A Blond on a Gray Burro

3-'04

Yeah. I'm slaving away on some shell creation out under thatch in my little sweat shop. But there was a cold north wind comin' in off close-at-hand sea, so that palapa's side flaps were down on that side, and I was workin' in sweats, almost wishin' I could work up one. Over slight noise of solar operated equipment I can't miss dogs startin' to raise a fuss...and then, sorta way in the background, somebody whistling; a very common thing here when someone's closing on yer space. And then when I'm pretty sure I know what direction this is comin' from, in back of us, not the normal approach pattern at all, me in my white shop apron, I step out where I can see around the blocking wind screen...and there ridin' by at a leisure pace is this blond dame on said colored animal.

Short blond hair, not long and flowing. She's sorta mid aged, a little broad across the saddle. She's one of a mounted threesome; a thin, young Mexican male that I sorta recognized rode in the lead and fat o lder Mexican took up the rear. Obviously they were just passin' so all I did was give a friendly wave, this broad wavin' back. "An Alejo riding customer," I quickly wrote it off to. Although why he'd waste two guides for one client, I really couldn't figure? The guy in the lead pointed to a cross-country trail that headed north up this coastline and surrounding desert swallowed up this brief action.

"Who were those guys?" Marcia asked shortly after the dogs settled down. I didn't know, couldn't tell her more than what I've just written down. She was suspicious. "That fat guy wasn't Gutierrez, was he?"

"No. No. No." I laughingly assured her. That big, fat, extremely bloated and completely-out-of-shape ejido commissioner I couldn't picture mounted, bein' able to handle it. That fat one that had rode by looked pretty easy in the saddle. "I don't know? It didn't look like a normal tourist ride to me," she ended comment with.

So we're not thinkin' any more about this. Our life of almost boring peacefulness just continuing on here. And, thus far, knock on wood, what a peaceful time we've had of it, too. Nobody is attacking by radio or news print. (The print part might be due to newspaper reporter Erriberto Chaviz droppin' dead with heart attack, most likely caused because of heated alteration he and ejido chief had had with Chayo here at rancho gate: that was back in like June er July.) There's been no visits by Immigrations, the Judicial Police, nobody trying to crash the place.

The next we hear of blond rider was at a martini time, one evening over at friends' camp on north boundary of rancho. Nothin' much. Just them stating that the lady sat her mount well. They thought the two guys with her were related to Alejo, that made sense. And then they said that she'd told them that they were off for Coyotito, which didn't make all that much sense, but what the hell do I know of coming's and goings on around here?

Coyotito is a lovely cove that's located just about at north terminus of what is Historic Carrizalito, before the Reform Agraria started playin' games with it. We, us partners in Wave International, the owners of very old rancho papers (1928), still consider it part of the rancho. And, when and if we ever get through the Tribunal Agraria legal battles, if we succeed, we certainly plan to reinniate claim towards it.

We had heard from Chayo that Gutierrez had bought up the phony parcels covering most of that area, and that in fact he'd started to construct some sort of a camp and, too, was planting lots of palm trees there. Him in his efforts to hook in further those investors in that marina.

Anyway, why she'd be headin' that way I didn't venture ta guess, nor did I really give a rip.

Several days later, early on a quiet morning that Marcia and I had chose to take good advantage of, just at the wrong time, the whistle of a friend of ours we, regretfully, hear closing on camp. And, bam! the dogs go off too!

I try hollerin' Joaquin, that's this friend's name, off.. ‰.but to no avail. Right up to our bedroom windows he tromps, him with what he perceives as most urgent news: "I just had to tell ya that a blond lady just rode by our camp and told us that she'd just bought the place! They were headed for Alejo's with the animals."

Well, shit. The damage was done. (My concentration was completely shot.) These short sentences set my mind to wildly whirling. We got up and I hurriedly dressed and just moments behind Joaquin we hustled to his place for further info.

Joaquin didn't give me much more. The encounter had been unexpected and brief. Joaquin is a extremely gregarious guy and he did get that she was from N. California, not too far from where he and Marta live. She'd blurted out she'd "bought the place!" And before my buddy could come up with phraseology in regards to possible underlying property problems, the fat Mexican who was still accompanying her spurred his mount, him saying in perfect English that they were in hurry, had to leave.

"And yer sure they headed to Alejo's, San Cosme?" I questioned. And he was, and he was sure that animals that they rode were definitely Alejo's.

Wasting no more time to chat I took off on a serious ground-gobblin' gait, leavin' Joaquin, Marta and Marcia in my wake....

Damn. Had I ever been wanting to talk to just one of these fishes that that phony ejido commissioner has got baited in. I pushed myself over all the short cuts, me thinkin' that with luck, maybe this blond will still be there by Alejo's saddle shop when I, huff, huff, make it there to San Cosme. As I comin' down the back side of high-tide pass, where I can see down into most of San Cosme, I see two animals being led over to cement water tank. Whew! There was still a chance so I sped up on that tricky down-hill, me passing on the need to empty my bladder.

I'm makin' it down Alejo's short-side drive, about half way, when I hear the sound of a carro just then passing behind me there on Agua Verde road. As I break out in the clear where I can see over to where all those saddles and other horse pharaphenala sets shaded, the only people I see are Alejo's oldest son Julio, and his cousin Gyatano. "The blond who was ridin?" I hollered out. To which they both answer that they'd just left, "Los Inversionista," and they point higher up the Agua Verde road ta where I can see plainly that that had just passed behind me...movin' steadily higher. A red jeep with a black cloth top, looked like a rental. Damn. A close miss.

In conversation with these two I learn that the lady was from the Los Cabos area, at least in the winter time. They both referred to that pair - the blond and fat Mexican - as "Los Inversionistas," I questioned as to whether they were with the other marina-building inversionistas and both of 'em concurred that they were. When I mentioned that she'd just told Joaquin that she'd bought the place, they both seemed amused. We fell into talk about Gutierrez's moves, both of them more er less knowing the score, especially Julio.

He tells me how Gutierrez has been anxiously shepherding these investors away from contact with others that might fill them in on some of the problems that they're sure to encounter. That he put as the reasoning for they're being fed at Martin's casa, rather than at the restaurante. Julio's not stupid, he's got good eyes and instincts.

I told him how much I wanted to talk to these investors, even if only one of them!

He told me that he thought more would be there the next day, perhaps with Gutierrez.

"Look," I says, "if you get a chance to talk to one of them please, please tell them that I would really love to talk. Really."

He said he'd do his best to pass the word.

Email: david@dondavidonbaja.com