Another great morning and perfect weather; today I jumped in a Mototaxi and had the driver drop me off at Ave La Audencia, the road that goes up the hill toward the Hotel Las Hadas. This is the peninsula that ‘double scoops’ Manzanillo Bay, and where a few rich folks keep homes.
Back in the day, it was names like Barbra Streisand and Robert Goulet. These days, I’m sure the cab drivers have a whole new set of names they throw at tourists.
But I’m not going up the hill; the moneyed men and women will be locked up behind their own bars and razor wire and unapproachable, and contact would not necessarily make for inspired conversation.
The last time I looked at the Forbes 400 list, it was all inherited money, nothing clever, just lucky sperm. Back in my sailing days, and somewhere on the Adriatic, a well-to-do chap said to me, “Poor people should never feel all that bad about their position in life, and always remember that having money isn’t all that much fun; rich people have to live with each other.”
So I went in the opposite direction, across the boulevard toward Ave Manzanillo. It turned out to be the right call. Before long, I came across a woman selling soup in front of her house. She’d hauled a propane cooker and a couple of large pots out near the walk, and was cooking hominy and pork pozole. It was the best I’ve ever had. Fresh chopped onion, cilantro, avocado, and radish sliced razor thin.
I was allowed to sit at a card table if I agreed to entertain the lady’s young daughter; we played paper, scissors, rock; she won every time.
The Pozole chef is a woman named Lula. She and her husband share a small house with another couple and their two kids. She told me she was doing well this morning; many people were stopping by in cars to pick up orders to go. When most of the soup is gone, she’ll move her equipment back inside the house and go off to her next job of cleaning toilets and kitchens for people on the peninsula.
Her husband does landscape work at a golf course. Their hope has been that by sharing this humble two-bedroom rental, they will be able to afford their own home. But it’s not looking good for Lula and her husband. She says that when they get a little ahead with money, the price of real estate goes up.
A service truck drove up and parked across the street. I thought they were picking up some soup, but I was wrong. The little girl’s eyes lit up and she said, “They come every two weeks. Watch what they do.”
One man went up in the boom bucket to the main power lines. I could see where the insulation had been bared back enough for the attachment of what looked like spring clamps from battery jump-start cables. These were taped onto an extension cord that was draped over the sidewalk. Attached to that assembly was another cord, then another that disappeared into the neighbor’s house. The CFE power guy very carefully removed the clips and then lowered the wires onto the sidewalk.
According to Lula, this dance has been going on for two years. Every two weeks, the power company, CFE, comes by and removes the wires; then, the neighbor climbs up the pole and reattaches them.
So it was desayuno with entertainment. I helped my new acquaintance with her cooking equipment and said goodbye to the girl, another day in Manzanillo.
