by Janet Blaser
A move to Mexico is definitely not for the faint of heart, and one has to gradually become accustomed to the abject poverty that exists in the small villages. It’s not uncommon for local families in these small villages to live in one-room houses with dirt floors, with sleeping hammocks hanging in so many places it’s difficult to enter the home. Chickens and clotheslines and skinny horses are crowded into already cramped and small front yards, and starving dogs slink around the corners into the street. I’ve learned not to pity these folks, though, as this is all a part of their way of life. Their neighbors live the same way and as a whole they are very happy people. Total acceptance is the key to residing in the Yucatán, and it’s important to remember that one is living in their country.
I’ve found the children of these villages to be very well-behaved and extremely clean and tidy. I teach an English class offered completely free of charge for the primary and secondary grades in the village and I couldn’t ask for better pupils; they’re so polite, eager and willing to learn. These classes are offered through a program implemented by the Canadians and Americans living here and is strictly voluntary; no former teaching experience is required, just an earnest desire to commit your best to the children.
Despite all these challenges—or maybe because of them—this is definitely our Paradise and has become, without a doubt, our home. My heart will always be in our cottage by the sea. The whole atmosphere and the pleasant, friendly native Yucatán people encourage the eccentric in one to emerge and spread its wings. It’s as if Merlin himself touched this entire peninsula with his magic wand!
PC Nordhoff is an ex-TWA flight attendant and as a result has visited and lived in many cities and states in the U.S. She was born and raised on her grandfather’s farm in the hills of West Virginia and is now happily living on the Gulf of Mexico in the Yucatán Peninsula with her husband and four delightful adopted dogs. She absolutely loves Mexico, the local people, their art and culture, and also enjoys volunteering to teach English classes for the children in the quaint little fishing village where she lives. Her future goal is to author a book relating to her experiences and life as an expatriate in this remarkable and beautiful country.
20. “Choosing Happiness”
Janet Blaser
Lo de Marcos, Nayarit
& Mazatlán, Sinaloa
I guess the simple reason I left is because I wanted to be happy. Was my life so bad? Not really, at least from the outside. I had a job (although it was tenuous); a big community of long-time friends and a vibrant, beautiful place to live in Santa Cruz, California. My three children were wonderful young adults and as a single mother, that alone made my life worthwhile.
But something was terribly missing, because, as I said, I wasn’t happy. I tried to fill my life with all the things that are supposed to make you happy, but inside I knew I wasn’t. More mornings than I’d like to admit I woke and cried my way through coffee, breakfast and getting ready for work. My journals from that time are filled with sadness and confusion. I constantly felt like I wasn’t “enough” and didn’t have “enough.” When I looked around I saw people buying million-dollar homes and expensive cars and the latest fashions and the whole thing exhausted me. Did all of that really matter so much? It didn’t to me. I’d studied the Bhagavad Gita and other Eastern spiritual traditions when I was younger, and more and more it seemed like I was a bird in a gilded cage, slowly dying while no one noticed.
I watched friends buy homes they couldn’t afford—taking out giant mortgages with no down payment on nondescript houses that weren’t worth that much at all— thinking what a literal house of cards the real estate market in California seemed to be. No one wanted to hear that though, until a few years later when it all fell apart. But whatever the case, I couldn’t afford to buy anything anyway.
At about the same time my mother was in the last stage of many years of debilitating illness. I was the only one of her four children who would talk to her about death; what happens to the body, what is the soul. And she told me about her life—her joys, yes, but also her regrets, of which she had many. She hadn’t done so many things she’d wanted to, deferring her desires and dreams for those of my father’s. “Don’t wait,” she said to me. “Do what makes you happy.”
My kids got older; my mom passed away; I was still single. Nothing really changed, except that it became more and more expensive to live in California. The internet had upended my career as a journalist and I was worried about how I could keep making a living. What dreams I had were constantly pushed aside in favor of just paying the bills and staying afloat. I’d just turned 50 and I was looking at my life: where I’d been, what I’d done, what I wanted to do with the next half. I knew I had to start thinking outside the proverbial box but didn’t know exactly what that meant. I read the book “Who Moved My Cheese?” (again) and saw the maze ahead of me as the best option, although that complete unknown was definitely scary. The writing on the wall was clear though—change was a’coming.
In 2006 I was on a long-planned vacation in Mazatlán, Mexico, where I’d never been. From my oceanfront suite, I could hear the calming sound of the waves below, and I spent a lot of time walking along the beach, swimming in the ocean and reading by the pool. I wasn’t thinking at all about moving to Mexico; the thought had never crossed my mind. I had thought about moving away from Santa Cruz—where I’d lived for 18 years—to somewhere inland where the cost of living would be less, but I was hard-pressed to let go of that lifestyle, my friends and community, and the beauty of the coast. Without a steady and bigger income, though, I knew I wouldn’t be able to afford living there much longer.
The hotel was in the busy tourist zone, but from researching online I’d seen that there was a Centro Histórico with beautiful old buildings and a main plaza with restaurants and a theater, musicians playing on the street and a very different ambiance than the part of town where I was staying. On the third day I took a pulmonia—Mazatlán’s signature golf-cart taxis—south along the beachfront boardwalk, or malecon, to the Plaza Machado.
From the moment I stepped out on the corner of the plaza I was enchanted. There’s no other way to explain it; there was just some sort of energy that spoke to my heart. Somehow it felt like home. I walked block after block, taking tons of photos, smiling the whole time. I had lunch and coffee and bought post cards and a colorful coconut shell mask. I saw lots of gringos and lots of locals, too. I ended up watching a gorgeous sunset in Olas Altas, the beachfront section of Centro Histórico. I knew this was where I would end up; I knew I could be happy here.
For the rest of my vacation, I spent as much time as I could in Centro, people-watching in the plaza, asking lots of questions and imagining what my life would look like if this was my home. I had many dinners at Pedro y Lola, a popular restaurant in the Plaza Machado, so much so that I became friends with the owner, whose family had been in Mazatlán for generations. One night he introduced me to another friend of his who asked if he could join me at my table. Unbeknownst to me, his father had been governor of the state and he, too, was involved in politics; this became obvious as person after person came over to say hello and the waiters became ever-so-deferential. Although Antonio was a big man, tall and imposing, he had a quick smile, an easy laugh and an amiable demeanor that made everyone feel comfortable around him. He also spoke perfect English.
After telling him my story—and all the reasons I loved Mazatlán and how it seemed like the right decision to move there—I ended with, “But I’m still not sure.” He asked, “Why, Janet? It sounds like the perfect thing for you, all the pieces make sense. Why not?” Without thinking, I blurted out, “I’m not sure it’s OK to do something just because it makes you happy.”
Antonio looked at me and smiled. He stood up, cleared his throat and paused dramatically. Everyone in the crowded plaza turned and looked. Then he extended his arms and declared several times, in a loud, booming voice, “SOY FELIZ!”
(“I’m happy!”) People applauded and cheered. They stood up and cried, “Bravo!”
I cringed, wanting to crawl under the table. Antonio looked down, then motioned that I, too, could—or should—stand up beside him and make the same declaration to the world. But I couldn’t. Now, I’m kind of a shy person in public so that may have been part of my hesitation. But his point was well made. Of course it’s OK to be happy. In fact, that’s kind of the point of life, wouldn’t you say?
That happened almost 15 years ago and I still remember it like it was yesterday. It’s one of my most important life lessons: It’s OK to be happy.
I made a plan to take a month-long leave of absence from work in the fall, when Mazatlán’s annual Cultural Festival took place and the majority of the snowbirds returned. I wanted to see if I could be really comfortable living in this new and different culture, if I could have the lifestyle I was used to, and, most importantly, what it would take for a foreigner to start a business. I had the idea that I could start an English monthly magazine to share information about the town to all the gringos—expats, snowbirds and tourists— I saw around me. In preparation for my next trip, I looked at rental options in the Centro Histórico, which felt like where I wanted to be. I went back to the U.S. enlivened and excited.
Before I knew it, I was back in Mazatlán. I explored stores to see what was available and what wasn’t. (Good coffee? Si. 100% cotton sheets or towels? No. Tofu, Basmati rice, organic body products? No.) I looked at phone and internet service, checked out some rentals and met with an insurance agent about my car. I wandered through neighborhoods and spent a lot of time at the main plaza, imagining this as home.
Everything seemed to fall into place and the month passed quickly. I made lists of concerns, questions, challenges and fears, but also of all the positive aspects about the move. Ultimately it was the feeling in my heart that Mazatlán was “home” that gave me the courage to just do it. And the fact that the Mexican government made it so easy for foreigners to live in their country.
My three kids were supportive of the idea and encouraged me to follow what had become my dream. The youngest was barely 18, and we had lived together happily and contentedly in the same house where they’d all been raised, adding roommates to cover the rent. I still cry when I think about leaving him and our life together. He was (and still is) very independent and self-sufficient and said this was all OK. We put the utilities in his name and I started packing in earnest, planning for a departure after Christmas and New Year’s. One of the housemates was a massage practitioner who worked with a good friend of mine, a man in his late 30s whom I trusted, and that made me feel a little better about leaving my son in charge of the house.
The kids all said I’d given so many years to them, and that now it was time for me to do something for myself. Buoyed by enthusiasm and the thrill of change, I didn’t realize until I was actually driving away how much I would miss them. I can’t tell you how many times I called each of them from the side of the road sobbing, wanting to go back home, that it was all a big mistake. I remember when I got to Los Angeles there was a sign on the freeway that said “San Francisco” and my heart leapt at the thought that maybe I’d gone the wrong way and could just go home. Instead, I checked into a hotel and cried myself to sleep, missing my children and the life I was leaving. It felt like I’d ripped an arm off.
My little Toyota Echo was packed to the roof with boxes and random things, including a big carved wooden angel that I kept in the back window of the car; my guardian angel, if you will. (I still have it and can see it out the window in the garden.) I’d tested how many empty banker’s boxes would fit in the trunk and the backseat and had packed accordingly; that’s all the space there was, so that’s all I could take. In hindsight, I wish I’d kept more things I was sentimentally attached to; in the months and years that followed, those reminders of my family, my children and our history would become more precious as we ceased to make as many new ones—except for the few weeks a year when I visited them.
I arrived in Mazatlán after what I could only describe as a harrowing four-day drive down through California, over the border at Nogales, and through the Sonora desert to, finally, Sinaloa and Mazatlán. Harrowing not because anything really happened; harrowing because I was so emotionally overwrought and as I drove, alone, I was finally really realizing what I was doing. OMG! What WAS I doing?! Was I nuts?!
I had two cell phones, both of which were supposed to work in Mexico; neither of them did. My year of intensive Spanish classes was useless as I realized I couldn’t even read the highway signs (We didn’t learn those words!) and didn’t know how to convert kilometers to miles to figure out how fast I was going or how far from the next town I was. Coffee—which always helps me ground and focus—was nowhere to be found once I crossed the border, and I’m embarrassed to say when I saw the golden arches of MacDonald’s in Hermosillo I almost cried for joy to find coffee— albeit terrible and in a Styrofoam cup with powdered creamer.
Looking back, I can see these things were just the tip of the iceberg of the culture shock to come. So much was just, well, “foreign.” Despite all my preparation, this was completely unexpected and I was thrown way off-balance. I would say it took me at least a year to really feel settled. I moved so many times it became a joke with my friends, like the children’s book “Where’s Waldo?”—“Where’s Janet?” My life in Mazatlán was so different than anything I’d ever experienced, and also, for the first time in 24 years I was living by myself—no kids. What kind of home did I need, just me? I had no idea.
At this time in Mexico phone service was unreliable and international calls were very expensive. VOIP systems were just starting (like Vonage) and WhatsApp didn’t exist. So, communication with family and friends in the U.S. was really difficult. That made the alone-ness feel worse and more empty. I did a lot of crying in private while maintaining a cheerful facade on the outside and trying to stay focused on a bigger picture and the knowledge that it would get better; things would become familiar, I’d learn more Spanish, even that someday I might have internet in my house.
The fact that everything was in a different, often incomprehensible language was a huge adjustment. I knew some Spanish but took more classes and practiced, practiced, practiced. Everyone jokes about mañana not meaning tomorrow, it just means “not right now”—but it’s not funny when you’re waiting for a phone or cable line, electric service, the plumber or locksmith to show up. It could literally take weeks to accomplish basic things like that, endless hours spent sitting at home and waiting, waiting, waiting; all of it a colossal test in patience for my super-efficient Western way of being.
Eventually though, my life did settle down. I found a place to live that seemed “right,” bought some furniture and began to really explore my new community and the people living there. Mazatlán has a big expat community spread along the coast and there are lots of activities, events and places where gringos gather. There are also many expat-owned businesses—restaurants, beauty salons, stores, coffee shops—making it perhaps too easy to not speak Spanish or get to know the locals. I think that’s both a blessing and a curse, but it does make Mazatlán a great place to ease into living in Mexico.
One of my dreams had been to start a real, direct-from-the-farmers’ market in Mazatlán; I’d worked as manager and assistant manager for two big farmers’ market associations in Santa Cruz and that culture was important to me. Sinaloa was such a big agricultural state, and I believed there had to be organic growers somewhere. So, using the bylaws of markets I’d worked for in the U.S. as a template, I assembled a committee of locals and expats, mostly growers but also a few chosen for their skills or their position in Mazatlán’s very status-conscious society.
I get teary-eyed now looking at photos from the first few markets, remembering how we worked to make it successful, how challenging it was to bring this new concept to Mazatlán and how the local press s
upported us in our efforts to bring locally grown, pesticide-free produce and products to the local population. I watched each week as our initial half-dozen small farmers blossomed, as customers returned, more and more enthusiastic about the fabulous, flavorful fresh things they’d bought the week before. We hosted farm tours and cooking demos with local chefs and organized the city’s first Farm To Table event at one of our member’s farms. We held side-by-side “Taste Tests” of heirloom and commercially grown tomatoes; raw and boxed milk; pure, uncooked honey and corn-syrup-added commercial honey. Today, the Mercado Organico de Mazatlán (MOM) is still going strong, run now by a committee of farmers and vendors in Zaragoza Plaza on Saturday mornings from November to April.
The first year I lived off my savings and what I made from one editing job I’d kept that I could do online. (Living in Mexico is cheap!) I spent so many hours on the beach it’s embarrassing to me now, but it’s what I needed at the time: the sun, the quiet, the healing ocean. I needed that emptiness, that free time, to get my bearings, “re-create” myself and figure out what I was doing. And then I started that business I’d dreamed of: I published an English magazine for nine years, modeled after the arts and entertainment weeklies in the States. It not only supported me but became an integral and beloved part of the community.