OSCAR THE GOAT

      There was this goat named Oscar who was born on the Gonzales strawberry farm in Irapuato, Mexico.  When Oscar was just a young kid, too young to remember, his mother and father died.  So instead of being raised by a goat, like a normal goat should, Oscar was raised by a very loving and motherly dog named Gloria.  
     Gloria was a good parent and treated Oscar as if he were one of her own pups.  She taught him all she knew about life, the basics: barking, growling, begging, and above all, her favorite past-time of chasing cars, motorcycles and bikes.
     Gloria was well respected in the dog community and was very strict with all the other dogs, making sure that Oscar never felt out of place.  So Oscar, the goat, grew up believing he was a dog.
     Now as you can imagine a goat running with a pack of dogs, chasing cars, barking and growling is a pretty unusual sight and all the Mexican town folk in Irapuato got a big kick out of it.  They would hoot, holler, point and laugh at Oscar.  They would throw sticks and Oscar would fetch them back.  It was great fun!
     But all fun must come to an end, because the truth of the matter is a goat has a very different ending then a dog, especially in Mexico on Sunday afternoons.  So on an early Sunday morning in Irapuato, Oscar the goat was sacrificed to the birria gods (birria is a delicious, spicy, goat stew).
     
     Señora Gonzalez, who happened to be known as incredibly gifted in the kitchen, put up a sign on her front yard advertising her delicious birria made from fresh goat meat (Oscar) and soon enough people came to eat the steamy, spicy, oily, red stew for 35 pesos a serving along with hot, homemade, corn tortillas with a small but delicious dessert of strawberries covered in cream.  That's when a black Toyota pickup truck with California plates pulled up in front of the Gonzalez house with loud mariachi music blaring.
     A Gringo popped out of the pickup truck.  He was as Gringo as they get---blond hair, blue eyes and tall.  But there was something funny about this Gringo---he dressed just like a Mexican farm worker.  He had on huaraches (homemade Mexican sandals) and donned an old beat up straw hat.  He spoke fluent Spanish with lots of slang mixed in----"no mameys" he said, "chido," he said.  Everyone was impressed with his Spanish and a little confused.  He slurped down his order of the birria, stuffed his face with the strawberries, stood up, then politely said, "provecho" (bon appetite) to the others still eating and asked how much he owed for the meal. 
     "50 pesos" replied señora Gonzalez keeping a straight face.
     The Gringo gave a big smile and handed over the fifty pesos and then drove off. 
     Everyone hooted and hollered with laughter at the irony.  The gringo that thought he was a Mexican who ate the goat that thought he was a dog.


----Por Pablo Estali----    

Ten Years of Mexico!

      As I was walking along the hotel-lined sea wall (the malecón) in Mazatlán, Mexico, watching the sun crash magnificently into the Pacific Ocean something occurred to me.  Ten years ago, when I was a wided-eyed twenty year old youngster on my first trip through Mexico, I witnessed the very same scene in the exact same spot.  I remember it clearly--one of those moments when you say to yourself, "I am going to remember this forever."  I  snapped a picture of the sunset with my disposable camera right before hopping on an overnight bus to head deeper into unknown Mexico.  Little did I know what an effect Mexico would have on my life.

(not the photo I took, but similar!)

         My Mexican friends I work with now jokingly call me a Mexican and most people that know me well, know that if I am in charge of the I-pod they are going to be listening to a Cumbia.  Truthfully, I don´t know why I have such a fascination with the Mexican culture.  It doesn´t make sense. But It isn´t going to change or go away.  I will never be completely fluent at Mexican Spanish nor know everything about Mexican culture, nor do I strive for that imposability.  All I know is that somehow my blood was mixed with limones and sal and in some way my life´s works involves our wonderful Southern neighbor.  Viva Mexico and thanks!