Mexico Travel Alert
Mexico Travel Alert
"James D. Bowen, MD" - firstname.lastname@example.org
Having just returned from a hellish, seven week drive through Mexico, the best advice I have for anyone thinking of going to Mexico for a vacation is "Not Mexico, not now!"
Many of my doctor colleagues have told me "Jim, you have more excitement in fifteen minutes of your life than we get in a lifetime." Having spent a yearlong stint with Air Cavalry units in Vietnam at the height of the conflict (See "We were soldiers"), I guess I feel no compulsion to avoid certain types of danger. So fifteen years ago, in the winter of '87 to '88, I chose to drive through Mexico even though tourists from the US were being killed by guerilla actions there, and the country was in a state of civil war. All the parts I went through were under martial law with extreme military scrutiny and presence everywhere. No, the US press does not report anything to you, which the power elite doesn't want you to know, so most here in the US weren't even aware of those events south of the border.
My friends in the travel business were in the know, and said "Jim, don't go. It's not safe. Americans are being killed down there!" I went and saw it all first hand. Roadblocks were frequent, at which Mexican cars were often backed up for 2-3 miles, but the military waved me right on past because I was an American tourist, not a communist. The communists tagged me intensely and there was one attempted ambush. All in all, I returned knowing that the average Mexican on the street was a decent person, and a good friend if you were decent to them. Not anymore! Not at present. Even the Policia running the roadblocks, are often now our enemies, and additionally, psychopathic predators.
My friend Lilia, who has a cross border business in Mexico, advised me before this trip, "Jim. Don't go, not now". I pictured the Mexico of fifteen years ago, which offered friendship and opportunities to their American neighbors. The arrival of the Bush dynasty to the kingly throne of America, and their attempt to become the emperors of the "Nuevo orden del mundo" (See your dollar bill) has changed all that. Virulent, hateful anti Americanism has become the rule rather than the exception. Only the rare person, the intellectual, and the sheltered college student are above all this at the present moment. My friend. Lilia who imports cars into Mexico also warned me "Jim, bring gas filters with you, the gas is dirty, and there is water in all the gas down here. You are going to need them." That was badly needed, but inadequate advice. In fact, you need to take porous ceramic or carved porous rock filters with you. Have them installed before you cross the border, because most American filters are made of paper. You'd best have a carburetor mechanic install the first one. Unlike the paper filters they need a spring to press them into place. Once you have the spring, you can replace them yourself. When you mix gasoline, water, and paper you get a soggy, gooey mess, which will not let gasoline pass through, and your engine becomes hopelessly balky.
Should you have an overreaching and compelling reason to go to Mexico at this time, my fellow gringos and gringas, I believe there are several other things that are "musts" for you to take along. Paper: Due to the extreme financial and economic crisis that the NAFTA fraud has caused over the border, any paper towels and toilet paper that you may need, will often not be available unless you carry them to the site of use with you.
Maps: the only adequate, "anatomically correct" map that I have been able to find is "Guia Roji por las carreteras de Mexico". www.guiaroji.com. Other maps, including the nice plastic coated, fold up ones you can buy at the border are both just inadequate in detail and often completely incorrect. For example, the elegant one that I took with me misplaced Los Mochis by several miles, and reversed the freeway location and the city with respect to each other. This, along with the totally inadequate, inaccurate, and often comically errant highway signs, led me into the city at dusk, driving my balky camper through streets jammed with cars, donkeys, people, even toddlers on trikes. To make matters worse in the falling darkness, the errant map information would indicate that I should go a way to disengage that only led me deeper into the mess. Only many impromptu conferences in my broken Spanish finally got me out of there, but with much stress and difficulties. When I got back to the junction where I made my error, there was not a single sign to help, so it took more impromptu conferences in the darkness with people of varying skill and motivational levels to finally get me going on the right track. The signs to direct me were posted a half a mile later, and rather superfluous, at that point too late too help at all! No possibility to misdirect had been missed. Sometimes there is more than one name for a given location, which are interchangeably used, unbeknown to you. There are often several locations along the route at greatly varying distances that will freely be used interchangeably with no respect to what it engenders in the mind of the newcomer. Some are local names with no route importance, but they are often used in lieu of route destinations.
The importance of a detailed, photographically correct map cannot be overemphasized. Also badly needed is a cell phone that is effective in the areas you will be traveling in. Never before would I have recommended that you need to take a Mexican American as part of your party, but with the abuses, endangerments, and malignantly active anti American prejudice that made my trip a nightmare, this has now become the best advice to help defuse the present hazards that I could offer. My Mexican American friends tell me they have gone through the same nightmares I have in Mexico. You can judge for yourself by the object lessons I lived, as I share my experiences on this trip with you.
I was approached no less than ten times by men who would ask, "Are you a Vietnam veteran?" I guess there were two explanations for this. First the stresses of this trip were certainly enough to unmask my PTSD, revealing the face, and expressions, and mannerisms of the hardened veteran of combat in a war with no front lines. Secondly: The men experiencing a low dopamine type of depression based on their loss of financial stability, self esteem, and hope of any real life, because of the NAFTA fraud and accompanying economic tragedy in Mexico. The low dopamine depressive mood, as so often occurs in the menopause, is characterized by a felt need of combative behavior and fighting to try and restore self esteem, and serve as a temporary patch for the mood. The men, in each case, wanted me to share the horrors of combat in Vietnam with them, so they could vicariously experience the fighting.
Just before departing for Mexico, I got a new Pep Boys rebuilt engine with all new hoses, belts, filters, pumps, starter, and alternator. I confidently drove into Mexico believing I should have little chance of any serious mechanical problems. Remembering the Mexico I had traveled 15 years earlier, I expected gas to be half or less what it was stateside. My camper gave awful mileage, but the price of gas would offset that problem. Twice wrong! When I left, regular gas was less than $1.50 in the US. At my first fill up I found it to be over $2.50 in Mexico. To make matters worse, the anti-Americanism and corruption were now so extreme that the pump attendants often tried to grossly defraud me when making change. Many a times they would casually try to hand me back at least 100 Pesos too little change. Some were experts at creating distractions to confuse the procedure, which often led to more grief, such as loss of gas caps and other personal valuables. The water in the gas moreover, also plagued me from the first fill up. By the time I passed Hermosillo, I was broken down, and right in front of a brothel. This caused the owner a lot of initial distress, because he felt that the presence of my camper might discourage his customers. It didn't. Prostitution is lively and flourishing in Mexico in spite of AIDS, hepatitis, and gringos in campers.
The next morning I was able to limp back to the Pemex station where I got the gas. I explained to them that I had gotten some bad gas and I needed to drain my tank. The pump attendant told me to go out behind a building out of sight, and drain it on the ground! This startled me, because of the obvious environmental disaster such a procedure would be. I had no other option, so I proceeded. Happily, after just a couple gallons, another, more mature employee offered to get some empty jugs so he could use it for "shop gas". When we filled the empty clear jugs the water layered out and he stated in Spanish. "That was indeed bad gas." He began to get nervous, and asked me to stop. His boss then appeared, and seeing the bad watered gas in the jugs, asked me where I got it. I replied with polite Mexican indirection " I have been filling up at all the out of town stations like this one." He nodded that he understood, and apparently took immediate action. The other employee tried to clean my paper filter by blowing air through it, but that was not adequate remedy for the matted, wet paper filter.
Apparently the help were convinced that since gas was priced out of their reach, and since Pemex had water in it anyway, they could just take some out of the tank and replace it with water, and no one would be the wiser. Their head boss had apparently just pointedly disabused them of the idea. When I had them fill my tank, they sat up a scam whereby the man at the pump nodded to the man in the shack and he shut the pump off, trying to simulate the nozzle shutting off the gas flow because the tank was full. I saw through their subterfuge, but was glad to just not get any more gas at that location anyway! I drove on only to discover that the carburetor filtration problems had not been solved because the camper continued to repeatedly, and unrelentingly lose power and buck and die.
I averaged probably ten miles per hour until I arrived in the town of Villa Juarez where I intended to have the carburetor fixed. I slept at the Pemex station. All the Pemex stations have armed guards. Lilia had warned me to do this because of the out of control tensions against Americans in Mexico. The next morning I asked where the SDA church was. A wonderfully friendly young man volunteered to lead me there, and declined to accept even a tip. It is so sad that the many benefits that the average American has to share with sensible nice Mexicans like him are at present unavailable to them. It is just too precarious for Americans there. In my case my retirement income, spent on their local economy, would provide about five well-funded local jobs. The multiplication effect would make that a total of twenty more local jobs than if I were not there. I have a hobby, fifty years of duration, of raising watermelons that are thin of rind, crisp as ice, sweet as sugar, and of excellent flavor. No such melons existed in the Mexico I just experienced. If I succeeded, even more jobs, and technical enrichment would be the result. That moreover, would produce true prosperity: Mexicans producing fine products for Mexicans, which enrich their lives, health, and existence.
I attended Sabbath services there in Villa Juarez. I noticed the anti American feelings of the congregation, unlike fifteen years before, when I was warmly welcomed as I visited church services. Brother Ambrosio, an orphan with no last name, kindly guided me to the privately owned, self supporting Seventh-day Adventist orphanage, at which he had grown up, after being there brought back to health, after sustaining some very bad burns as a baby, and then being abandoned.
That made for a very pleasant time for me. The anti American hostility, so notable in Villa Juarez was not present there. The orphans, glad to have a grand daddy around, were very friendly indeed, as were the staff. The place was a pleasant refuge for me. I spent the Sabbath there and planned to await brother Ambrosio, when he offered that he would on Sunday, come back for me after he had found a mechanic for my engine. I was skeptical that he would be able to, and was not surprised that he did not show on Sunday, because most in town mechanics would be closed on Sunday in Mexico.
The local Sheriff, "Policia" Jesus Godina, who liked to hang around the orphanage, and had set himself up a lean to office and sleeping room there, sat about to case me out to see if he could find a way to make some graft off of me. I felt obliged to answer his overly personal questions as a matter of humoring him. Unknown to me, he was an auto racer. (But not, by any means, a brain about mechanical matters.) He learned that I had a brand new GMC 454 in my camper, and I had brought along a new cam. I , and my engine were doomed. He proceeded to without my permission send word to the mechanic that the engine work needed to be delayed a couple more days. The orphanage director, Pastor Alejandro Verougo was outraged when he heard of this. The Pastor appeared to know his corrupt "Policia " all too well. In fact, the vibrations and body language that I observed suggested to me that the pastor was uneasy about having him around the orphans. So the pastor straightened that out, and Monday morning Brother Ambrosio arrived to guide me to the mechanic in Villa Juarez.
The mechanic, a charming young man who looked you right in the eye and created the impression of utmost candor and sincerity as he discussed the job with you, told me he would go to Ciudad Obregon to get the necessary parts, and return that afternoon, and get on the job that evening. He expected to have the job finished by the following afternoon. He put his assistant to doing the initial disassembly and left. By the time he returned that evening he had what appeared to be a whole "pit crew" of about six young men on the project with him. They were doing the work under his supervision. He would mostly just look over their shoulder to supervise from time to time. They were a group of jocular and more than a little insulting young thugs.
Very often this will happen in Mexico, that when a mechanic works on your engine, a whole pack of mechanics will often work together on the job. This helps make up for the lack of fancy power tools. By pooling their hands and brains, they get the job done very well. I had already given the mechanic my new RV2 cam, and felt free to go get something to eat.
The shop was only a vacant lot beside someone else's house with a rudimentary tool shack at the back of the lot. The only form of lock up was a couple of Dobermans in the yard, who happily for me, seemed to like me a lot. We had the place all to ourselves when night fell. The next morning the "pit crew" had my engine stripped down to bare bones and the cam was ready to go in, but nothing was happening. After hours of stalling, Ambrosio was sent to me with the message that he and I were to take the bus to Ciudad Obregon to "buy parts", so the work could proceed. Hadn't the mechanic done that the day before, and notified me that he had them upon his return? Using hindsight, which is always perfect, they had stolen my cam for the sheriff, and after a couple of hours, had found that particular cam just wouldn't fit in his year model of engine, so they would now steal my new engine to go with the stolen cam!
Not knowing this, I felt good about going to Ciudad Obregon with Brother Ambrosio on the bus. It would be a good experience for me to get acquainted with the bus system, while having a capable guide along. Through out this evil experience that I am relating, it was a constant problem for me, that I was inexperienced and alone amongst people who hated me and were eager to fraudulently abuse their relationship to me including the police who were most often the ringleaders! Intimidating and confusing? Indeed! Especially when the motor was torn apart, and I had to rely on them to put it together again. Did they grandly take advantage of this scenario? Read on. Upon arriving Cd. Obregon, Brother Ambrosio led me to the parts store, but had assumed I knew the Spanish name for the parts. I assumed that he had been instructed by the mechanic, who had sent him to take me on the bus. Since no parts were really needed, I guess the mechanic couldn't tell him what to get. So I had to guess that we needed a head gasket set, and by miming it on other equipment, and then writing down the motor size, try to convey to them what we needed. They didn't have it, but at my request, directed us to another store that did.
After getting the head gasket set, and walking back to the bus stop, Ambrosio insisted we go across the street to a local restaurant to eat. The food was excellent! One of only two actually acceptable meals I had in restaurants on this trip. The fact is that a gallon of gas costs the average Mexican employee over an hour's net wages. Much of the middle class ride buses regularly. If a restaurant is adjacent to a bus stop, it often has food that caters to the middle class taste, and a large enough volume of business to do a good job. Moreover, it had a grill right out front where you could watch the food actually being prepared and cooked. The beans, an "almost always" in Mexican meals, and almost always tasteless or worse, were prepared as a "caldo" or savory broth with a few still intact but very tender beans in the bottom of the bowl of a broth consisting of a vegetable soup with tomatoes, celery, onion, a little green pepper and a few herbs. Delicious! The side dish was a large helping of three large, open fire grilled green onions, startlingly foreign in concept to me, but awesomely delicious. The tacos were equally well prepared. Cokes for both of us brought the total for both meals to only about four dollars. The only bad part was that the anti Americanism in Cd. Obregon was so rank that the waitress and the restaurant help sat and glared at me as we ate, and scowled at me as we left. The same atmosphere of hostility permeated the auto parts stores.
We hastened across the street, and caught the bus for Villa Jaurez just as it was leaving.
Arriving back at the camper, I was surprised to see the work almost completed without the parts we had been sent on a wild goose chase for. I handed the parts to the crew who opened the package but never used any of it, so I took it along with me. If this seems surrealistic, well it is a very intimidating situation to be dependant on people to fix your car after they have it torn down and made it very plain they don't at all like you, knowing the whole situation has been set up by the crooked "Policia" while in a foreign land that is undergoing a convulsion of extreme anti American prejudice, after they have so often bent the rules of decent conduct that you don't know for sure at that moment when you will see your car in order to get you out of there. I was faced with no win situations similar to this on almost every day of my hellish trip through Mexico, thanks to the militant anti Americanism that Bush and Rummsfeld have engendered there with their political abuses, and bullying, and their destruction of the "economy of the poor" (as well as most others) in Mexico with the NAFTA hoax.
The ground at the back of the motor under my pick up was heavily stained with transmission fluid, which wasn't there before, indicating they had taken the block off of the transmission while I was gone. Merely changing a cam, which was what they were supposed to have done, does not go there mechanically. The mechanic was visibly worried when he saw that I noticed the fluid, and offered that my transmission had gone bad, and was leaking fluid and needed repaired. It hadn't had a single symptom prior to that moment, and when I checked it, it was full up. My thirty-year old transmission was, in fact, a wonder of durability, and remains so. With all of the constant breakdowns and stalling from time to time, it hasn't caused a single glitch even though frequently jerked around. The mechanic was very meticulous in getting all the finish work done right, with all lines put back in place properly, which Pep Boys hadn't accomplished. He got the porous ceramic filters installed for me, with even a few extra provided to use when I needed. He charged me only eighty dollars for two days work of a crew of seven or so, and looked horribly guilty when I gave him a twenty dollar tip. I believe he was forced by the "Policia" to let the cop have his way, and would most probably be a valuable resource to the Mexican consulate should they decide to internally deal with matters surrounding this report. Who knows what power of threat and blackmail, etc. the "Sheriff", Policia Jesus Godina, might hold over him, though.
At my request, the mechanic directed me to a local air conditioner shop. Before I could get my stuff packed back in the camper and get on my way, the chief mechanic in the sheriff's "pit crew" returned in a very angry mood, and asked me how high the lift on the new cam really was? Why should he care? It was supposed to be in my vehicle anyway! When I told him that a very knowledgeable mechanic friend of mine had told me to use a RV2 cam to improve my mileage, and that was all I knew, he became enraged and stalked off. Apparently they had discovered what I already knew, that the RV2 cam they had stolen along with my new motor is a mid range cam, only beneficial for improving mileage in campers. An RV2 will, in fact, cause the valves to float at the high rpms used in racing, and lessen the racing performance of an engine.
I proceeded to the air conditioner shop and was once again impressed by the ingenuity of small town Mexican mechanics. He did not, of course, have the necessary parts to repair my thirty year old air conditioner, but to my amazement and admiration, he with very rudimentary tools and very skilled hands and brain, was able to take scrap out of his junk pile and handcraft all the parts he needed to put my AC back in working order! All this amidst raging anti Americanism so strong he had to advise me not to accompany him to the auto parts store to buy the Freon, as had the mechanic when he went to get the "stone" gas filters, as he called them.
Almost predictably, here came Policia Jesus Godina, right on schedule, you might say, with a forced smile on his face. Forcibly grinning from ear to ear, he said "Doc, Even with your new cam you won't get any mileage from your camper. You need a smaller engine. I am going to find you one, and have it put in for you." He really wanted his older racing engine back but had no intention of returning my new, but now stolen, 454, and RV2 cam. I merely told him I hadn't even tried out my new cam yet to see what it would do. He could say nothing, but gave me a determined angry grin that let me know he intended to get his well-used racing engine back. Perhaps he has.
The "replacement" engine in my camper had good power, although it did not have as high oil pressure, nor maintain it as well as my new engine had. It ran very well in spite of Pemex, with the porous "stone" filter in it for several hundred miles until the ceramic filter plugged with the ordinary dirt in Pemex, and had to be replaced. Then, the hurried, sloppy, careless work the sheriff's pit crew had done while stealing my new engine, rose up to viciously strike me with horrible motor problems, which it thereafter did again and again!
Going on down the coast by the "libre", free roads I met a new friend while held up by a traffic delay. Never use "libre", unless forced to do so. I was a romantic who liked to see the country via the back roads, at least until I learned how truly expensive, dangerous, and impossibly hard on your vehicle they are! Ambrosio, at my request, had shown me some of the therapeutic herbs of Mexico including a tree called "Lynn", and an herb called "Valeriana". Not to be confused with the herb called valerian in English. Valeriana is a wild mint, used as a tea, which was a tasty drink, a sedative and sleeper, and a remarkable arthritis cure as well. My newfound friend was a veterinarian who used herbal remedies almost exclusively in his practice. The chance to make this acquaintance with a local veterinarian, who used almost totally herbal medicine to treat his patients, turned the delay into a remarkably blessed experience for me.
Valeriana is a highly regionalized and rare herb, but I didn't yet know that, and we had stopped right in the middle of a patch of it! When the Vet saw my interest in it, he told me of its remarkable therapeutic powers, adding that its essential oil was so well absorbed through the skin that it was also, just as effective, if the fresh leaves were rubbed on the skin.
Next to trusting mechanics who were under the influence of the corrupt, ruthlessly predatory, and bitterly anti American Policia, my next three greatest mistakes, while in Mexico, were not getting the name and address of my newfound veterinarian/herbalist friend, and not taking his advice that the present wave of anti Americanism was so strong that I'd best give up my quest to live in Mexico for the time being. The third was that when the traffic resumed, not wanting to lose my place in the traffic jam, I rushed off and left my patch of Valeriana. In spite of searching and searching, at great length and expense, I was never able to find another! For any who may be serious herbalists, and also read scientific Spanish, I did get the name of a book that should be a treasure, if you are able to come by a copy: "Los Animales de Mexico Herbario". This treasure of herbal knowledge from Mexican Veterinarians should open a lot of new vistas in herbal therapy. Since placebo effect is unlikely in animals, it is highly likely that the therapeutic potentials of herbal therapies offered by experience in veterinary medicine would usually be of unquestionable validity. As I traveled on down the coast, the presence of a very active and very dangerous anti American guerilla movement became more and more evident. The soldiers guarding the Pemex stations usually wore their heavily armored clothing. They often had constructed bunkers or camouflaged their observation areas to protect themselves from bombs, or sniper fire.
One spot I arrived at, the road had just collapsed across the south bound lane. Since there had been no recent rainfall and the local creeks were dried up, it was not a washout, but a place where the road had been undermined to create a collapse. Happily, with no oncoming traffic, I was able to just swing into the left lane, and drive right on past. Soon thereafter, I saw a guerilla in action. I had pulled off onto a dirt side road and driven down it to see what herbs I might encounter, hoping to perhaps find some Valeriana. I parked my camper and walked on down the road inspecting the plants growing there. I spotted a young man dressed in clothes of colors not constituting any uniform, and carrying a kalishnikoff, which taken together clearly identified him as a guerilla. He was loping towards me in that easy rolling pace that muscular youth have, which is effortless and not quite a run, but which covers a lot of distance very quickly. I estimate he was doing about five miles an hour. Seeing me, he altered his course to come no closer than thirty yards from me. Had he ever swung his kalishnikoff in my direction I would have "hit the dirt". As it was it wouldn't have been realistic to pretend I didn't see him, so I just gave him an idle look as if I was used to seeing young guerillas loping along with their kalishnikoffs as an every day affair. One reason that he had no interest in engaging me at that particular moment soon became apparent. About three hundred yards behind him was a platoon of Mexican army in pursuit. To have engaged me would have both tied him up, and pinpointed his location for them. The platoon were dressed in kevlar woven body armor, which was buttoned up.
The platoon had the grim, tense, concerned look of men anticipating active combat. They were going by the book for such pursuits. They had spaced out widely to form a net, since they had no way of knowing where the guerilla would go. They were moving forward in a manner designed to approach every possible place of concealment from a position by which they had it covered with a crossed field of fire as they exposed themselves to it, carefully and silently waving each other forward as they secured the territory. Well they should have, because had they merely grouped together in hasty pursuit, the guerilla could have easily, with a burst of fire from his kalishnikoff, rendered the whole platoon casualties. This illustrates one of the challenges of dealing with dedicated guerillas. The platoon was doing about a mile an hour. The guerilla had nothing to fear from them on that occasion. A significant difference between the present guerilla uprising, and the one fifteen years ago, is that the former was based on communism. The Mexican government dealt with that by out communizing the communists. Newly enacted social programs left the communists with no realistic basis for the ideals they espoused in Mexico. The present uprising is a populist uprising based upon the very prevalent anti American hatred resulting from the economic raping of Mexico by the Bushes and the Rummsfelds of the world. When I mention the Bushes in this article, I mean the whole extended Illuminatti clan, of which the Bush dynasty, which has illegally and unconstitutionally, criminally seized the reigns of power in the US, is but a part.
The NAFTA fraud of both the US, and Mexican public is what has brought this present populist hatred of Americans upon us. This hatred is so intense, and rapidly becoming so engrained, that as with Serbs and Bosnians, it will persist for generations, unless the US takes immediate steps to undo the damage done to the Mexican poor and those made poor by the NAFTA scam, as well as its own citizenry. Exemplary of the malice exercised upon the Mexicans by NAFTA is what happened with the maquiladoras. These industries were opened in "free economic zones" in Mexico along the border where US manufacturers could operate factories, and bring the goods so produced back into the US, with little if any duty. This rapidly became the source of many badly needed jobs for Mexicans and was a fabulous PR source for the US and NAFTA. Many Mexican nationals not only gained employment but acquired job skills and commercial knowledge which enabled them to function socio-economically well above what they likely otherwise could have. A friend of mine is an example. When their US employer decided to leave, he felt forced, along with several other foremen, to buy the building, and finding the Mexican bureaucracy to be the biggest single obstacle they have to overcome, to make a success of the business.
The Mexicans were led to believe that the maquiladoras were just a small sample of what the benefits of cooperating with the US, in NAFTA would bring. Instead, hardly was the ink on NAFTA dry before the US massively pulled jobs out of the maquiladoras, about 60,000 Mexicans were left jobless, and bereft of everything. The Bushes who for about twenty years have made a virtual cartel of the China trade, used NAFTA as a smoke screen to flood the US and Mexican economy with goods from China where industrial wages are about 25 cents per hour, pocketing the immense gap between Chinese and US/Mexican wages for themselves, while even further destroying the US and Mexican economies.
Even our sophisticated weaponry, like cruise missiles are now being built in China. I wonder how much Bush and Rummsfeld pocket of the million and a half that each tomahawk costs us! These "Chinese" tomahawks are now often missing their targets and hitting civilian populations! No wonder, the crude state of Chinese industrial and metallurgical technology would predictably produce such problems. Middle Easterners, who stand in awe of US military technology, are asking: "with such advanced technical abilities, why is America now hitting civilian targets with no military excuse to do so." The Answer is spiritual, not technical. These demonists have chosen inferior products to fatten their own pockets. If innocents are killed, so what! They could care less. As Christ said, "The love of money is the root of all evil." These demonists' creed is that there are two classes of people in the world' "wolves and sheep" They certainly consider themselves wolves, not sheep. They pride themselves that: "If you are a wolf, it is just natural to get a little wool stuck between your teeth every now and then."
Wouldn't unemployed America want those jobs? We now have far less, and the Bushes far more. Welcome to the new world order where they own and control everything. That includes the commerce and trade, the jobs, the assets, the government, the professions, and even the religious institutions. And, of course, our civil rights! What the declaration of independence and the constitution declare to be for us inalienable rights", are now gone as far as they are concerned. Demonstrated in the, "so called", Homeland Security Act!
When I arrived in Puerto Vallarta, the operative hatred of Americans was very much in evidence. I went to a restaurant a couple blocks back from the beach, which offered attractive breakfast packages for 25 pesos. When I got seated there, the angry and offensive waitress refused to sell me the breakfast package and made me order off the menu, which ended up costing me more than twice as much for less food. I was by now interested in measuring the depth of the hatred Mexicans are harboring for the US citizen. I gave her a 10% tip, which she didn't deserve. She angrily and quickly snatched up the tip, and rushed across the room to stand there and glare at me. I went to a clothing shop, with its front open to the sidewalk, about a block away to replace a pair of shorts I had purchased back home in K Mart for about $3. There was a stack of shorts marked 3 for $10. When I asked the proprietor about the shorts, she angrily told me they would be $10 each for me! The shorts that fit me were in a different stack so she made them $15 for me. Yes, I have brought back, as a personal reminder not to even think about going back to Puerto Vallarta, a $3 pair of shorts I was charged $15 for, as well as being treated very hatefully for the crime of being an American. A few blocks away, as the day grew warmer, I became thirsty and noticed that one of the locals had opened his door to the sidewalk and set up a Kool Aid stand in it. I asked him how much, and ordered a couple of glasses, after he told me the price of two pesos. A girl walked up to him and said "Americano". The price was now ten pesos per little plastic cup of cool aid to me! The Americano! When I called to ask about a rental, the price of the rent jumped from $250 dollars per month to $750, as soon as the landlady judged by my voice that I was an Americano, and I would have to take a full years lease at that price!
I stopped in another restaurant for lunch, and noticing that the owner was thoughtfully observing me, I waved him over, so we could visit while I ate. He turned out to be an intellectual who did not want to get personally involved in the anti American hatred so prevalent in Puerto Vallarta, but rather wanted answers. I quite accurately observed him to be a European Jew who looked very much like my own Jewish ancestors. When I asked where he came from, he verified that he had come to Mexico as a child just after WW11, having survived the hell of Hitler's "New World Order". The "Third Reich" had turned Europe into a hell on earth. Being an intellectual he didn't waste time with bitter memories, which he had dealt with mentally, by learning the truth of Hitler and the Rothschild Illuminati, but rather, had salient questions for me. "What about George Bush"? He asked me. I answered: "King George"? I distinctly indicated, in those salient two words, that Bush was not at all about democracy, or international friendship and cooperation, but rather was a tyrant, into tyranny, and into becoming the "Emperor" of the "New World Empire."
We enlarged upon the Bushes, including the fact that George had lost the popular vote. True to his dictatorial nature, he had illegally seized the electoral vote by having his thugs, his brother's Florida state police, blockade the voters from the polls in predominantly democratic districts in Florida, thus annulling the validity of the vote.
The kangaroo nature of the US Supreme Court is evidenced by their blindness to any thing being wrong with this fascist travesty. I had other friends, who were young adults in Hitler's Nazi Germany, who related those times to me. They said, "We didn't approve of Hitler's programs, and what was going on at all, but Hitler had his thugs in the streets. What happened if you spoke out, was that you disappeared."
I mentioned that many of Bushes' programs were exact duplicates, translated almost word for word, from Hitler's programs. With the passage of the "Homeland Security Act" the right to free speech had been obliterated, and I could now be made to "disappear", because it authorizes arrest without cause or warrant for anyone criticizing the President. That person could be held incognito, with no proven charge, indefinitely, and without counsel, nor anyone being allowed to know where he was or what was going on. This has absolutely nothing to do with security. It is just purely a recreation of Hitler's fascism.
I also shared with him that the Bush Presidents were direct descendants of the Tudor Dynasty, and King George the third who were run out in the American revolution as well as being familial cousins of Hitler in the big Illuminati family. The owner had already looked for and found answers about Hitler's dictatorship, and had extensively studied the Illuminati, such as the Rothschilds, and could therefore verify that fact from his own research.
We discussed the fact the only way the twin towers went down, and the pentagon was hit by a plane become bomb, was that the order had to have come from the commanders in chief to stand down the air defenses, at these sites, two of the most heavily defended sites against air assault in the US, (see Billions of Victims), and that I personally would love to be the prosecutor to prove charges of first degree mass murder against Bush and Rummsfeld.
I mentioned the fact that I already knew the Bush clan and Rummsfeld to be mass murderers because Aspartame was a device of mass murder and mind disablement. It had been brought here from Nazi Germany in "operation paperclip" (along with MSG and Fluoride), in which Nazi personnel and Nazi chemical warfare agents were brought here by the Bushes to be unleashed on the American public. While, at the same moment, the US mass media promised us that the Nazis were all being prosecuted, and all of their inhumane sick science was being locked away, never to be allowed to surface again. The Bushes had openly traded with the Nazis before and during WW11, amassing much of their fortune thereby. Non Illuminati Americans would have been executed for treason had they done so! I mentioned that I was abused as a political dissident including false imprisonment, and many open paid attempts on my life, because I was a medical doctor and biochemist who had spoken out about the poisonous biochemistry of "Nutra Sweet" twenty plus years ago, thus bringing the Bushes, Rummsfeld, and their New World Order down on my case to somehow silence me. He noted that Aspartame, present in the "lite" pop in Mexico was not at all trusted, and but little consumed. The Mexican population have been so badly damaged by chemical influences that they just naturally avoid about any chemical they can. Oh, that Americans could have as much common sense!
We discussed how the Nuevo Orden Del Mundo controlled the mass media in the US and Mexico. The average man on the street in, both countries, who seldom did more than watch TV and read the headlines would scarcely be aware of any of this, nor have any adequate factual foundation from which to comprehend or believe the truth.
He was completely aware that the US is most often a "loaded gun" whose military, and foreign policy procedures can be "aimed" by the New World order Illuminati at will to achieve their objectives. Support for such actions is usually drummed up by lying, fraudulent media misrepresentations to the US public. He mentioned that President Marcos in the Philippines was deposed by his long term "friend and ally", the US. Supposedly for corruption, but that the real issue was that Marcos refused to give the resources of the Philippines to the Illuminati international bankers. Do you know why we don't even own our own US National parks any more? Especially close to Mexican concerns was the fact, which he brought out, that the CIA had made Manuel Noriega the dictator of Panama, and then deposed him, supposedly, for drug dealing. He mentioned that the real reason Noriega was deposed was that he refused to give the US Illuminati a cartel on the Panamanian Banana industry. You may remember that the US CIA is one of the world's biggest drug dealers, and there is a US Senator who very openly testified in sworn hearings that he was a CIA drug dealer in close collaboration with President Reagan.
The owner then went on to his next area of intellectual concern. What about NAFTA?! He had seen the tremendously destructive economic chaos that had ensued, resultant from NAFTA. I told him that like everything else the Bushes and Rummsfeld had been saying, NAFTA was a lie, crafted to enrich them and defraud everyone else. We had been told that Nafta was about free trade between Mexico, Canada, and the US. In fact, it is merely a smoke screen to hide the fact that the Bushes are profiting enormously by buying in China where labor cost are around 25 cents an hour, and massively importing the stuff into the US and Mexico. Thereby realizing immense profits at the expense of everyone else. It became very clear to him, at that point, just what the present economic destruction was all about. We visited pleasantly, and shared information for about three hours before I went on down the coast.
Weeks later, when I was returning up the coast, I stopped there for supper. His wife, a lovely Mexican national was clearly delighted to see me. I enjoyed supper, but my friend and fellow was nowhere in evidence. An hour passed and she did not offer an explanation. When my meal was over, I asked casually "where is your hubby." Her pleased and sly little grin let me know that she had been holding her tongue just to get me to ask, and that she had some good news for me, which she was going to enjoy sharing with me. She told me that her husband had gone to a distant Mexican city to discuss, with a sizeable group of Mexico's intelligentsia, the things he had discussed with me.
Going on down the coast, I continued to encounter undeserved abuse and anti American hatred, although there were some who did not share in it. The Pemex pump attendants
Often tried to cheat me when making change. They frequently tried to confuse me by giving me "exact change" that was just exactly a hundred pesos (about $10) short. The toll road attendants sometimes tried, and some were experts at committing a "hold up". North bound at the last tollbooth south of Mazatlan, I was frustrated because There was nothing less than a two hundred peso note in my wallet, and I handed the clean cut young man a 200 peso note. He gave a little flick of his wrist, as dishonest cashiers often do when dropping money on the floor, and handed me back change for exactly fifty pesos. When I reminded him, he pulled a fifty off the top of his drawer and displayed it to me. There was nothing I could do. No one else was present, and even if a security camera were present it, would never show the 200 peso note held beneath his hand until he dropped it on the floor. I decided to thereafter call out the size of the note, as I handed it to the booth person.
The last tollbooth before Nogales showed me even that would be futile. I handed the clean-cut young man a one hundred peso note, and called it out. He merely mixed up a bunch of coins and paper and handed them to me in such an unsteady manner that I dropped some as I brought it back in the window. I was once again stymied. This mix up of monies is especially open to abuse in Mexico, because coin and paper amounts often overlap and the coins are not of distinctive mint. You also have to watch the paper money, which can be confusing to the American eye because it relies on subtle changes of color and size, which we are not used to. To make matters worse for the traveler, the cashiers have all day long to look for, and think of ways to rob you. Once learned, such habits can very easily cross the border with the individual. I went to the Nogales Pizza Hut just north of the border. When I paid my bill, the cashier gave me "exact change" down to the last penny, except that it was lacking one ten dollar bill. After pretending to quickly count it out to me, She laid it right in front of my wallet in my left hand and quickly turned away, to other customers, thus demanding that I put it in my wallet on the spot. She felt not the least shame when I confronted her and got my money. The only sure fire way I can think of to deal with these "Toll Booth Bandits" is to carry a money can with lots of every denomination up through fifties in it. Get out of your car, and look them levelly in the eye as you give them exact change. Any delay this might cause is their fault for not providing integrity at their tollbooths. They are certainly not above using a traffic rush as a cover for their fraudulent cashiering.
When I stopped at businesses, a few were much like the hateful merchants in Puerto Vallarta. Many others were pleasant, honest and helpful. The military appeared to be more and more on the alert, working out of more and more well fortified positions. Most who stopped me seemed truly happy to learn that I was just a lazy old gringo seeking a place to live the "good life" in Mexico. Some laughed and joked with me, trying to be helpful. The restaurants on the beaches, which served the tourist trade, seemed to have the best food, as well as being clean and comfortable.
AT one point, Zihuatanejo, I believe, the soldiers named a town off the road, Tenexpa, as I remember, that I would soon be driving past, and told me that the women in that town were really good looking and fun to party with. I would be making a big mistake if I didn't take the extra drive to stop through there on my way down the coast. I bit, and when I got to the road junction, I took off on the mostly dirt road that led to the village. When I got there, almost no one was in sight, but every business I stopped at was indeed manned by nice looking women of northern European, African, and Oriental bloodlines. There was less of the usual Mestizo of Spanish and Indian ancestry. There was a hotel of about five stories with the elegant European architecture of the late 1800's. Prostitution was obviously flourishing there. There were pimps on the portico of the hotel, which loudly and aggressively shouted at me that I must stop at this very moment and see their lovely merchandise.
I pretended deafness and drove on by to the far edge of town, where I saw a phenomenon, which utterly amazed me. Being desert, and well back off the beach, the town was indeed hardscrabble for the local band of burros. Almost nothing was growing there. Just a few blades of very dry grass here and there. The burros were even chewing on some dry construction tape, apparently trying to profit somehow by licking the glue off of it. I noticed quite a lot of burro manure out on the remnants of a cement road that went through the town, but none on the adjacent desert. As I looked around I noticed the burros making use of the pavement for their toilet and nowhere else! Contemplating this, I drew the conclusion that the burros had collectively chosen to save every possible bit of their eating environment by using only the cement, which had zero potential for growing anything, as their toilet. Very smart donkeys indeed! Oh! That Bush and Rummsfeld were even half as socially conscious!
The next puzzle I wanted to unravel was: How did the ancestors of these distinctively and fine featured women, and this elegant late nineteenth century hotel get out here in nowhere. No present evidence gave any reason for them to have come here, or be here. My best conjecture was that when Maximilian, of the European royal blood, was sent here by the French to be the Emperor of Mexico and Central America, he must have established a regional garrison here for his higher ranking officers, and bureaucrats, along with their wives and concubines. So typical of Mexican history, they were subsequently left stranded there when he was abruptly deposed by nationalist Mexican military endeavors, which brought about his precipitous departure.
Traveling on down the coast, the tension of the guerilla activity became more and more evident in the activities and faces of the soldiers. At one point north of Acapulco I came to the scene of a very recent ambush. The car or cars had been removed, and a road crew was cleaning up the debris. Two platoons of very concerned soldiers were guarding the road crew, positioning themselves behind rocks or other cover, and scrutinizing the bluffs overlooking the site for hostiles. They then set up a couple of squads to move out to secure the territory. When I stopped at a little shanty of a restaurant, a little further on down the road, the waitress refused to acknowledge me or serve me. I shouted at the owner, "Are you serving food here or not." Whereupon he told the waitress she had to serve me, and I was provided a very reasonably priced meal. The waitress refused to even look at me, but brought my food and took my money. It was an opportune place for me to have stopped. The local military garrison was directly across the road, and very soon, two more platoons of soldiers were hurriedly dispatched on trucks up the road towards the ambush site. The waitress was likely a friend of guerilla and soldier alike. In a populist revolt it is frequently difficult to keep the "sides" separated, i.e. Vietnam. I finished my food and continued south.
Pemex may offer expensive, watered down, and dirty fuel, but they are almost universally available everywhere in Mexico, and well guarded. In this case it had been a long while since I had seen one, and I hadn't gassed up at my last opportunity. I needed gas very soon. The next Pemex station that I came upon had no guard. This kind of surprised me since we were obviously in an area of intense guerilla activity.
When I pulled up to the pump, the attendant refused to serve me. She stated they were out of gas. Her eyes were brimming with hostility towards me. I pulled over by the restroom. It quickly became apparent they were not out of gas. When the next car pulled in they were immediately given a fill up, and so forth for three more cars. At which point I pulled in behind the car she was filling up and drove in as it pulled away. She merely placed a barricade in front of the camper and walked away, still refusing to gas me. When the next car pulled in, she filled it at a different pump. I decided to tell each driver to call the police at their next opportunity, because I was being refused service. I exhibited my aggressive attitude by using my camper to push the barricade out of my way and pulled in behind the other car. At that, she gave in and filled me up.
15 years earlier, during the communist uprising I was being pretty well protected by the military and police. The communists set up a scam whereby they put gas in my diesel tank. Only having a second tank, which I could switch to, kept me from being broken down in remote and hostile territory.
I soon arrived at a village and beach, which was a famous refuge of sea turtle breeding grounds. I made my way out to the beach and met a French couple, who were interested in me because I was an American. They were curious about Bush, and Rummsfeld, and what was going on, anyway. I filled them in about the stolen election, Rummsfeld being the godfather in the Jewish Mafia, and the 9-11 incident being a set up that had to be by permission of standing down the air defenses on some of the best protected real estate in the US. Moreover, the threat to the twin tours on that particular date was well known to be extreme. In fact, only two citizens of the state of Israel were lost in the loss of the towers, out of a few hundred who worked there.
I explained that the Illuminati are the organizational, spiritual, and to some degree, the familial descendants of the ancient Satanistic Canaanite sun worshipping heathen who got Israel and Judah destroyed in that day, and which, because of their close allegiance to, and effectiveness for Satan in destroying and degrading their fellow man, have been prominent throughout subsequent history, often as dynasties, and royalty, and prominent influential figures. Sometimes they are equally prominent as manipulators of governments, and many systems, and professions, especially the monetary systems. Always: wars, famines, epidemics, disasters impoverishment and moral degradation are amongst what they accomplish for their Satanic Master. They are made to benefit from this. I pointed out that the Bushes are the Illuminati familial relatives of the Rothschilds, and Hitler.
I told them that I had learned a great deal about Rummsfeld, and the Bushes because I had almost been killed by Aspartame when it was first marketed in the Lo Cal Koolaid. Because I had spoken out about the heinous, poisonous biochemistry of Aspartame as a concerned, and well researched medical doctor and biochemist, the Satanic new world order had attacked me full force, falsely imprisoning me, taking out contracts on my life, destroying me professionally, socially, and occupationally. I confessed that I was alive, and continuing to expose the murderous Aspartame issue only because of the Lord's protection. I had more frequent reminders of that than most people. I also confessed that I could not outsmart, out fight, outrun, nor even slip away from the Satanists who will do everything they can to keep Aspartame flowing into the human organism. For example, Aspartame is not even sweet. It is bitter and foul flavored. They secretly and illegally add other chemicals to hide its bitter flavor and create the sweetening. There is no commercial purpose for such a chemical, except as a form of paid murder. When I researched related topics on www.USPTO.gov, I found about 150 patents listing about 2000 chemicals for the specific intellectual property purpose of "hiding the bitter foul flavor of Aspartame, and providing the sweetening".
The leaders in the food, chemicals, and flavorings industries!, even the sugar companies were amongst the holders of these patents! Many brand names, well known and respected by consumers had been used to slip this poison into people. Many powerful insiders are well aware of what Aspartame really is and they want their share of the CONTRACT ON HUMANITY, so they patented all of this as "intellectual property", to insure that they get a piece of the action. This is just how it was done in Nazi Germany. Neither concern for human welfare, the rule of law, truth, nor due process, have the slightest bearing on the Aspartame issue! Much more valuable information is available on www.rense.com, www.dorway.com, www.holisticmed.com, just to name a few of the 140,000 or so net sites currently functioning to alert the public about Aspartame.
We continued to discuss how the Bush regime is just really a re-creation of Nazi fascism in the form of a "New world order", and that The Bushes are determined to, just like Hitler in his day, to be the emperors. Aspartame is the flagship in Satan's fleet of chemicals out there to brainwash and destroy you. The French couple hoped that I would stay around for a few days, but the best I could do for them was to tell them to get further information from the internet, and books, like those by Dr Hyman Roberts which go into great detail about Aspartame. Throughout my brief stay at this rather famous tourist stop, the natives were dour and unfriendly, reflecting that anti Americanism is more important to them than any desire for tourism revenue. They were at the same moment, very openly, and selectively warm and friendly to the French.
I had wondered about schistosomiasis in Mexican waters. It is a horrible disease in which parasitic worms, in larval form, infest the water where there is fecal, or urinary contamination of the water in the presence of a host snail. These larvae then cut their way into the human organism through the skin causing a "swimmers itch". That is only the beginning. The parasitic worms then cut their way into the blood vessels, where they seek out a mate, entwining and mating for life and living in the blood vessels. The final step in this human tragedy is that they then begin to produce large numbers of eggs, which are released into the blood and travel downstream, Some are released into the urine and feces when the presence of egg masses causes necrosis of the intestinal or bladder wall, releasing the eggs. Obviously all of the eggs can't escape in this highly damaging manner, and the retained egg masses and worms cause accumulations of inflammation and foreign body reaction called granulomas which may cause great damage anywhere in the body, often the spinal cord. The French had been warned of the presence of this horrorific disease, present in the fresh water creek that wandered diagonally across the beach. Because of my background, I knew to ask them. The Mexicans said not a word to alert me of this extreme hazard!
On down the coast I encountered Playa Azul. The restaurant personnel where I ate also displayed extreme hostility. When I arranged to buy a small coconut stick from the owner for fifty cents, a more than adequate price, his wife glared and shouted out in Spanish, "No, a dollar." A building there had anti American slogans painted on it. They weren't good old "Yankee, go home." They were in Spanish and quite detailed, and apparently, quite effective.
One of the things I wanted to do was see the village of San Jose, Guerrero. I had met a young man from there who had described it to me with regards to its varied gardening and orcharding opportunities. These were my favorite hobbies: Inactivated for twenty years due to the total disruption of life style I had to pay with, for warning the endangered public about Aspartame. I was still thinking I could adapt to Mexico, and find there the life I was denied in the US. (Even before the Homeland Security Act, by which, one of our supposedly inalienable rights has been done away with at the hands of Rummsfeld and the Bushes, my freedom of speech had, in reality, and for all practical purposes, been obliterated!) Much to my dismay, I found that even with the inadequate maps I had, there could be found no less than six San Jose, Guerreros.
Looking at the likely topography, I thought I could rule out three of the San Joses. The second one I got to was along the coastal highway near the far border of Guerrero State. It was an extremely impoverished desert village. Someone had established an auto painting business there. Painting is also done without any enclosure. The proprietor had a nicely painted vintage sedan as exemplary of the work he did. Given better circumstances I would have him give me a quote, but time was of the essence because of the many delays that were imposing on my schedule. Just a small distance beyond this dismally poor little village, on the right side of the road towards the sea, was the finest restaurant I have ever eaten in. It had a ladies name attached to it, and appeared to have been an attempt to run a small resort and failed. That made it a very spacious, well laid out restaurant. I was even able to take a shower in the men's room, probably an amenity left over from the attempt to run a resort there. The menu was all fresh stuff, most of it raised right there on the resort grounds. The Prices were very reasonable. An ample breakfast plus a large delicious watermelon smoothie cost me about $2.50. I would really liked to have stayed and visited with the people, but I hurried on.
Curse the VA! You have to work at their bureaucratic pace or not at all, and I was running out of meds. Because I had an appointment with the Tucson VA to get some badly needed medications refilled, I had to turn back before seeing the Caribbean coast of Mexico. The central mountainous route, going up towards Mexico City would allow me to see new territory as well as Cuernavaca, "The Land of Eternal Springtime", and continue on to see another San Jose. The roads in south central Mexico were hellacious: Pot holes, and "topes", (speed bumps) everywhere. It seemed as though speed limits were not yet invented in that region. Everyone who wanted a tope: Village, town, or person, or whatever, very democratically would place a tope where they wished one were. Often, with scant warning, and
they might be of asphalt, cement, metal half spheres, or rocks, sometimes rocks mixed with sand. Some might be clearly marked with warning signs, and painted to boot. Some are only painted on flat pavement to scare you into slowing to about two miles per hour. Besides tearing your vehicle up, the other problems with topes are they make your progress intolerably slow, and ruin your mileage. To make matters more confusing, some topes really do prevent you from encountering a serious hazard. One, home made of sand and gravel, forced me to slow down right where the road went into a sharp curve with a reversed bevel which would cause cars to just fly off the road if they weren't slowed way down. I guess the people who lived there wanted to get some sleep at night without all the accidents, ambulances and wrecker noise, etc.
Topes are only one of many reasons to never drive at night in Mexico. If you have personal knowledge of a given toll road, "autopistas de cuota", it may be an acceptable risk, but don't count on it. Much of the populace assume that once night has fallen, the roads un qualifiedly belong to them, as their you risk hitting pedestrians, topes, bicyclists without any lights or reflectors, potholes, or any number of animals that have liberated the roads for their own purposes. I was lucky, hitting only one animal as I drove through Mexico. It was near the orphanage that a pack of four young bulls, which were fighting along the road, suddenly decided to carry their fight out onto the road. I stood my camper on its nose to avoid them, but of course they weren't the least interest in avoiding me, so one got his hind leg wrapped around the bumper and ran way on three legs, dangling the fourth because its knee was ruptured. The farmer saw the whole episode and merely waved me on. During the day, Mexican animals are fit examples of "survival of the fittest". The ones that have learned to graze the roads keeping their heads only six inches away from the speeding vehicles while they graze, without panicking, are apparently the only ones that have survived to reproduce. During the day they do this all the time. I never once saw any get frightened and bolt unto the highway, etc., but it takes some getting used to!
My camper had been running smoothly, with the ceramic filters installed from Villa Juarez, not clogging with the water, but now the other dirt in the gas was plugging them up. In the mountains on highway 180 going towards Oaxaca, my engine began to get balky and hard to start. I changed the filter, which should have been a minor mechanical task, except that Sheriff Godina's "pit crew" didn't take time to re-contour the metal gas line to the filter while they were stealing my engine. So it took more effort to clear the female receptacle on the carburetor for the filter, and once it was back in place, with the first few turns of the compression nut in place, instead of it just being a matter of tightening down the nut in a routine matter as it should, the ill fitting gasoline pipe was forcing the nut into a cross threaded position and tearing up the filter chamber. I did not know this. I continued through the mountains and soon began to smell gas, which got stronger and stronger. When I stopped to check, there was a stream of gas about an eighth of an inch thick across squirting out onto my engine. I was hoping to find a mechanic. Only problem was that I was way up into some real mountainous territory where the only place to put the road was on the tops and sides of the razorback ridges. Nowhere but nowhere was there enough level ground for even a Mexican mechanic's shop. Being well up into the mountains there was nothing to be gained by turning back. My car could burst into flames at any time going either direction. I noted how much fuel I had used, and surmised I could make it out, even if I continued to lose fuel at the same rate.
The people of this Mexican Appalachia remind me of our own Appalachians. They live way up there because it is above the heat and humidity, the air is clean and clear, and you could see forever. The fact that that most lived by sustenance farming on almost impossible slopes, and many had to walk or run many miles every day to get their life's routines over with, did not for a minute discourage them. Some were also gatherers, who went into the mountains and gathered cocoa pods, bark and fruit, etc. only to have to then take a bus at considerable expense to sell what they had gathered. Sadly enough, under the present economic chaos, some have resorted to "slash and burn" subsistence farming.
When I would ask, "How high are we". They could only answer "very high". They didn't have a clue about the actual figures. All they knew was that it was very cool, they had to have a special variety of bean which cooked well at the lower temperature at which water boils at such elevations, and they had to cook their meat a very long time, and even then it didn't lose it's texture and get soft as it would at lower altitudes. Based on all of that, I would guess we were up around eight thousand feet.
I finally found a spot where the ridge top widened out enough to allow the parking of a couple of cars, at Aguacate, perhaps. Three brothers had set up shop there. My experience there bears out the wisdom of the old adage: "Always watch your mechanic at work if you can". The mechanics, whom I will refer to as the "three stooges"' because of their not so comic misdeeds, which they felt were hilarious, said they just happened to have a carburetor to replace mine. I told them to put it on while I walked down to the restaurant to get something to eat. The food was excellent and reasonable, in spite of the limitations of living and operating a restaurant on a high mountain ridge top.
When I got back to the camper the "three stooges" were grinning in hysterically, much like Laurel and Hardy at their most hilarious and most salubrious moments. It seemed they could hardly contain themselves! They told me they had put in a good carburetor for me and that it was $150. I started off believing that with the "new" carburetor things would now be on an even keel. Sort of like a Barney Fife tragedy/comedy, they weren't going to be. Within twenty miles, I began smelling gasoline again. When I checked, I found that the carburetor they had "sold" me had exactly the same problem as the previous one, and that they had merely sealed it temporarily with some silicon putty. They had charged me one hundred fifty dollars to steal my ceramic gas filters! This article/book was born at that moment! I decided that the Lord let me experience all this grief, so I could educate my fellow Americans about what lay ahead of them, if they were thinking about going into Mexico, or utilizing mechanic services, or the gasoline there. Yes! The "three stooges' mechanics had also stolen my ceramic filters, after indicating they were going to put them in the "new" carburetor for me. My camper once again began the stalling and dying, an act it had by now perfected to a science. I did reach a service station before I ran out of gas. No one around there could deal with carburetors, so I headed on in to Oaxaca, engulfed with gas fumes because my carburetor was continually spewing a stream of gas over the engine.
The next morning, in Oaxaca, I found that mechanic after mechanic had gone out of business in my immediate whereabouts, so it took a couple of hours of scouting around Oaxaca in heavy traffic, with my engine stalling and spewing gasoline to finally find a wrecking yard and mechanic who could offer me a used carburetor. This one cost $100. This salvage yard and mechanic were just as hatefully anti American as any of the other businesses I had encountered. I had to ignore that fact, and carry on. When the mechanic saw the gas spraying, and puddled all over my engine, he was afraid to get in my car, lest he die there. I had driven a hundred miles in that condition, so drove on to his shop, where he angrily installed the carburetor. That solved the spewing of gas. I reshaped the gas line so it wouldn't tear up the present carburetor, as it had the first one. The only filters I could find, that would fit that carburetor, were paper ones. The stalling and dying were to persist throughout Mexico.
I had eaten in a shanty restaurant the night before that lacked running water and sanitary facilities. The cook/server kept a baggy over her hands at all times even when going next door to get change. This only served to advise me that she didn't have a clue about sanitary procedures. By the time I was pulling out of Oaxaca, the "tourista" set in. It was truly caused by toxigenic bacteria because it was causing necrosis of the sub mucosal layer of the gut, and the body was expelling it immediately, lest it cause perforation. The abdominal pain and cramping were noteworthy. The diarrhea: not violent, just uncontrollable, and not tolerating any delay. I was traveling north through a very sunny and hot, dry windy desert on the auto pista in open country so, I adapted. I would park the pickup with its nose pointed towards the road, which covered me from behind. I opened the passenger door, behind which I crouched in perfect privacy. The hot desert wind would quickly dry up and blow away what I left behind. I felt that I had paid my dues, and would not now get "tourista" again. Wrong! It took two episodes to get my immunity up to par for Mexico. The next day I picked up a man who was waiting for the bus to Mexico City. He could direct me in my travels because the maps I then had, just were not adequate to show me how to get to Cuernavaca. He very kindly did so. It was a pleasure getting acquainted with him. He was a mid level manager in the Mexican highway system. The fact that he could not afford to drive to Mexico City to see his family only reflects how impoverished the Mexican doing a good honest days work really is.
He directed me to take the highway from Ixtapauca down to Cuatla and then turn north to Cuernavaca. That was a fascinating drive for me because that highway went down a temperately climated agricultural valley with orchards much like you would find throughout the US. I love fruit growing regions and this one was no exception. When I arrived at Cuernavaca, I found it to be too large a city for my tastes, and being the "land of eternal springtime" only pointed out to me, that some people's idea of "Springtime" is a whole lot warmer than mine. I headed on down towards Acapulco and was pleased to again find myself in beautiful, open farming country. The auto pista even had shoulders there. Most were paved, though not as wide as in the US. The nonexistent shoulders presently on all but a small percentage of Mexican highways are real hazards. The lanes are, at best narrow, only nine feet as compared with ten to eleven feet in the US, and at the edge of the lane, the pavement usually drops off precipitously with little slope at all for about 8 inches. The road is often immediately at the top of a steep embankment, so even a moments inattention or lapse of performance will flip you over the edge and down the bank. I saw many of these accidents. Semi trucks whose tires are eight and one half feet from outside to outside are especially at risk, and were the most often involved in this kind of accident. When you consider the simple geometry of two semis passing each other in opposite directions on a sharp curve under these conditions, it is very likely, geometrically impossible for them not to wreck.
The auto pistas seldom are true freeways with separated lanes going in opposite directions. Sometimes they are but little better than a narrow two-lane country road with the hazardous margins already described; usually with limited access of SOME kind. Even that is quite variable. I had already determined that there are almost endless stretches of absolutely gorgeous Pacific coastline of every variety along the whole west coast of Mexico. I decided that the Puerto Vallarta area would be the easiest for me to move to because it is the first coastal area south of the Sea of Cortez and the Sonoran Desert. I was however, tempted by a sign that said in Spanish "This restaurant for sale".
It was very little, actually, no business and very run down. Many unanswered questions remained in my mind after I had looked it over, and visited with the owner. How were the pump and generator? How much property was really part of the business? Did the owner really have water rights for the water he seemed to be just taking from an irrigation canal that wasn't even on the property and wasting? Did he own anything at all, besides the non-functioning business?
Times had changed the whole business pattern of the area, and he was now hopelessly out classed by many better, and better situated restaurants. A high-tension power line now looped low over his site. I saw no hope of a restaurant ever again being a business possibility at that site. But perhaps it could be my "shack out in the woods." It was essentially two open faced concrete walled rooms about 8X12, and 10X12, with a corrugated roof over them. One could be my bedroom, and one my office. I would have to spend far more fixing it up than I would ever pay for it in its present state. I asked him to write down his price. He wrote down 6000 Mexican pesos, about $500. I re-verified with him exactly what he was asking, and he again verified that 6000 pesos was indeed the price he wanted. I told him I was very interested and would get back to him. I went into town to arrange legal representation, and an interpreter. Because I was an American, I wasn't able to arrange the services of an attorney. I did get a somewhat "translator." It turned out that he wasn't even needed. When we returned to the restaurant the "owner" now had increased the price one hundred fold to six hundred thousand Mexican pesos.
I assured him I didn't have that kind of money and departed without wasting any more of my time in the whirlwind of anti Americanism that was swirling around me.
My second pass back through Puerto Vallarta was no more welcoming than the first time around. I found the anti Americanism to be just as radical and rebellion at the idea of serving an American catching on all too quickly. One polished, polite young man did very caringly stop to help me with the local payphone system when he saw I was having problems. Even he couldn't make it work. They have beautiful, highly computerized phones, which charge about fifteen times what I pay here in the US, with my COSTCO/MCI card at pay phones, but they often can't get you through. The quality of sound also may be very poor. I surely wished I had gotten a good cell phone at one of the border towns on my way into Mexico. That seemed to be what the locals had decided. Most were happily using their cell phones.
The new world order was royally manipulating the Mexican news media. They realize that the average citizen will hardly read more than the headlines. So, if you control the headlines, you control the masses. The day I arrived back in Puerto Vallarta, I bought a paper. The headlines read "Bush promises Mexico Everything." There was no article accompanying, just a small cryptic "p.6". I turned to page six. There was no such article on p.6. I searched the whole newspaper and there was no such an article anywhere. It was strictly a media gag to try and build support for Bush. A day or two later, the headlines read "Mexico and Canada agree," "Bush must disarm Iraq." The article pointed out that what Mexico and Canada had really said, was that Bush best not fire a single shot disarming Iraq. By the way, if you ever want to shop in the Puerto Vallarto area, I highly recommend you get the free shopper, "Mano a Mano". (Hand to Hand). It is at most bookstores, but you have to ask for it. It is the best shopping guide for just about anything in the Puerto Vallarta region.
Being completely stymied in my attempts to even find a room in Puerto Vallarta, I decided to head back to meet my medical appointment. I believed I could regroup and approach it from a better perspective. Dreams die hard! I had totally underestimated the difficulties I was encountering in Mexico. I was going to get to "finish my education", however, before making it to the border. On my way out of PuertoVallarta, I stopped to see if the Chevy dealer might have some ceramic filters. It was about 3:30. They very indignantly informed me that the parts dept. was closed for "siesta" from 2-4 pm. That was a pattern in my experiences in Mexico, that as an American many people were just looking for a chance to express their indignation towards you. They seemed unable to realize that the vast majority of Americans had never even voted for Bush, and we surely didn't approve of him, nor his atrocious actions. Even in the Wal Mart, a little old lady rushed up to me and angrily shook her finger at me, apparently because she felt I was loading my groceries unto the belt too slowly: Lazy Gringo anyway! On up the road a little ways, I stopped to get some motor oil, and was told it was twenty pesos a liter. After an observer made a remark to the cashier, it was rung up at 24 pesos per liter. The real finishing touches of my education about the anti Americanism, and other similar problems in Mexico were still yet to come, and in a big way!
My second bout with tourista arose from a breakfast taken at a restaurant just as you approach the autopista tollbooths going north out of Tepic. I was hungry and there were a couple of restaurants that appeared clean by local standards. Not knowing what to eat, I approached a couple of truckers who were just finishing up, and they recommended the food very highly. I chose the green chile, and then went to wash my hands at the sink, the same one the cook would have to use, and found it waterless. The cook appeared highly offended, and told me I would have use the sink in the men's room. It also was waterless. I checked the women's, also waterless. There was no hand-washing going on around that restaurant. The only time the cook's hands would be "cleaned" was when she kneaded the tortilla dough, and then the pathogenic organisms could incubate for hours maybe all day in the warm moist dough. It wasn't bothering the Mexicans, and I still hadn't disabused myself of the idea that I was going to live somewhere deep in Mexico. Besides I had already ordered my breakfast, and I considered myself immune by virtue of my first "tourista dance". When the green chile breakfast arrived it was way too hot in terms of scoville units of capsicum. I can assure you very sincerely, based on that painful personal experience, that too much hot chili pepper and tourista can combine to make a very vicious disease state indeed.
I was, by now, getting back into the region where the low growing localized herb, Valeriana might be. I was trying to scan the low growing herbage while driving along. I never again found any Valeriana. Just north of Acaponeto I passed a road junction town at "jct to tigre," and as I went north, the highway was up on top of a levy, which had very wide gravel shoulders. There were no soft shoulder signs or any other sign of problem so I pulled over to park and look for Valeriana. My wheels immediately sunk into what was really only a pile of loose sand and gravel. I attempted to turn back up unto the highway before it was too late, but it already was! I was buried up to my axles and gas tanks in the loose gravel and sand. I ended up with my front bumper on the white line. There was heavy semi truck traffic. The trucks often had to pass me, and each other at the same time. That meant that the semis were speeding past while missing me by about six inches. That is a very shaking experience in more ways than one. I believe in thanking the lord for everything. Once again I was having trouble with that concept! It became apparent as the day wore on, that my article was being written for me with depths of perspective that only being dangerously trapped in the sand right in the margin of that heavily traveled highway could so uniquely provide.
According to the experts, I was not in any real trouble. "Mexico by RV" 917.204, Olivas, is the finest travel guide for driving in Mexico that I know of. However they are wrong on several things. First they state that tourista is a mild self-limiting phenomena based on over indulgence. Well, there stuck by the busy highway I was experiencing it.
It was, once again, neither mild, nor self-limiting, it was caused by highly toxigenic enteric pathogens, not any kind of overindulgence. They also indicate that Americans are widely accepted by the people of Mexico, and afforded hospitality unlike anywhere else they may travel!!! Well that was certainly written before the NAFTA scam, and The Bushes', and Rummsfeld's quackery in the form of atrocious abuse and bullying of their neighbor nations. "Mexico by RV" also indicated that there are thousands of "Green Angels", a government service to help stranded, broken down motorists, patrolling Mexico's highways everyday. They also state that the Mexican people are so hospitable that they will stop to see if they need to call for you, etc. No! Not in today's Mexico. In 7 weeks there I only saw one government Green Angel vehicle. That program has obviously been defunded to help finance the Bushes' war on terrorism. Or something!
I waited there for four hours from nine AM to one PM, without a single enquiry, or offer of aid in any form. I would have expected at least the truckers, to whom I was an obvious and gross hazard, to get on their CBs, and pass the word along. Many empty taxis passed, coming back from drop offs. You would think they would like a tip for calling help, or a fare for taking you back to town to arrange help, or anything! I started counting cars and trucks. I was being passed by over a thousand vehicles per hour, without a single concerned person in the lot. I thought: "Well the Lord wants you to learn something here. You'd better start paying attention to what is passing by you, not just thinking of reasons to feel sorry for yourself."
Observing the semis, I noticed that many, perhaps even a majority of them, on that sad day, were car haulers. That would, in of itself have been highly unusual. I looked for a pattern of what was going on. The car haulers were headed south full, and north empty. That would indicate they were hauling import cars from the Mazatlan area, which is the major auto import center on the Pacific coast of Mexico. The cars were most likely coming in from Asia. Now that I was coming into mental focus, I noted that they were all tiny yellow cars, probably from China, since they were too tawdry to be built by any firm serving the US market. There was no variety. Thousands of cars being imported into Mexico from China, and all the same exact disgusting model, and even the exact same color: Yellow. The cab companies long ago learned the optical illusion that yellow creates. Any car looks bigger and more impressive painted yellow. These golf carts cum cars were going to need all the help they could get along those lines.
The little yellow car in the movie "just married" is an example. They were like the Lloyd Wagon, a similar car that was briefly imported to the US. A few arrived early in 1957. By late 1957 they had passed their sales peak, and by mid 1958 hardly a one was still on the road. The Lloyd wagon was history in the US. They were essentially a tin can on wheels with insufficient room for an average sized citizen to get in without being scrunched down, bent over the steering wheel. The only good side of the Lloyd wagon was that it was so light and tinny that you could spread a blanket on the lawn, and roll it over on its side to undercoat it to try and lose some of the very loud road noise that came through the tinny floor. Now, it would appear, the New World Order has decided that these are just the cars that the Mexican population are going to use, like it or not! Definitely sounds like Bushy and Rummy. I can certify that those cars will not, for more than a few weeks, hold up to the very punishing Mexican road system. And they probably have too much plastic in them to allow rolling them on their sides like their ancestors. I hope we American citizens don't get blamed for this debacle!
By One that afternoon, I had tired of such scholastic contemplations while I was waiting for something to happen. It was time to change my strategy. I hung a red flag on a stick in the sand about 50 feet behind my pickup, and wrote in Spanish on the back of the camper using white masking tape over the deep blue paint "Please call help." For the front of the pickup, I made a two foot by four foot, white over black sign in English that merely said Help. The results were almost instantaneous. The cabbies and truckers began to honk at me as they drove by: Apparently wanting to assure me that they saw my predicament and couldn't care less!
Some began to make obscene gestures, and/or shout insults at me, and my mother. "Hijo de Puta!" They would shout. "No my mother never worked in that profession." I thought. Besides, "I am the gringo who helped your granddaddy when he was broken down last night." (I had provided a large jack to a poor old Mexican who had a blown tire, and no one had a jack that was adequate. That got him back on the road in a couple of minutes.) "I am the gringo who saved your life when you were dying of hypothermia in a blizzard in the Texas pan handle". (I have had a lifetime of using my tenuous Spanish, and such help as I could provide to aid my Mexican brothers when they got themselves into tight spots.) Anti Americanism has now been lashed to such a frenzy by the whipping that they have been given by the likes of the Bushes and Rummsfeld, that I can only be seen as a hated American, worthy only of abuse and neglect, by all who pass by. (I saw a dying young Mexican struggling to get to his feet in a blizzard but falling, unable to use his muscles because of near fatal hypothermia. He was only about twenty feet from the road while car after car whizzed by him in January of 1988. I saved his life by stopping and grappling him into my car, where the heater quickly warmed and revived him, and then rebuilt his courage by taking him to a restaurant and feeding him, and then giving him a lift to Garden city, Ks where he wanted a job with Iowa Beef Processors). He told me the worst thing was not just realizing that "I was dying, but realizing that I was going to die because no one was even willing to stop and help me. That I wasn't worth saving in their eyes."
It was one of my fellow Americans that came to my rescue about five that evening. Pedro Sandoval had been born in this neighborhood. He went to San Jose California as a babe in his mother's arms when his parents emigrated to find work there. His brothers stayed behind in the care of grandparents. Pedro, at about sixteen years of age, had now come back to Mexico to work as agricultural labor, get to know his brothers, and experience his Mexican heritage. He was not about to leave me, his fellow American, stranded along that dangerous road. When he asked, and found that I had been neglected there for 8 hours, he was embarrassed in the extreme. I told him not to be, that he was now able to help by simply making a call for a tow truck and the problem would be solved.
The young men wanted to pull me out themselves with the farm truck they were driving. I didn't feel that my chain was strong enough in this situation, and given the traffic situation, I knew that the young men would be highly endangered in their efforts to assist me. I certainly did not want to, even for a moment risk seeing one of them hurt. Only a few more moments passed before the Policia, who had been conspicuously absent all day, showed up and told the young men they would take over. They called a tow truck. A dilapidated old truck showed up. It wasn't a real tow truck, no winch, etc., but they did have a heavy enough chain, and they used their turn signal as a single yellow flashing light on the traffic side of their truck. The Policia stopped the traffic, and it took just a minute to safely help me unto the paved surface. I gave them the $40 they asked for, and the Policia stayed with them after I left to get his 50%. A very good day for both of them! This isn't just in Mexico. In Clark County/Vancouver, WA: For example, the Police expect a hefty "Referral Fee" from the tow company, if they call the company for you. This is added to your bill. There is keen competition between tow companies. The companies comply.
That day of waiting was again cutting into my schedule. Otherwise I was a little shaken of concept, but "no worse for the wear". I had gained good material for this book, even though that was not what I thought I had gone to Mexico for. My education was starting to sink in. Experience is what you get when you don't get what you wanted. It is also a very good teacher, and thick headed as I am: It was starting to sink in that living in Mexico just wasn't a realistic option for me just now, or in the foreseeable future.
More reinforcement of this sad fact was yet to come. I wanted to go back past the orphanage, so I could leave a donation, and get their address and pass it along in this book. My incidental stay there had given me a chance to observe them and appreciate the fact that they were a first class home for these needy children where they could grow up in a lovingly parented atmosphere. Surely, by American standards they would be considered impoverished. There is no mechanical dishwasher, nor hot water anywhere. The dishes are simply washed in a container of cold water, rinsed twice in two successive containers of cold water and most often, put to immediate reuse to keep the meals on schedule. Satisfactory: if not elegant. The children are housed 8 to a couple to provide a family setting for them, and if the couple have children of their own, well so much the better! They are included amongst the limit of eight, and help to create a very realistic family atmosphere to grow up in. The children go to school in the local school system, and are additionally schooled part time in the on site school. These children are being nurtured, educated, and prepared for the world. I found their food rather tasteless but nutritionally sound. When the food money runs low, they are sent to the town of Villa Juarez with cans to solicit funds for the orphanage's food budget. Eating tasteless food when funds are scarce is just a FACT OF LIFE for many Mexicans!
I got their address and a card with better details, but during the trials I was to encounter in the ensuing days, I seemed to have lost the card, so I will give you the simple address. If you wish to help these blessed children, do not send a check to this address. The Mexican mail system is so corrupt that the check will not likely get through. Just drop them a note asking how you can help, and they can give you a better, US address, or some other way to convey the help to them. Also, please be patient. It will most likely take several weeks for your letter to just arrive there! The address that I presently have is:
Lugar De Refugio Infantil
Estado de Sonora
Lugar De Refugio Infantil
Apartado # 908
The administrator is Pastor Alejandro Verougo
Driving to the orphanage, I had to find Villa Juarez, and my maps just weren't that helpful. I stopped in Navojoa, the last town before the road junctions, and asked for directions. No one I talked to had ever heard of Villa Juarez, though it was nearby, and a well known museum town! Which, I decided, was just ridiculous. About two miles to the North, I found the well-marked intersection. Turning west there, I was reminded of how viciously bad the roads could become. The first few miles of the road were like a minefield of industrial strength potholes. I had to just slow down to a couple of miles an hour and creep through them, or tear my very tough rig apart. I got to the orphanage, and once again marveled at the happy, well ordered children. I got their address and a couple of cards with better details from the owner, and after leaving a donation, was on my way. Not even a little did I realize it, my worst troubles were, soon about to begin. The owner wanted to visit, but I didn't feel I should linger there, and the Pastor, who had observed previous events, also felt it would be safer for me if I quickly went my way, lest Policia Godina make an appearance.
I drove on up the very rotten highway to Ciudad Obregon. I was often in need of individual directions, because the local signs were loco. This was the point at which I collided with a young bull and wrecked his knee, in spite of my best efforts to avoid doing so. When I got almost to where I thought Cd Obregon should be, I was confronted by a sign telling me I was headed to Navajoa, the town where I couldn't get help with directions, about twenty miles back. I continued into Cd. Obregon, and found that the intent of the sign must have been that I could then turn around and take another highway back to Navajoa!?
The people in Obregon apparently need a review course in how to post signs. My next major destination was Guaymas. There was one sign, posted between three intersecting roadways in such a manner that you couldn't possibly tell which roadway they meant. I guess that was okay, because when I picked one at random, and saw what would occur, it seemed to me that any one of the three would get you to the correct highway eventually.
I spent the night by a Pemex station. When I recalculated the next morning, I found that I would probably have at least a day's free time in my schedule, after all. Wanting to find the elusive Valeriana, I approached an elderly paisano along the highway and asked him if he knew anything about an herb called Valeriana. That was a "no". I then asked him if he knew of a doctor who was "herbalista." He gave that a lot of thought and said that if I would go left for about a mile at the next intersection, I would come to the backside of Guaymas. I was then to go right at the first main intersection in the town, and follow the road about ten miles out into the desert to a small village, Guaymas Village.
I followed his route. As soon as I left Guaymas to take, what I anticipated to be a pleasant drive through the desert to Guaymas Village, I was subjected to a horrible, shocking scenario. The whole desert for the whole ten miles was covered with truckload after truckload of every type of foul smelly garbage and waste. The roadway itself, and its roadsides were soaked in waste oil. What should have been a nature trip, was an expedition thru a toxic hell! The intelligentsia were right when they said, "Doc, we have destroyed our aquifers by dumping garbage and toxic waste on them". That aquifer was gone forever. The infertility rate for couples in Mexico is one in six: in the US, one in fourteen, and this would be about one in forty, were it not for the infertility agent, Aspartame, that many innocents are still foolishly still sucking down in "diet" drinks, in spite of the more than adequate warnings that many, including myself, have given. Perhaps the good fertility still left in the US is the reason the New world Order is so heinously sneaking Aspartame into foods that are not even labeled "diet", etc.
The village of Guaymas was tiny, and except for it's smelly surroundings of garbage, was sort of unspoiled. I went to the tiny village store and asked him if he carried herbs, He didn't. He didn't even know of any herbalista, when asked. Another paisano overhearing the conversation told of one he knew, and a young boy offered to lead me there on his bike. I was led to a very dynamic young couple, who were running a kitchen to supply the village with tortillas. The very pleasant young lady happily agreed that she was indeed the "herbalista", and hurried off to come back with a Shaklee catalog. I assured her that Shaklee was an excellent product line: did they by any chance carry the Mexican Valeriana? We searched, and they didn't. I felt blessed that I could experience this example of the worst of Mexican life with those who must live it every day of their life, and in turn share it with you in this book. Getting back to the highway without getting seriously lost wasn't too bad. I was on my way again. Hermosillo, a university town was my next destination, and I was determined to buy a "Guia Roji" Atlas there, even though I was soon, just about three hours past Hermosillo, to be back in the US.
Just south of Hermosillo was where I had spent my first night in Mexico parked in front of a whorehouse. The pattern that I had seen laid out there was pretty much copied throughout the industry in Mexico. Someone wanting to create a brothel merely had to have a few truckloads of soil dumped and leveled along the highway in front of a decrepit old shack so the truckers could safely pull off the highway. No other sign was needed. Some would have a food name scrawled out, as a cover. These shacks appeared filthy, even by the standards of the worst restaurants. No one would likely have been fooled. When I had spent the night at the Pemex station at the south edge of Mazatlan, there was a very large truck parking lot there. As soon as I found a place to stop and park for the night, a young pimp tried to beat out the competition by racing up to my pickup on his bicycle. That made it easy for me to give a clear signal to all that I didn't want to be bothered by any pimps or lot lizards. I told him very loudly, that I was going to sleep all night, all alone, in my own bed, in my own camper, and I did not want to be bothered by anyone. That worked. There was lots of noisy attention getting going on, to try and attract customers, and bartering, etc. for most the night, but none directed towards me.
The night was going to be a very bad one for me anyway. My nerves were shot from the day of being in peril, stuck with my front bumper on the busy highway, and all that went with it. The noisy parking lot added to the difficulty, but the horrible case of tourista kept me up any way. Contrary to my desire to get a good night's rest, I was sick to my stomach. My bowels kept me going back and forth across the parking lot. What shocked me was the extreme beauty of the very young women who were the lot lizards there. This so reflects what the new world order has in mind for all of us. No decent paying, legitimate opportunities so we can be of middle class economy. They are indeed grinding Mexico under their boot heel! Us as well! We are becoming nations of casinos. Your daughters hookers, your sons hustlers or con men. Mexico was much more economically and environmentally fragile. This latest scam has produced more marked, and plainly visible degradation there. The young women working that truck stop that night, and the young men who were their pimps would, I am sure, far rather be working at decent well-paid jobs, and pursuing a good future. The Bushes could care less that they have denied them that, which should at a minimum, be theirs in this wonderful, bright and shiny "New World Order": which the Bushes tell us they are providing for us.
I go by what they do, rather than the lies they feed us through the media!
I found low self esteem to be a real problem for the Mexican populace in general. When that is destroyed, a human being can become almost anything undesireable that you can think of. Many Mexicans have obviously been beaten down so far that they rightly, and logically assume there is no realistic hope of any kind for them,: that no one cares for them any more than they would a dog. It is very dangerous to place to place a human in this position, they feel, at this point, forced to turn to psychopathic activities to survive. This, I believe, explains much of the abuse I suffered in Mexico at the hands of rabidly anti American Mexicans, who have no valid reason to feel this way about us personally.
My search for a Guia Roji atlas ended up blowing a whole morning in Hermosillo. I went from bookstore to bookstore. None were easy to find, and none had the Guia Roji in stock. I finally tried seeking out the University bookstore on the huge campus of the State University there. What a difference. These students were obviously not anti American. They were friendly, eager to try out their English, and to be helpful. I Thought, "Too bad those other people aren't like these delightful students." Then of course, I realized: these delightful young people had lived sheltered lives. They probably had never suffered deprivation. Someone else was paying the bills just now. Their main worry was to learn and get good grades. They, because they lacked exposure to the real world, believed what they were taught in civics class. They believed they were looking forward to a bright future, and remained idealistic and optimistic. They seemed unaware that just a few miles away, their brothers and sisters were in degradation. In fact, I had seen their future more realistically than they were able to at that moment. The young man who put my new engine in at Pep Boys in Napa, CA had emmigrated to the US, just to find any work at all. His chosen field of media broadcasting, in which he held an MS degree, didn't have enough jobs in Mexico, or anywhere else for him. He hadn't forgotten his psychopathic behaviors, learned in Mexico. He took advantage of his position as my main mechanic to steal a carburetor rebuild kit from me that I had made available to him, should he need to use it. The carburetor was not rebuilt and the kit disappeared, never to reappear. I wondered if the delightful coeds realized that there were girls, who far exceeded most of them in natural beauty, who were forced to make their way in life as endangered lot lizards at Mexico's truck stops.
I got lots of exercise traipsing around Hermosillo, and the campus, but still no Roji. Nor the "Animales De Mexico Herbario" textbook I was seeking. The University bookstore directed me to a bookstore, once again clear across campus, and out the gate, and across the boulevard who actually did have Roji.
My next job was to get some pesos to get me to the border. This is another area in which "Mexico by RV" is seriously in error! In the present climate of "patriotically" stealing from Americans, because "they deserve it", the "casas de cambio" will often cheat you if they can. You will usually get far better rates and honest dealings accompanied by a receipt that documents everything, at the banks. Never, I repeat, never do business at a casa de cambio which has a one way mirror so you can't even see who you are dealing with, much less what's going on. Every time I did so, they tried to rip me off big time. Hermosillo, for example: I tried exchanging, a one hundred dollar bill at one of those mirrored "dens of pirates." I asked what the rate would be. A male voice answered "ten and a half to one". That would yield a thousand and fifty pesos. I let go of my $100 bill and received, in exchange 420 pesos under the mirror. I shouted "this is not $100, give me the rest of it!" About twenty more pesos were slid under the mirror. I started shouting "I did not come here to be robbed" and pushed the pesos back under the mirror to him, and continued shouting "I did not come here to be robbed give me my $100 dollars back right now." Finally my $100 was slid back out from under the mirror. Only then did the crook come around the mirror to scowl and curse at me! He actually felt abused: That I insisted on not being cheated out of over half of the money coming to me. I went two blocks on down the street to the bank, where there was better parking. I was quoted a rate of 11.95 to one, and was paid in full by a polite and smiling teller who handed me a computer generated receipt documenting the whole transaction.
I was still of the mistaken belief I would easily get back to the border that afternoon. I was clipping along about 55 mph, when I began to hear a ticking noise from my engine followed by a crashing thud. I pulled over to assess the damages. I found that the pulley on the crankshaft, which the fan, alternator, and power belts worked off of, had come free and crashed into the radiator and fan shroud breaking the fan shroud and dislocating the belts. I knew that I was in no great trouble, the engine would run just fine as long as the battery held enough juice to make the spark, and I could substitute the camper battery if the engine battery got too low. The radiator never even got very warm while driving, so the engine wouldn't overheat at all, so long as I was moving. Short pauses shouldn't bother any thing. Of course, if I once turned the engine off, the battery would not likely have enough juice to start it again, unless I exchanged the batteries.
All I had to do was "find a mechanic, get the pulley replaced, and be on my way," "back to the border by nightfall." I asked a trucker, who had stopped at the same wide spot to fix a flat, which way was the closest mechanic? He indicated back towards Hermosillo. So I headed back. I was so na´ve! I had forgotten the crooked cop and mechanic scenario! I drove along with no problems until I came to a police roadblock. There are a plethora of more kinds of cops and soldiers manning numerous roadblocks all OVER Mexico now. Unknown to me, the pulley had also cracked the top of the radiator which was no big problem, except that while I was stopped at the roadblock, my engine warmed up a little, and some water spewed out of the crack in the top of the radiator, and sprayed unto the exhaust manifold, enveloping the rig in a huge cloud of steam.
I shut it down, of course, to see what was going on. There was no new problem except that the car could not be started unless I exchanged batteries. I had made it to within 100 feet of the mechanic only to be "shot down" by a police roadblock. The Police now insisted on towing me the 100 feet to the mechanic. He then started a protracted argument with the mechanic that he must create a large bill and give half to the Policia. The mechanic said "No". The Policia argued with him for another twenty minutes until the mechanic acquiesced. The police knew, from visiting with me, that my Spanish was marginal and besides they were the "Policia", and I the "Americano" what did they care! Ripping off gringos was now their idea of "patriotism", as well as a way to scratch out a very good living for themselves. So as far as they were concerned, I had no recourse, and deserved to be openly abused and intimidated any way. I was the hated Americano! I was almost "home", but stuck at a little road junction, out in the desert a little north of Hermosillo, where I was to have my education about why I could never live in Mexico completed. It was "El Oasis" I believe, because there was evidence it had once been an oasis, and there was a substantially good paved road running to the east, which the Roji shows El Oasis to have. There was a pretty hill abutting the shanty town to the west, with a cement stairway going to its top where there was a religious shrine with a couple of statues, and a sturdily built "safe" in which people were supposedly able to leave their donations. The safe, of course, had long ago been "cracked".
When I looked at the pulley it became very apparent that the sloppy, slipshod work that "Policia" Godina's "pit crew" over in Villa Juarez did, while they were stealing my engine for Sheriff Godina, had once again been my undoing. There were three bolts supposed to go through the back of the pulley to hold it to the front of the crankshaft. Only one had been installed and tightened. It had held, refusing to let go. It was still in place, and seated very tightly. With nothing else to hold it firmly in place, the pulley had eventually pulled free, leaving a piece of itself firmly bolted to the crankshaft. Another bolt had been emplaced, but was not tightened. It had cut a large slot in the pulley before falling off. There was no evidence that the other bolt had ever been installed after they took my original Pep Boys engine out. After pointlessly fooling around for a couple of hours trying to repair the pulley, the mechanics decided they needed to go into Hermosillo to get a replacement. It looked like I was stuck there for the night.
Later, after dark, I saw the mechanic working in his little shanty. I went over and found him attempting the repair of my radiator with a totally inadequate soldering gun. He pretended to have it fixed, but never got the job done, which remains just the least of my problems. The next morning they quickly got the new pulley installed, and I was free to go. Then I made my fatal mistake. I had been generally well impressed by the mechanic and my engine was acting balky on the start again, so I asked him to check the carburetor. With that, the whole fraudulent song and dance ordered up by the "Policia" began. Many dishonest American mechanics will do this as well. On the first, usually minor repair they do an excellent, honest job for you and charge you a fair price. Which is only to get your confidence in them so they can really rip you! The mechanic checked my carburetor and then checked my spark plug wires.
When I returned, he had pulled several spark plugs, and held one up to me, and said in a very significant tone of voice "water". I did not see any water, but felt that his eyes were better trained than mine. He said he would have to pull the head to find out why. When I returned, he showed me a completely devastated head with a large crack in it and a valve hanging, etc. Said it was the head he had just taken off, and he would have to get another one for $300. (I also gave him the head gasket set I bought in Cd Obregon. Subsequent events prove that the head gaskets were never even installed. Guess these folks thought even using the supplies I provided was too good for an Americano. The head gasket set had cost $60, they charged me and additional $300 for labor, and stole about $ 1000 of new parts: hoses, belts, pumps, wiring, starter, and alternator, etc. that I had installed by Pep Boys before leaving for Mexico. This brought the total they charged me for stealing this engine to around $1700!) His story about the head just could not be true, because the engine always ran smoothly and with great power, once it was started, and gave the efficiency you would expect from such an engine. None of which would be true with that head in it, but who was I to argue. I was broken down out here in the desert, cut off from the world, and surrounded by hostiles including the Policia, who were the real criminal masterminds! (More about that later.) Moreover, my engine was now torn apart, and I would be going nowhere until this same guy put it back together. When I suggested it could not be the same head that was on the engine he pulled the bullying technique that crooked mechanics often use to win a merit less argument. "It's all your fault." He said. "You ran the engine overheated and caused all this." I hadn't, at all, and overheating an engine briefly does not cause such damage, although putting water right back into a badly overheated engine may. But none of that was relevant, just didn't apply to anything that ever had happened.
Another technique often used by the crooked Mexican mechanics, was that none of the crucial work was ever done while I was watching. The mechanic would disappear and some flunky would be fooling around with the engine until I went somewhere, even briefly, and then I would be shown the sick head that allegedly came off my engine, etc. An alcoholic bum had been hanging around the site. It was getting very cold as darkness fell. He "demanded", so typical of the alcoholic. "Got a jacket for me, I'm getting cold." I recognized the lack of appreciation and responsibility typical of the "alky", who wants others to be his patsies. After thinking it over, I gave him a real nice sweatshirt that had shrunken, and become too small for me, but was more than ample for him, and very warm besides. He took it, without so much as a "thank you." I wasn't surprised. Alcoholics aren't even capable of appreciation.
The shanty at the mechanic shop had a camp type kitchen set up in it, but not a drop of running water, nor a toilet, nor a sheet of even paper in the place. There were dining tables present, but no sign indicating that they even considered themselves a restaurant, and no one so much as offered me any food or drink. I went across the street, which was but little better, but they had a sign up, "RESTAURANTE". As soon as I went in and sat down they offered me coffee, and I ordered some food. When the food arrived it was foul flavored, and unrecognizable. I made three tacos from it and choked them down. I told the proprietor I was going to give the rest of the sizeable meal to the alcoholic bum, and went across the street and gave him the good news. He ate the whole meal very eagerly. That is true hunger! On my return, the people in the shanty made it known they were very angry! I had gone across the highway for my meal.
The following day I got to know a fellow who was very proud of the fact he had for three years worked in Houston operating a street sweeping machine, before recently returning to Mexico. Every Mexican I met on my trip, who had ever been to the US, was totally perplexed at the wave of anti Americanism. When you get acquainted with people, you know they are not to blame for whatever the New World Order may have done. You may even realize they are in somewhat the same fix you are. He was certainly in trouble. He had been there for two days trying to get his car going. As I watched him work, it was obvious that virtually every wire in his ignition system was shot. When he finally got it to start, he said he was out of gas money and needed gas to get him home to Hermosillo.
I gave him four dollars. He went around, and very proudly told everyone the fact I had given him a little gas money. Your self-esteem has to be very low indeed, to need to advertise a small favor like that!
I thought. "OH HELL: Now everybody is going to try and get me to give them money."
I was right on. One of the fellows that seemed to be helping my mechanic was the first to try. He did a stage faint in front of me, sliding down beside my pickup onto the ground clutching his tummy and groaned "Tengo Hambre" (I'm hungry). I looked at him saying with my eyes "I am not that dumb." He quickly recovered and went about his business. He was one of about three very thin young men who were working on a brown van near mine. They seemed to be druggies. They had that muscular slimness that young men who do crack and meth display. He had come by earlier in the day, trying to pass out a cigarette to me, apparently trying to get close to me. I told him I was thankful I had never smoked. For purposes of identification I will refer to him as "the skinny pimp".
There was a Pemex station across the road, to the SE corner of the intersection. East of it was a bathhouse in good working order, apparently part of the bigger facility when this was indeed an oasis resort. In front of the bathhouse was the dirty little shack that served as a whorehouse. The two hookers had that wholesome, sexy "girl next door look." They were not beauties like their sister lot lizards at Mazatlan, but they were very relaxed, and consummately confident in their work of enticing, and relating sexually to men.
I had gone over to the Pemex to wash up. As I was walking back past the general area, they started to put on quite a show for me. They were walking parallel to me through a group of about a dozen truckers, physically joking and teasing around with them. They were patting the men's fannies, playing with their flies and crotches, hugging them laughingly, etc. I ignored all of this and walked back to my camper. Amazingly, the hookers were already there when I got there. One had turned to the brown van near mine and was talking to the men there. Her cohort waved at her frantically to get her attention back to the work at hand. Not wanting any interaction, I quickened my pace without acknowledging anything, and quickly jumped in to my camper, slamming the door just hard enough to suggest I wasn't interested in having any company.
A little later, the girls were in the brown van visiting the men there. The skinny pimp waved me over to the van with a smile. I did not step too close. I had no reason to trust his good intentions. I was right. He shouted "Mother Fucker" at me. Did he feel that made him a hero to the girls? Did he think that would help his self-esteem? Fact was: He was very frustrated. Under the malicious leadership of the "Policia", they had been turned into a pack of psychopaths on a feeding frenzy, in my engine compartment, and he wanted to extend his feeding frenzy on into my camper. I was not about to allow anyone to go in there! A little later, the two real pimps came over to see what was transpiring. They were more muscular and mean looking. More the "Hard Core." They took the girls back to their shack. The obvious antagonism and predatory mind set of just about every denizen of that little shantytown was my present companion. The further they progressed in their robberies, the more aggressive they got.
I thought about their overall mindset, and came to realize that none of them had an ounce of self-esteem, or they wouldn't behave in the ridiculous manner that they were. The skinny pimp was now scowling almost all of the time, and hanging around my camper looking and listening, obviously trying to set up a theft. He was always into the parts of my motor, but what could I say. The mechanic had him helping him. When the mechanic was tied up, he would sometimes also take on the work that drove in. There had been a garage there, but it was torn down when the "Oasis" faded for some reason. It was an opportune area for a legitimate mechanic, which mine may have been, until the Policia forcibly inducted him into criminal behavior.
My impression was that they were all squatters without any legal right to be there, so were subject to all sorts of pressure from the Policia. Some times when I would see the skinny pimp fooling around in my engine parts he would quickly grab a tool and walk away, as if he had only been there to get a tool. I noticed that my parts pile was looking awfully lean. They would scowl and glare at me when I walked by, and looked at the work they were doing on their van engine, but I didn't recognize any parts. They had them hidden them away until I left. Mexican mechanics are famous for their ability to improvise, and make parts work in motors from different makes of engines.
While the head was off, I was able to see that the engine Policia Godina had swapped out to me was a racing engine, it had deep valve grooves cut into the piston tops, to give the high lift cam clearance needed to race. It was also well worn. They hadn't even put in new head gaskets when they slapped it together from their bone pile to drop it in my camper. Apparently nothing was too evil to lay on the gringo in an involuntary exchange for his new engine. What was going on here at the "Oasis" was even worse!
After the new head was quickly slapped on the engine, I went to bed since nothing else was happening. The rest of the night was one long work fest, with engines being tested and revved etc. Things were being lifted in and out of my pickup. Not surprising, since these mechanics literally climbed in and out of the engine compartment to work, both as an adaptation to their lack of equipment, and their small size relative to Americans. I was still na´ve. Thought my mechanic was working hard to get everything tuned up so I would be ready to go in the morning. Wrong! They had been stealing my second engine that night and installing a blown engine.
The next morning, after I was awakened once again by the acrid stench of their morning ritual of burning mechanical and other wastes, garbage and old tires, etc., the mechanics looked dead tired, their faces creased with fatigue, and stained with grease and, grimy sweat. (Their socio-economic depression was so great that they went the whole time I was there without so much as a change of clothes or a bath. There was no soap at all, they borrowed mine to wash the engine when they finished ripping me!) I asked if the car was ready to go, the mechanic assured me he would finish tuning it up right after eating, and it would then be ready to go. I came back to an amazing sight to behold! The engine had the valve covers off, and was running. The mechanic was squatting over it in the engine compartment, working on the moving valves and lifters, carburetor, and ignition simultaneously. I thought "Boy this guy is really going to get a good tune up done here." In reality, he was trying to find some kind of a compromise that would allow an engine with three blown cylinders to even get off the property. This episode, and the whole larger one, demonstrate how I, being reduced to a position of helpless dependency, hoped in vain to eventually experience some decency, or integrity. The Policia had made this impossible. They had, by their corrupt leadership started a self-sustaining, and accelerating vicious circle of mass psychopathy, ending in a "feeding frenzy". This example of bad leadership demonstrates the necessity, to objectively, and independently scrutinize what authority figures really are doing to us!
The engine then took four more quarts of oil. It should have taken but one, at most. It also took four quarts of tranny fluid. Should have required none, if they had just replaced the head as they were supposed to be doing. They had poured old crankcase oil over the large streak of transmission fluid to hide it, after it had run across the ground when they pulled the engine off the transmission. Need I mention that massive ongoing environmental destruction was every day being continually perpetrated here right in front of the Policia? They were totally, and only, interested in any graft they might make on the situation. Yes. We have corrupt police in the US too. Every now and then they end up in prison though. The California DOT on hwy 80 at Donner's pass, were sabotaging the trucks they were inspecting, and demanding that expensive repairs be made before the trucks could leave. The Federal Marshals took that very seriously, and those former DOT cops are in prison now.
There is no hope for Mexico to ever get on its feet, unless they can deal with their corrupt Policia. Just try openly polluting the environment in front of a cop in the US! Only Presidents, and Secretaries of Defense who want to spray deadly nuclear waste out of high velocity cannon barrels dare do that. The incidental observations coming in from the "blitzkrieg" of Iraq verify that the deadly radioactivity problems created by the US, in the previous "Persian Gulf War", have not been cleaned up. As well they never could be. Because of the size, density, and the very high velocity of the Uranium bullets fired from the weapons, there are doubtless deadly radiation zones as far as six miles from the tanks that were targeted, and they will be there indefinitely. Misfires and mistakenly targeted firings have also left equally devastating fields of deadly radiation, which are random, and unmarked all over the war zone.
I climbed to the shrine at the top of the hill a couple of times, on the way up was a cistern, which previously had been spring fed. This was a place, which had once been a prosperous business and resort community, based on that oasis of spring water. The remnants of architecturally esthetic, and integrally designed buildings, which had been partially removed, reflected neat, prosperous businesses that far exceeded those of the present squatters, not only in size and volume, but in structural sufficiency and integrity.
There is need for conscientious police to guide the proper reconstruction of badly needed facilities at that location. What is happening there instead, is a vivid object lesson of the need for effective government. The bath house, about a hundred and fifty yards away, had been the far eastern extent of the oasis complex, and this open air shrine, the far western. About a half a mile further east was the answer to where the water had gone. There were 5 to 10,000 acres of irrigated farmland. The pumping of the water for which, had lowered the aquifer until the spring had dried.
This was no different than what had happened in Colorado Springs, Manitou Springs, and many other famous and historical springs across the agricultural belt of the US, and also, near major cities which needed water. The difference was that the people in the US were entitled to have water to drink and wash with, bathe in, and flush their toilets. The poor squatter denizens of this shantytown were entitled to no water for their domestic and business needs. It now came to me, why I was so disappointed in the almost always tasteless and disgusting beans that were a part of almost every Mexican meal. When you are so low on the self esteem and socioeconomic scale, and so little esteemed by your society that even a bathroom, toilet paper, or running water are far out of your reach, beans need not be tasty, as in America. Just having some to eat is all you have the resources to be concerned about. After all! You are just a squatter with no right to even be there at all. To the north side of the dumpy, filthy little complex on the west side of the road, back near the foot of the hill, sat a 53 foot semi trailer damaged a little on the front end. When I looked in it, the floor was covered with lots of piles of feces and almost no toilet paper. You figure out the rest for yourself. Boy is that guy going to be surprised when he comes back for his trailer!
Intimidated as I was, I accepted my car and got out of there, even though three cylinders were misfiring, and it was smoking. What a carburetor adjustment! Not surprisingly, its already bad economy was far worse, and it lacked power. I felt helpless to do anything about it in the seething sea of Policia corruption, hate, and criminality, couched in dire poverty that I had landed in. The only question in my mind was, did Policia Godina get his engine back? I had stopped at the orphanage. He would know I was headed north. I was not far away. Or did some local "worthy charity" get it?
They obviously did not even put in the head gaskets. There is only silicone putty where gasket edges should be seen. Soon after getting back across the border, the engine started blowing water out of the exhaust pipe because there were no gaskets in place to seal the heads down. I went to Pep Boys with the damage laden, worn out engine which was stuck into my pickup. They didn't even want to believe what had happened to me. They wouldn't even perform an inspection. When I then had them do a tune up, they stated that this was not their "new' engine put in a few weeks previously. That it was indeed a "shot" engine with three blown cylinders, which had no compression. They noted that the cracked head I was given by the last Mexican mechanic, which he alleged had came off my engine, was not of a type that Pep boys even carry, and the same for the head from the other side. They found that the high performance GMC plug wires, which had been installed new by them just a few weeks before, had been replaced by a set of worn out wires from a Ford. The radiator cap, and transmission dipstick had been replaced by worn out, ill fitting parts. The power steering pump barely functions. The new one I had Pep boys install, had given exceptionally crisp steering. The steering is now almost "delirious" for lack of power. There is a smaller fan than should be on that engine, and it doesn't engage. After charging me $200 for a tune up, Pep boys stated the engine was so shot it could not be tuned no matter what, but would not give me a list of the deficiencies.
When I advised them that they had best give me a list of the damages that they believed would invalidate my guarantee, because they had guaranteed the engine, and should otherwise be expected to fix it, if they couldn't show good reason for a disclaimer, they had their engine mechanic go over it very thoroughly, but would not give me a report, nor even discuss his findings with me. I spent another ten days patiently calling their home office, legal and customer svc divisions, with no positive results. I can only conclude that Pep Boys likes to buy auto parts in China where labor costs are 1% of the US, and sell them here at enormous profit, but could care less about a good customer needing a list of damages. The damages to the US economy from Chinese auto parts are enormous, not only because they are putting everything in the pockets of the Bushes, but also because Chinese manufactured auto parts are for several reasons, inferior. I have had to replace a part a total of three times to get one that worked. The cost for mechanic's time is an enormous drain on the pocket book, and the personal and vehicle time lost is enormous.
There are three reasons for these inadequacies. First, it is very difficult to translate technical mechanical details from English to Chinese. Many parts are just not even minimally made to specifications, so won't fit, etc. Moreover, the Chinese metallurgy is totally inadequate. They had their "Cultural Revolution" from the mid fifties to the mid 70's, during which it was considered "criminal" to be a scientist. So they lost their best metallurgists, and the industry as well. This saved my life in Vietnam. They were throwing Chinese made versions of the deadly soviet 122mm rockets into us, but because of the defective metal, they did not fragment properly, so our damages were far less than if they had fragmented into a thousand deadly flying razor blades, like the Russian made ones did. Thirdly the Chinaman working at $ .25 /hr with crude equipment just isn't able, nor motivated to do a technically good job. Lots of the Chinese stuff is not even minimally technically sound. I.e., a starter may fail almost immediately because it is full of metal fragments that should have been blown out at the factory to have it clean and safe to use, but that never happened. The auto parts from Mexico, by comparison, are of good quality, both because of the fairly close meshing of the US and Mexican technology, and the wealth of highly trained scientists now produced by the Mexican educational system. Additionally the Mexican worker is motivated to, and takes pride in doing a good job, and a good days work for a days pay, when it is made possible for him to have a valid job.
I am providing a copy of this open letter to the Mexican Consulate. I intend to print a follow up to let you know how the Consulate deals with this. For them to ignore this hideously criminal situation only further endangers any Americans in Mexico, and that in almost every way. The repercussions of such endangerment, of course, are devastating to the Mexican economy. The scenario that has developed there in response to the Bushes' blustery abuse of the Mexican economy, their poor people, and their national pride, is so perilous that I fully expect to see the "kidnapping followed by hostage/ransom" scenario develop, such as has occurred in other central American countries abused and impoverished by corporate America. Apparently great minds run in the same channels! In two recent days' papers there were articles stating that virtually all the Mexican resort beaches usually frequented by American college students on Spring Break this time of year are too clogged by garbage and sewage to be useable. I just came back from them and that is a lie! Someone wants our students too stay home, lest they become targets and hostages. The Mexican Policia, to my personal experience, are at this very moment so corrupt and anti American that many of them would likely abet such activities, especially if there were anything in it for them, and would hamper any attempts at a favorable resolution, should such a problem should arise. Any American, especially from a wealthy family, could find themselves very alone and helpless.
Bush and Rummsfeld, with their typical disregard for the peril in which they are placing Americans, have now really upped the ante in this highly perilous situation!
I arrive back on American soil, pick up the paper, and read that, through formal diplomatic channels they have issued the following type of statements to Mexico:
(See "Bush adds Mexico to list of nations he bullies", Arizona daily star, Sunday March 9, 2003) Bush openly alluded to reprisals against Mexican Nationals if Mexico didn't vote "America's way". He went on to elaborate that if Mexico opposes the US war policy there will be a "certain sense of discipline". He used the French situation as an example, claiming that the US population was aroused against the French, while, indeed, his own diplomatic lackeys were the only ones who were orchestrating any tirades against the French. He went on to state there would reprisals against Mexican nationals. It would, of course, said he, not be the government, but concerned American citizens who would be making reprisals against Mexican Nationals.
That was a heinous cowardly lie, to once again benefit from the peril he puts us in.
Bush and Rummsfeld, who have no respect for law, have apparently chosen to disregard the civil rights laws in this country that strictly forbid discriminating against anyone because of their national origin. Remember after 9-11, those of middle-eastern extraction, as matter of routine diplomacy were reassured there would be no repercussions against them personally. Oh yes, He would vicariously impute upon us the violation of the very, very specific "Hate Crimes" laws in this country as well, for a hate that we don't have even a little bit of! I don't know of any American who would even care to harass a Mexican because the Mexican government does not do everything the Bushes say. Nor would we even have any idea which nation a given Hispanic is from! How are the Mexicans, except the ones who live here and know better, to comprehend this? However, after it is translated into Spanish propaganda headlines by the New World Order, they will be led to believe that only the beneficent President Bush is their friend, while it is those "evil Americans" that are at fault. I say, "Speak for yourselves! Bush and Rummsfeld." Don't put words into our mouths to create a Teflon suit for yourself while you conduct your "Let them hate us as long as they fear" foreign policy.
In today's paper, I see that the bushes political lackeys have been at work antagonizing the Mexican government and attempting even more intimidation. It is noted that border patrols are being enormously stepped up. There is just no war related security priority for that at this particular moment. Moreover the border inbound to Mexico was closed for several hours last night by massive bomb threats. That is the kind of thing the US governments dark OPS groups, (political lackeys) would do to try to harass, and intimidate Mexico, not anything US citizenry would do. Just like the alcoholic bum, the Illuminati are totally lacking in gratitude. Which Mexicans do they propose to target with their hate? Was it the Mexicans that have served them in the US military, or the ones born here, or the ones coming here as babes in arms, or those that grew up here, or the ones related to, or married to Americans, or the ones working here, or the second generation ones. Need I go on? There is no mental balance, just shear psychopathic egomania. Satan is an insane, psychopathic egomaniac. He transforms his followers into little likenesses of himself. Aspartame, in and of itself, is proof of that fact.
Speak for yourself, you lying coward, you do not speak for the US populace. You wanted war? Why didn't you and Rummsfeld challenge Saddam Hussein to a duel. He and one Aid could have met you two out in the desert, and you could have had your war as courageous and honest men. We American people would have really admired you, and been most content, whatever the outcome. Right now we despise you for your cowardly lying: putting words in our mouths, which are not ours, and which do not reflect our feelings in any way! Our feelings of outrage are towards you, not the Mexican nationals amongst us! You work for Satan, and he would have you destroy our social and physical environment. The surest way to end a species is to eliminate its environment.
How do we find ourselves in such a messed up world? As I read the Bible, this world is a "one time only" finite demonstration of evil for an eternal and boundless universe. If you read and understand the end time Bible prophecies as I do, (see "Billions of Victims") God is going to permit the Illuminati Satanists to completely destroy this planet as an environment that will support life, for a full demonstration of the real nature of evil. (Described in the "seven last plagues" of the Bible book of Revelation.) All any of us can hope to come out of this with, is our characters which we form by standing for the right though the heavens should fall, with the same persistence that the compass needle returns to the magnetic pole. I had some early brushes with the Illuminati, but I was on their list big time when Aspartame almost killed me in 1983, and I started looking around for the reasons why, and spoke out about its deadly biochemistry. I was to have not a moment's peace, nor a civil right, after I started speaking out about the heinous poison, Aspartame. My free book "Billions of Victims" and the other excellent articles available on the Internet by many knowledgeable authors to educate you about Aspartame, will provide you with an abundance of knowledge on the subject.
Another very timely subject that every conscientious concerned American should consider very seriously from a moral, and environmental standpoint is the so-called "depleted uranium" munitions. Very simply speaking this is the use of spent nuclear fuel rods from nuclear reactors: High grade, deadly nuclear waste that even our own troops should not be exposed to on this end, much less the environment on the other end. Just as with Aspartame, this atrocity is presented to us, by our sick media, as a good, great, and even marvelous technology!
The nuclear decontamination specialists sent to "clean up" the tanks "killed" by this unacceptably evil technology brought back at least two very chilling, and compelling scenarios. First, even with, and in spite of their own expertise in handling and disposing of radioactive nuclear substances, their own bodies were ruined by the radiation exposure experienced during the nominal "clean up" process. While unable to really clean up the radiation at all, their health was forever broken by their temporary duty around the stuff. Secondly, the environment at those sites often had over a thousand times the highest permissible level of radioactivity consistent with human existence. The very long half-life of some of the isotopes present, will keep the environment as devastatingly deadly, even ten thousand years from now! I care not about what a politician's sex life may be. This heinous destruction of humans, and our environment is what truly constitutes gross immorality and gross violation!
Wars can just as well be won without this insanity. This technology is certainly not essential, nor irreplaceable, and alternate forms of it not using uranium, at all, have been known since the 1950's. Why should our troops even be exposed to this radiation? It had best be cleaned up at the most opportune moment, which is before it is manufactured into weapons, and then exposed upon our troops and then sprayed into the environment which all mankind must share for all time. Anyone who shouts "expense" is a fool who does not mind shattering the health of our soldiers, and our world. The cheapest clean up is prevention. That means before! Not "afterwards", which is both "never", and IMPOSSIBLE.
Aspartame has proven the malice of Rummsfeld and the Bushes towards humankind. I understand that the "fix up fee" that crime godfather Rummsfeld was paid for breaking everything decent in our government in spite of the best efforts of President Carter, the US Congress, EPA, and the FDA of that day was a million dollars, and that Rummsfeld was subsequently paid ten million dollars in "stock options". The damage to the human race, and succeeding generations exceeds trillions. As with the radioactive waste, how cheaply are these demonists selling out humanity! How many more destructions of our "inalienable rights" which happen to include "life", should we allow? My Fellow Americans! Every signer of the declaration of independence suffered dire consequences, but they had their integrity, they were not cowards. How much of this trashing of our economy, our lives our health, our environment, and our government must we endure before we Americans stand up en mass, and say "NO MORE".
Sincerely, Dr Jim Bowen
Permission to publish granted.
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