Crock, crock... tales from the Yucatan from Molly Touger

And the winner is LORI! An ARC of MRS. ROOSEVELT'S CONFIDANTE!will be on its way to you. Lori, contact Susan's assistant: MacNealAssistant "at" gmail dot com.


HALLIE EPHRON: For your daily amusement...


As many of you know, my daughter Molly is a Brooklyn girl living for a year in the Yucatan and blogging about her adventures on Muchas Donas.... which means many donuts, not many ladies because the n has no squiggly dash over it. When we were visiting her, we did indeed have great donuts. And amazing paletas (ice pops, minre was made from fresh passion fruit seasoned with chiles.) And tacos to die for.

Close encounters with wildlife are part of life  in Felipe Carrillo Puerto because it's in the middle of the jungle and half of Molly's apartment is an open balcony which she shares with a vigorous passion fruit vine, a squadron of geckos, and recently... well, I'll let her tell you.

MOLLY TOUGER: I’m making coffee in my outdoor kitchen when I see the green. I turn and he’s sitting on the patio rail. I freeze. I’ve seen flycatchers, doves, cuckoos. But not parrots. Parrots belong in the jungle.

I stare at him and wonder if I have time to get my camera. He’s beautiful, red and yellow around the eyes, a yellow beak. He stares back. Then he jumps to the floor. “Crock, crock.” I take a step forward. He flys at my face.

I run to the other side of the kitchen. He lands, and waddles toward me marching with intent. He is five inches tall at most. “Crock crock.” He goes airborne again and chases me into my apartment.

Now we are both inside, the parrot waddling furiously, me trying to find my phone to take a video while simultaneously deciding whether the bird is rabid. I find the phone and press record. He chases me back out of the apartment.

He squats on the kitchen floor looking perturbed. I turn off the recorder and we stare at each other. He could be a pet. I put on an oven mitt and place my protected hand on the floor. He waddles over and steps on. “Crock crock.” I lift him and he begins to climb.

I lose my nerve, slide the mitt and attached bird on to the kitchen table, and run down to the yard to find my landlord, Armando, who has been both a cattle rancher and a free-diving lobster fisherman. He can answer nature-related questions: how to assess a green mango for ripeness, revive a stunned woodpecker, dispose of a dead bat.

Thumb riding

I use my Spanish. “A parrot arrive in my kitchen. I believe it is pet. What to do? No is dangerous, no?”

Armando laughs. Armando always laughs: shirtless, curled silver moustache, mischievous eyes. The mango will be ready in two days. The woodpecker should be put in a basket until it comes to so the cats won’t get it. The bat can be buried in the garden if I insist on being overly sentimental. I follow Armando back up the stairs to my kitchen.

The parrot is still sitting on the table. “Crock crock.” Armando gently grabs the birds around the wings and places him on his finger. “Crock crock crock crock crock,” says the bird. “Tiene hambre,” says Armando. He’s hungry. Armando asks if I have any fresh masa.

I look in my refrigerator. I have mangos and stale tortillas. Armando says the tortillas are too sharp. I can try the mango but he will find some better food.

Don Stabby rejects mango

I try to pet the bird’s back, like I would a cat. He flaps irritably. Lesson 1: the parrot is not a cat. I walk to the counter and one-handed, cut a slice of mango. I hold it near the parrot’s beak. “Crock crock.”

Lesson 2: the parrot does not want mango.

Armando returns with his wife Sonja and a bowl of mixed flour and water. Sonja had seen the bird that morning—she thinks it came from the house behind ours. Definitely a pet.
Armando hands me a spoonful of white goo and the parrot begins to eat, jabbing at the spoon, sticking out his little bean tongue to lap up the sludge.

Lesson 3: The parrot likes flour and water. But Sonja suggests we should still get some fresh masa since the current mixture is basically glue. We enlist my neighbor to run the errand.

Sonja and Armando leave and we are alone. The parrot pecks at the spoon and digs his talons into my skin, gripping so he doesn’t fall. It is sweet and vulnerable but also painful. I decide: I will call you Stabby. I realize I don’t know if he is a boy or a girl. Since he seems like a “he,” I go with it.

My neighbor drops off the masa and a cup of green smoothie and I try feeding these to Stabby, now using just my fingers. He licks eagerly, calming down, emitting quieter noises between each bite. In this moment of sweetness I realize holy crap, this is incredible. I take a selfie and post it to Facebook.

Sharing a secret

When Don Stabby seems to be done eating, I start calling friends through FaceTime. I reach Joanna. Instead of saying hi I simply waggle my eyebrows and lift Stabby into the frame of view. Joanna is delighted. I lift Don Stabby up and down at diagonals so he looks like he’s riding an escalator across the FaceTime screen.

It’s Joanna who suggests I add “Don” in front of “Stabby,” which in Mexico is a respectful title approximately meaning “Mister.” With that, Stabby becomes Don Stabby, and then moments later, Don Stabuloso.

After I hang up, I try out Don Stabuloso in various locations in the apartment. I place him on the dining room table where he waddles uncomfortably. “Crock crock.” I move him onto the backrest of a wooden folding chair that he can grip with his feet. He looks much happier and expresses his appreciation by pooping. I decide he should not sit on anything upholstered.

I realize I need a shower. And coffee. And food. All of which I’ve forgotten since Don Stabuloso arrived. I place him on the tile floor which seems safe, and take a shower. When I get out I find him at the bottom of the folding chair, his feet curled around the rung that connects the chair’s legs. He has pooped again.

I get dressed, place Don Stabuloso on my thumb and return to the kitchen, where I find that the administrator for our compound, Cauich, has arrived with a small red wire bird wage and a pile of newspaper. Cauich says that if I don’t want the bird, he will take him. He has many animals, including two birds and two dogs. I say I think we should try to find the parrot’s owner. As soon as I say it I feel incredibly sad.

I also feel sad about the cage. But I understand that if I keep Don Stabby he will continue to need a place to poop that is not my floor. I put Don Stabby in the cage but leave the door open. He sits where I’ve placed him, his tail feathers hanging out.
Cauich says he thinks the bird belongs not to the backyard neighbors but to the people across the street. We decide that if we can’t find the owner, Don Stabby will stay with me until I leave Mexico and then Cauich will take him.

We have a plan. In the cage, Don Stabby sits in silence. He looks very small.

On Facebook there are many comments, expressing love for Don Stabby and encouraging me to keep him. There is one that disturbs me: “Parrots form an incredible attachment to humans and if that’s you, he will be devastated when you leave.”

I go on the Internet and learn more about parrots. They mate for life. In captivity they often transfer their mate love to their keepers. Don Stabby is most likely a Yucatan Parrot. Yucatan Parrots are supposed to be wild birds and as such cannot be brought to the United States according to Mexican law and the Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species of Wild Fauna and Flora. I realize it is legally impossible for my relationship with Don Stabby to be anything but temporary.

I try to take Don Stabby out of his cage but he flaps irritably so I let him be. I refresh his water bowl and put a wooden spoon through the bars so he’ll have a comfortable place to perch. I watch him fluff and settle, showing off the blue tips of his wings. I notice that under the wings he is sort of scrappy, downy white fluff on pink skin. I wonder if this is normal, or if he’s been neglected or is sick.

I realize I need to go grocery shopping. I feel guilty about leaving him alone. But I realize if Don Stabby is going to stay here, there will be other times I need to go grocery shopping. And go to work. And go to sleep.

I decide he should stay inside the apartment. I place the cage on the dining room table, near the window. The midday sun is burning through the glass. Don Stabby stares into it, seeing but not seeing. I move the cage so he can have a bit of shade if he wants. I leave the cage door open so he can go exploring.

When I come back Don Stabby is still in the cage, perched on the handle of the wooden spoon. He doesn’t acknowledge me. Perhaps he has been lonely. I take the cage outside to the kitchen table so we can be together while I cook. While I chop onions and garlic, he is quiet. It feels too quiet. I stick in my hand, remove him from the cage and place him on my shoulder. “Crock,” says Don Stabby into my ear. I decide this is an improvement.

Shoulder-riding takes some adjustment on both of our parts. When I bend over, Don Stabby climbs onto my back which complicates straightening up. I have to rest my head on the kitchen table so he can climb off and we start again. I drape my shoulders with a towel to give him something better to grip, and soon Don Stabby moves naturally with my body, climbing to my shoulder blades when I bend, climbing back to rest by my ear when I straighten.

Snuggle

While I wait for the food to cook, I sit at the kitchen table, drink a beer and we talk. “Crock,” he says. “Crock,” I say. “Crock,” he says. “Crock,” I say. I decide he may be hungry again. I take the masa out of the refrigerator and let him nibble it off my fingers. “Crock.” His throaty noises sound happy, almost like coos.

I pick up my phone and take more selfies. Don Stabby looking at the camera. Don Stabby talking in my ear. Don Stabuloso chewing on my hair. The pictures are adorable. I open WhatsApp to send one to a friend.

And then in a flash of green, he has disappeared over the patio rail, heading for the street.

I race to find my keys then run down the kitchen steps and through the compound garden. I unlock the door to the gate and step out on the street. The sun is starting to set. Grackles scream in the trees and flycatchers twitter on the power lines. But Don Stabby is gone.


HALLIE: I was crying and laughing at the same time when I got to the end of this. Love story with parrot.

I now believe what bird owners have been telling me: birds make wonderful companions. Anyone out there who's had a close encounter with wildlife to share? 

Seeing the Real Mexico... Tulum with Molly Touger

Yesterday's winner of Tace Baker's Bluffing is Murder: FChurch! Email  mailing address to edithmaxwellauthor "at" gmail "dot com"

HALLIE EPHRON: Maybe you've been to Mexico. We have, many times, as tourists. My daughter Molly quit her job in August and moved to Felipe Carrillo Puerto in the Yucatan where she's: "1) learning what what it means to trade Brooklyn for the Maya jungle 2) helping out at a nonprofit language school 3) learning spanish in order to eat, and 4) blogging about it on  MuchasDonas. She's learning what it's like to live there.

Ever since we dragged Molly to Puerto Rico at 9 months old, she's been an avid traveler, brave bold and up for new experiences. She's also turned into a wonderful writer.

She writes about Mexico: "not as a look-at-me-I-live-here-I-know-everything-about-Mexico kind of way. Ok, it will be a tiny bit like that but let’s say it’s more like after-three-months-I’ve-got-a-new-perspective-and-feel-like-sharing."

From Molly on Tulum:
 

Tulum has three main tourist areas. There’s the original-original Tulum, the grand-colorful ancient Maya city, now ruins but still spectacular though overrun by German tourists.

There’s the beach, which has both the public section near the ruins and the Zona Hotelera, flanked by shoulder-to-shoulder “eco-chic” hotels.

And there’s the commercial center, basically a strip along a small highway where both sides are lined with restaurants full of tourists and shops selling beautiful embroidered blouses, painted porcelain, and embossed leather bags.

There’s a bus station is in the middle of the commercial center, and this is where I usually arrive.

The thing I notice most when I get off the bus from Carillo is that the Mexico I’ve grown used to—where Mexicans live, work, go to church, buy groceries—seems to have disappeared. I am suddenly among small herds of Americans and Europeans wearing yoga outfits, beach coverups, or earthtone hippy gear, everyone gliding in a sun-kissed haze between the mojito bar and the falafel shop. It’s like landing on yoga Mars.

There are Mexicans walking among the tourists, but the majority seem to be working in the shops and restaurants. I notice that many of the tourists don’t attempt Spanish and the shopkeepers don’t expect them to. If you want, you can buy everything in dollars.

But the really crazy thing to me is that if I walk along the main drag and then wander off onto a side street, it’s zip back to Mexico. Turn a corner and the tourists are gone. It’s like falling out the back of a movie set.

Most of what I’ve seen in the back streets—especially on the away-from-the-beach side of the highway–looks a lot like my town. There are women selling squash and spices in the shade of doorways. There are bicycle garages, tortillerias, mini-supers, and popsicle shops. Laundry hangs in the front yards or on the rooftops and in the middle of the day there is the normal mid-day hush when everything closes.

As I wander, I think about that the fact that even 30 years ago, the main street would have looked like the back streets. It was only in the 1970s that the Mexican government started putting money into developing the Riviera Maya, exploding Cancun from a 100-person Maya village to its current Spring Break self. Once Cancun blew up, the party headed south, transforming Playa del Carmen to Coco Bongo land and then eventually made its way to Tulum.

Tulum is famous for its ancient Maya ruins, preserved by government money. But if you want to catch a glimpse of another Tulum that might not be there for too much longer—where actual Maya people live and don’t dance with headdresses—there are a few things that I’d recommend:

• The public beach. It’s amazing and is actually what’s in the picture at the top of this post. On the public beach you get tourists but also lots of jolly Mexican families enjoying the day. If you enter next to the Mezzanine (one of the restaurants mentioned in the article, which does have a good happy hour), go left another two minutes, and you can sit outside and enjoy fresh fried fish, ceviche and a beer with your toes in the sand.
• I cannot strongly enough suggest that you try the big red taco joint that’s in the middle of the main strip. Get the tacos al pastor—the roast pork carved off of a gyro-like wheel. Eat this with habanero salsa and pineapple. Be prepared to cry from happiness.
• Buy something from a guy on a tricycle. This could be fruit (I recently saw a guy selling mame, which looks like an almond shape coconut with papaya-colored flesh), horchata, or a popsicle.
• If you speak any Spanish at all, get in a conversation with a Mexican because he or she is likely to be lovely. No matter how obnoxious tourists can be, Mexicans tend to remain incredibly nice in a way that baffles me, being someone that passive-aggressively kicks people’s heels when I walk through Times Square.

I think the most important reason to do these things is that because with all of the international imports in Tulum, you risk missing that you’re actually in Mexico. Really. If you watch the video in The New York Times, play Count the Mexicans. You will notice that the majority of the people shown aren’t.

One more thing. If you’re going to stay in one of the eco-chic resorts, if you can, choose one that’s actually ecologically friendly with solar power and compost toilets. A little secret: the others run on gas generators.

HALLIE: Please, share your travel adventures? Have you managed to get past touristed areas and happily "fallen out the back of a movie set?" And you can follow Molly's Blog MuchasDonas -- this Friday she'll be posting her next adventure.

Helping with the cleanup, one trash bag at a time...

HALLIE EPHRON: Like many of you, I see the pictures of neighborhoods devastated by Hurricane Sandy and wish I could help. My daughter Molly was out this weekend in Sheepshead Bay, a neighborhood on Brooklyn's waterfront, helping with the cleanup. She tells what it's like.

MOLLY TOUGER: 
During the hurricane...
I camped out out on a spare mattress in my sister and brother in law’s apartment, mostly for the company. Neither of us live in evacuation zones. We listened to the wind, watched the news, argued about whether the constant coverage was frying our brains, whether it was alarmist and whether we should watch NetFlix instead.  

ConEd called and said our electric might get cut. Then downtown Manhattan went dark. But our lights in Sunset Park stayed on and I baked cookies and we watched a documentary about sushi-making. In the morning, on the news things looked bad, but our Brooklyn neighborhood did not. A few trees down. I went home, fed my cats and took a nap.

Wednesday we waited
... for news of the return of the subway system, whether school would open, whether we needed to go to work.  We saw the pictures of the Rockaways, of Staten Island, of New Jersey, Red Hook. Places that were nearby. But they weren’t exactly “here.”

In my neighborhood stores were open with fully stocked shelves. Restaurants packed.  Except for the fact that the traffic was unusually thick, it was almost like a snow day. We met up for dinner and drinks and believed the appropriate agencies would fix the broken things because this is New York and this is what happens here.

Then the mayor announced that school would be cancelled for two more days—a full week. And the lights stayed off downtown. And the news from the disaster areas got worse and the marathon got cancelled and cops started having to patrol gas stations so anxious drivers didn’t beat the crap out of each other.

And when the lights finally went on, it didn’t mean that everything was back to normal. Not even close.

Slow reckoning
I didn’t understand how bad it was at first. I don’t know what it’s like for anyone outside of New York but for those of us who live in New York City who weren’t directly affected by the storm surge, it’s been a slow reckoning, part naiveté, part willful ignorance, in part a function of just the way this city works. To live in a New York neighborhood is to be a citizen of a very small geographic area, to which you have loyalty, and where all of your goods and services are provided. 

Because in my neighborhood we continued to have, I didn’t immediately understand how different the situation is for people just a few miles from my apartment.

Saturday
... I went with a group of friends to volunteer in Sheepshead Bay/Coney Island. It’s not just bad. It’s beyond bad.
Driving south from my apartment for a while there is still “the normal.” Grocery stores open.  People walking dogs. Hassids walking to Sabbath services. It’s like that for about a 15-minute drive from my apartment. 

And then it gets just the slightest bit quieter. And then you start to see the garbage piled up in front of the apartment buildings and houses. Couches. Mattresses. Debris. And it’s like that in front of every single building, everywhere you look.

And then the traffic lights aren’t working.  And then you start to notice that the cars lining the curb are all filled with mist, some of them kissing bumper to bumper, a pile of waterlogged sludge nestled in between.

And the businesses that at first appeared to be open actually have people in them because they’re clearing out their entire livelihoods, taking out soggy files and cash registers. And there are no lights, just flashlight beams flickering out from internal spaces.

That’s when I began to understand
... what “storm surge” means. It means “where the water came in.” If you weren’t near the water, Sandy was loud and windy but not particularly terrifying.  And if you were in the way of the water, God help you. 

Volunteer opportunity posted on FacebookMy friend Katina forwarded it (http://www.facebook.com/CleaningSheepshead?ref=stream). Just something that went around, no real organization identifiable. A young guy who identified himself as a resident of the neighborhood had been going around to local businesses, seeing who needed help. A real angel. He handed out assignments.

We had followed the instructions and brought rakes, gloves, face masks and garbage bags. I had spent a good 20 minutes that morning staring at the garbage bag options at C-town trying to decide which strength to buy.  Being somewhat indecisive, I bought a mélange, some Hefty, some generic.

At the sandwich shop: Throw everything out

We got sent to a sandwich shop called Jimmy’s Famous Heroes (photo by Janine Feczko) where the proprietor’s instruction was just “throw everything out.” The chips we asked? Yes. The shelves? He pointed to the wet walls and floors. Sewage. Everything had to go. 

The owner told us: “The shop would have been 75 this year.” “It will be!” offered a volunteer. Nobody contradicted this.

We cleaned out the deli case, whole hams, huge cylinders of provolone, pickles, soggy bread. The file cabinets had water in them. The owner asked if he should keep a waterlogged book on Joe DiMaggio. “Is it signed?” someone asked. It wasn’t. Throw it out.

A couple, friends of the owner came by to see how he was doing. “Ok,” he said.” You?” They said they’d lost everything. The woman said: “My brother literally only has the clothes he’s wearing. But we have each other.”

It turns out people really say these things when horrible things happen. Because that’s what there is to say.

The trash bags turned out to be useful. Heavy contractor bags are good for things like files and hams. Crappy generic trash bags are good for cleaning out shelves full of potato chips.

On to an apartment building
After we were done at Jimmy’s we went over to another place identified by the organizer, the Warbasse apartments in south Brooklyn, several 23-story buildings all part of a City middle-income “Mithchell-lama” complex. On the first floor, in one lucky building with power, volunteers sorted random relief foods (canned pork, popcorn) for residents. FEMA was there too but it was unclear who was coordinating what. 

As a group of four we took an assignment sheet with a building number and a list of apartments and needs for each: foods (some kosher), blankets, water. We collected the needed supplies from the supply tables then headed out, and immediately realized we had no idea which building we were going to with our 50 pounds of relief materials. We met a kind French biker named Andre who biked around until he found the building for us, then let us strap a crate of Poland Springs to his bike rack to ferry it over.

We went in through the loading dock. A kid in a sweatshirt—a super?—told us water would hopefully be coming back on that day, but no electric. There had been no electric since Sandy.

Then he showed us how we had to bring up the food—the windowless stairwells of a 23-story building.

Up up up, in the dark
We looked at each other. We hadn’t thought to bring flashlights. But it’s the modern age. Cell phones have lights. And Andre’s bike helmet had a little head lamp. So that could work.

We entered the stairwell and climbed in the dark, tripping at first, stumbling with vertigo, then getting the hang of how to share the lights efficiently and quickly grab the banisters. We knocked on the first door of our assignment list, and were greeted by an older, very overweight couple who mostly spoke Russian. They were clearly happy to see us. We gave them their food bag and some water.

Then the man asked “Orange juice?” “There’s apple juice” my friend Elana said. “Diabetics,” the man explained. Crap, we thought. We quickly dug through the other bags and found whatever we could with additional fruit sugar and made a note on the assignment sheet that they needed to be checked on again and brought OJ.

In the other apartments, it was a mix of needs. Everyone in need was elderly, some more elderly than others. They were riding it out not out of stubbornness but because they literally couldn’t get down the stairs.

There was the woman in her 70s who told us she had her 96-year-old mom in the back. There was a younger woman with her older, seemingly senile mother, a cat and a bird. No one had been out since Sandy hit. One woman asked if she could use the water to flush her toilet.

In some hallways, it was clear from the smell that in some apartments, toilets had not been flushed. The residents put in additional orders for food and water, and when we told them we didn’t know when electric was coming back on, they started to ask if someone might help them get out.  But it was clear they didn’t really want to go. And where they would go, none of us knew.

We dutifully took note of their requests to give to the volunteers/FEMA.

Coney Island, worrying about the baby walrus
When we were done, Elana and I drove to Coney Island. “I just want to see it,” she said. 

We parked and walked by the aquarium and wondered about the animals with their delicate swimming tanks, about little Mitik the baby walrus who had just arrived. The boardwalk was covered with sand, the beach with random detritus.  Futon frames. Sheets.  Someone seemed to have made some art out of the debris, a dog house with a rug placed perfectly in front of it and a set of shelves.

The Wonder Wheel sat silent, it’s underground controls soaked in sea salt, same for the other rides. The wind roaring through the giant steel structures sounded to me like an adult walrus crying. I was happy to figure out it was just wind on metal. But still. Eerie. But it was also beautiful. The late fall light saturated everything with color, the rides extra bright, the water dark blue green. A million fat seagulls standing around like nothing had happened.

And then we walked by a fried food stand and suddenly realized, it was open. The people behind the counter were actually serving food. Corn dogs, fried shrimp. A full display case of golden fried deliciousness.

I talked to the owner. They hadn’t had any damage, he said because they were high up, higher than the workings of the Wonder Wheel. They were OK. Full electric and water. That’s great! I said. I bought onion rings and lemonade even though I wasn’t hungry. And I was grateful.

Did I want anything else? the owner asked. The truth was I wanted to buy everything.  “No,” I said. “I’m ok for now.”

We kept walking down the beach to where a crowd was gathered. Dozens of people with shovels clearing off the boardwalk. The organizer was standing on a table telling people that it was time to pack up for now. 

“But we don’t want to,” one older gentleman protested. The organizer gently told him that they would meet again tomorrow at 9 a.m. There would be plenty of work to do.

HALLIE: I hadn't realized how bad it is until until I read this. Here are some links to organizations that will help you help, too. Anyone who has any additional suggestions, please post them in comments.

https://www.facebook.com/SandyVolunteer
https://www.facebook.com/CleaningSheepshead?fref=ts
https://www.robinhood.org/news/robin-hood-reactivates-relief-fund-and-will-disburse-3-million-tuesday
http://interoccupy.net/occupysandy/les/
And a list of relief efforts posted on NY1.com:

http://www.ny1.com/content/top_stories/171662/ways-to-help-sandy-relief-efforts-in-nyc