From our first months in Ensenada we noticed it. And from frequent trips across the border, we noticed the lack of it.
Happiness. Contentment, in spite of life lived with less than the average American would consider a sustenance wage. Choices made to honor family, to delight in children, to honor whatever faith they know. Choices made to be content with what they have.
Smiles handed with impunity to strangers. Offers of help without a price tag attached.
And once we escaped the gringo influence in certain boatyards, a work ethic to be admired. In Mazatlan, the Mexican mechanics who repaired our engine did so with an eye to excellence and a care of our boat that couldn’t help but please. The gentlemen who did stainless work for us took obvious pride in their design efforts and seemed embarrassed to request additional funds for changes and extras we requested. The workmen spent a hot day adjusting, fitting, welding…all the while joking and laughing together and with us. The young sons of the man who worked on removing old varnish from the boat spent hot afternoons teasing one another, full of joy. The owner of a car parts shop joked with Michael as he searched to meet our needs. All smiles. Very little capital changing hands. Taxi drivers in Ensenada gave way to pedestrians or other drivers and smiled when they did it. Across the border everyone scowled.
I know there are problems. There are dinghies that go missing from anchorages. We’ve been warned about the one we’re in right now. But what we saw this morning was a family in their motorless panga that they maneuvered with one paddle, line fishing probably because they don’t own rods or nets. And they were laughing and playing as they did it. If they live in the shack by the water’s edge that we’ve noticed, they probably were fishing for their food. But they were laughing. Happy. The impulse might come to avail themselves of some rich gringo’s dinghy. It might. To them it would be worth almost a year’s wages. So, we keep our dinghy on deck. In the States, there were areas near our marina where we might fear for our lives. We’ve never felt that in Mexico.
Perhaps if we lived in Tijuana or one of the other border towns where drugs abound, it would be different. Why do problems exist there more than in, say, Mazatlan or Ensenada? Could it be that the market for the drugs, the US, is just across the way? Which makes one wonder if the problem is them or us. Why do we make such an issue of drug areas in Mexico and ignore the blight in our own cities?
Just a thought or two.
