and also more interaction with people than where he’s worked in Oregon.

Ian found his experience at The Ranch to be extremely rewarding. He worked largely with the Spanish-speaking staff members at The Ranch and felt they were very friendly. He spent his time feeding and giving water to the dogs, walking them, and assisting with vaccinations and veterinarian visits. Ian and his mom have also been Flight Angels, transporting dogs from here to adopters in Portland.

Ian does have a favorite dog at The Ranch, a big, lovable Boxer named Victoria. Ian describes her as so sweet and loves attention. She’s calm, doesn’t jump up or bark much and simply adores people. Victoria is also easy to walk, despite her size. Ian finds it sad that Victoria has been at the shelter so long. “People are put off because she doesn’t really like other dogs,” he said. “But she’d be great for any home where she’d be the only dog. She’s not aggressive with other dogs when walking or anything and she just loves affection from people.”

Katie, another teen volunteer, was also at The Ranch last summer. Preparing to enter college in the fall to pursue a career in veterinary medicine. Katie’s grandparents live Lakeside and her family has their own adopted Ranch dog they all adore, so when Katie got the chance to spend time at The Ranch she was thrilled. During her time she witnessed some of the surgical procedures the Ranch vets perform, as well as administering meds and vaccinations to the current dogs waiting for their forever homes.

Most importantly for Katie, just like Ian, she was able to indulge her love of animals daily and give the wonderful Ranch dogs the attention they crave and deserve.

If you would like to volunteer or learn more about The Ranch contact us at adoptaranchdog@outlook.com or donate by visiting our website at Theranchchapala.com.

By Scott Jones

Iused to think I knew English before living in Asia with Brits, Kiwis, Aussies, Canadians, and Germans that speak better

English than I. My first clue that I only spoke American was in London while trying to get a computer on the phone to accept my credit card. Ms. VoiceActivated asks, “Please state your card number.” I do so over and over, but she/ it cannot understand my pronunciation of the number 3.

‘“Three! Thry? Throy? Tarie! Thahry! Throw-oy! 2 plus1! 7 minus 4! We Three Kings, goddamn it! Is there an American computer in the office?” Thirtythree strikes and you’re out. I gave up.

Another American and I were evaluating a British teacher-trainee learning to teach English to a Thai class. She asks the students, “What’s the silent letter in the word work?”

We Yankees look at each other, simultaneously thinking: There are no silent letters in “work.”

In English, it seems, there is—the “r.” She removes the “r” from the whiteboard and instructs the students how to say “wok” which they all have at home in their kitchens. She also says “Herb,” pronouncing the h, which was my uncle’s name, not a spicy plant, with a silent h.

She failed American. I failed English.

Spellings are not the same. “The two-metre neighbour with the cosy flat fantasised about a jewellery licence, flavourful haggis and coloured cheques whilst snogging his missis.”

Try that through an American spellchecker. Meanings aren’t the same, especially around cars. The “boot” is the trunk, the “bonnet” is the hood and “petrol” is certainly not gas, which my “mates” who are not forgiving friends, have reminded me six million times.

“You’ve got gas? Was it the spicy curry? Fancy some bicarbonate or a cork?”

When I began to write a weekly column for Chiangmai Mail, an English-language newspaper run locally by two Germans, edited by an Australian, and read by the international community, it got very confusing. My British dictionaries and spell-checkers don’t always agree, since there are 500 dialects per square-whatever-theyuse-over-there. Instead of miles, it’s kilometers in Thailand, which is spelled kilometres. The temperature is Celsius, not Fahrenheit, unless it’s 40.

“We’d love to have you in our country. Here’s the door in and the door out.” Unofficially, it’s now the Land of Smiles and warm ones greet me wherever I go. So besides the smiling faces, the spicy food, the cool seas, the hot weather, the soaring mountains, the sweet valleys, the loud parties, the silent temples, the real freedom, and the pace of life in Thailand, I love to ride through it all on a motorcycle.

There is a wealth of classic roads less traveled, though you never know what will or won’t be around the corner.

Scott was born in Fargo, North Dakota, but he takes pills for it.

Life in the Laugh

Lane at www.lifeinthelaughlane.com, web www.kingcobrapress.com and Amazon.com

Photo 1: A very, very, very steep hill near Pai. The bikers are dead now.

Photo 2: Your brakes and wheels may survive the first hill, but not the next.

Scott Jones