THE TYRANNY OF SMALL DECISIONS
With the obvious exception of the FBI, the NPS has managed to shoot itself in the foot more times in recent memory than any other government agency. Granted, on some occasions, the trigger was pulled by our bureaucratic parent, the Department of Interior (which gives some credence to those who would like the NPS to "go it alone" as an independent agency, or hook up with the less political and more professional Smithsonian Institution.)
The first bang through the foot was fall out from the celebrated Trip Down the Colorado. The raft trip was an "informational" ride down the canyon in August, 1999 for then Assistant Secretary Don Barry. As the Hopi tribe has a considerable metaphysical connection with the Grand Canyon (Creation myths and the more tangible location of the Sacred salt spring on the Little Colorado near the confluence of of that river with the main Colorado, it was fitting that Wayne Taylor, chairman of Hopi tribe, would accompany the expedition.
It seems, however, that Chairman Taylor had a tomahawk to grind. Around the evening campfire, after the obligatory conversation on the majesty of the Grand Canyon and its river and rapids, the chairman brought up the subject of Hopi access to NPS controlled eagles. (Before proceeding, we should first discuss the venue of the meeting. It was a campfire. Now neighbors, the campfire is one of the mystical totems of Wilderness philosophy and folklore in America. Decisions reached around a campfire and the brotherhood proclaimed around a campfire are supposed to have a purity of strength and purpose unknown to decisions reached within four walls and a roof. The National Park System's own sacred creation myth involves a campfire on the Madison river in what is now Yellowstone National Park. According to the myth, a group of hard-headed businessmen grouped around the campfire dissuaded themselves from making a fortune and voted to preserve the area as the world's first national park. Such is the power of the campfire; mystical, mesmerising, and evocative of times past; which is probably why Toyota, Microsoft and other corporations do not make landmark decisions around a campfire (The decision to preserve Yellowstone as a tourist attraction was probably made in the private railroad car or boardroom of one of the rail magnates of the time, rather than around a campfire).
Anyways, we have the campfire setting at the bottom of the Grand Canyon with Assistant Secretary Barry listening raptly to a Native American, leader of a much abused tribe, put forth his case for Hopi religious freedom in the form of access to eagles in a nearby National Park.
One can imagine the firelight flickering over the high, craggy cheekbones of the Hopi Elder as he put forth his request that the NPS Director's denial of the Hopi request to take eaglet from Wupatki National Park be rescended. Under the circumstances, even your cynical, reactionary editor would have been somewhat moved by the presentation (though not, hopefully, to the extent of endangering the mission of the National Parks) Mr. Barry, on the other hand, was a well-meaning liberal who wore his heart on his sleeve for what he perceived was persecution of a minority group. He was in short, a pushover (probably even without the campfire) He pledged all that he would rectify this alleged wrong upon his return to DC and he kept his word.
In the best tradition of Cook County, Illinois law enforcement, (or the Clinton White House for that matter) the staff at Wupatki were asked not to go overboard in forestalling certain environmental crimes (i.e. eaglet filching), that if they didn't patrol near an active eagle nest, why, then, they wouldn't see an eaglenapping. One would think that instructions to sworn federal law enforcement officers to abrogate their oaths of office would be, um, illegal. Apparently not, as Barry walked out of Interior without handcuffs.
The case naturally attracted the attention of that champion of avian rights, the venerable Audubon Society. The Society put Ted Williams, one of the best investigative environmental reporters in the trade on the case. Williams' article "Golden Eagles for the Gods" in the March-April issue of AUDUBON is a well-researched statement of the case against letting a faction of the Hopi tribe take Eaglets from Wupatki (or any place else for that matter). Williams points out that it is only one Hopi faction, not the whole tribe that wants to sacrifice the eaglets (rather cruelly) to the gods. Indeed one faction, the Hopi Eagle Clan revere free, living eagles and clan members would sneak up to Second Mesa, the domain of the eagle sacrificers, and release the eagles. ("How would YOU like being chained in the sun for 80 days?" asked one Eagle clan member.
The Regional Director, John Cook, himself an Indian, had told Mr. Barry that the permitting authority of the U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service under 16 USC 66a and 16 USC did not override National Park Regulations, and there could be no special exception for any group.
Not to deny his friends around the campfire, Barry persisted, getting Interior lawyers to draft a special rule that would apply just to Wupatki, allowing the taking of eaglets for "religious purposes".
Now neighbors, a bad move has a certain evil inertia all its own even after many people have forgotten about it. Barry has moved on after the election (Wilderness Society) but his unimplemented rule is still around like an unexploded World War I shell, buried just below the surface. This time around, it could be used for right wing mischief rather than liberal mischief by Senator Murkowsky (R-AK) or any one of the legion of environmental neanderthals that lead the congressional delegations of the Rocky Mountain West.
The reason is that under the U.S. constitution, no one group can be given special rights, even (and especially) for "religious purposes." Senator Young (R-AK) or the National Rifle Association or anyone else could come with a Holy Church of the Long Rifle in which you have to shoot a bull elk in a national park in order to have your sins forgiven. This Pandora's Box of a "special rule" could open every national park to a myriad of "uses" limited only by the imagination of the Greedheads.
Another blast to the foot was aimed not by the DOI but by the NPS itself.
Apparently, there were those among management who found the Organic Act of 1916 a bit too restrictive. (The part about "leaving unimpaired" is apparently a problem for some), so the NPS filed legal briefs that would allow the NPS to determine which parts of a park were REALLY essential and what would be a truly, nasty irrevocable PERMANENT damage to the park ( and thus what could be up for grabs by the superintendent's buddies at the local Rotary Club.)
Apparently, the reason for this capitulation was continuing clamor, banging at the door, loud demands, and surly faces by four wheel drive enthusiasts who wanted to continue such use at Canyonlands National Park. As ORV users tend to resemble a braying lynch mob in the best of circumstances, one can understand how a manager could succumb to "protection fatigue" and wonder if just maybe there is a part of the park that even Edward Abbey couldn't love, that was sort of redundant, that was found elsewhere in the park or the world; or that maybe there was a really sturdy piece of park real estate, that could stand up to abuse by ORV's; or that could "recover" after a century or two (One can envision an NPS version of the Forest Services rotational clear cuts in which eventually all lands in the park would have the "opportunity" to "participate" in ORV recreation.
Fortunately however, the federal court didn't see it that way and gently uncocked the NPS pistol, preventing a foot shot. At least for the moment.
These on-the-spot environmental decisions made without the support of a formal Environmental Impact Statement, by a forceful "charismatic" leader at the behest of a pressure group, lead to what one conservation biologist calls the "Tyranny of Small Decisions".
That is a "feel good, make some folks happy" decision that looked inoffensive at the time (at least to the beneficiaries) will make ripples that will lock one into a program for generations. A few decades ago, a charismatic Director, George Hartzog, wanted to run a road across Great Smoky Mountain National Park. As is usual in such cases, it was pointed out that the actual land involved would be only one percent or less of the park and the road would facilitate myriads of things from tourism, to ambulances getting there on time to poverty stricken Cherokees finding work.
However, the road would have balkanized the park, destroying any chance of a viable ecosystem and would have been an 800 pound gorilla in park management from the day the ribbon was cut.
Fortunately the ribbon was not cut. More environmentally sound minds prevailed and the project was cancelled.
Last month, in issue # 238, we discussed the introduction of snowmobiles into the park by a " charismatic" superintendent, a project rubberstamped by park naturalists under the superintendent's direct supervision, and pushed along by political appointees. (not quite the essence of the Scientific Methods). The results were predictably "excellent" A later superintendent said (with apparent satisfaction) that "West Yellowstone would take hostages if anyone tried to keep snowmobiles out of the park. (Ah! West Yellowstone! That distillation of 2,000 years of Western European philosophy and civilization! It is only fair that they should make the decisions for the rest of us!)
In order to avoid the "Tyranny of Small Decisions", it is important that the NPS insist on the full blown Environmental Impact Statement in these cases and not permit an end run by political appointees and their friends. Should the ORV enthusiasts or the Hopi feel aggrieved, then it is their right as citizens to petition Congress for redress of grievances.
Campfires are romantic, but can get away from you.
THE BULL MOOSE PARTY
Buckaroos, one of my favorite urban legends concerns a typical New Yorker who purchased the Sunday edition of the NEW YORK TIMES, boarded a new York subway train and then kicked out one of the windows before sitting down. His seatmates, being New Yorkers, stared straight ahead. Jabbering and giggling happily to himself, the man started to crunch each page of the NEW YORK TIMES into a ball and throw it out the broken window. After a number of miles of this , one of the passengers finally reported the problem to a transit policeman who detained the paper cruncher and shipped him off to Bellevue for psychiatric evaluation.
The psychiatrist asked him why he was throwing wads of paper out of the train window. The man gave the psychiatrist an incredulous look and said "It keeps elephants from attacking the subway train!"
"But there are no elephants in the subway!" said the astounded psychiatrist.
"Yes!" said the man triumphantly, "Effective, isn't it!" Now neighbors, one of my volunteer collateral duties with the National Park Service has been making sure there are no liberals in the permanent ranks of the NPS. Yes friends! You look about you and say in a puzzled tone "But there are no liberals in the NPS!"
"Yes! Effective, aren't I" is my happy rejoinder.
People have occasionally asked where your kindly editor stands politically as THUNDERBEAR commentary seems to be all over the political map. Republican (No!) Democrat (not bloody likely!)
I am a proud member of the Bull Moose Party, founded by Theodore Roosevelt in 1912. There aren't many of us left, which is a pity.
The Bull Moose party was the closest thing to a successful third party that this country has seen. It grew out of a conjunction of political forces that have an eerie resemblance to present day politics; that is, weak, inefffectual Democrats and arrogant, reactionary Republicans.
Former President Roosevelt believed that the ideals of his "Square Deal" had been abrogated by his successor, President Taft, whom he believed, rightly or wrongly, to be favoring the strong over the weak, and that the nation's natural resources were being systematically looted.
Roosevelt called for greatly expanded welfare programs and government regulation of industry, the elimination of injustice, the creation of equality of opportunity the conservation of the environment, and believed that the judiciary's primary obligation was to protect human welfare rather than private property. (It is ironic that Theodore Roosevelt, dead in his grave at Sagamore Hill National Historic Site for 76 years, seems to have more political pizzaz than Clinton, Dole, or Gingrich!)
Naturally, the Republican Party of 1912 wasn't buying this, and Roosevelt lost out to Taft in the Republican primary. Undaunted, he founded his Bull Moose Party (He called it that because he said he felt like one)
The Bullmoose party carried California, Michigan, Minnesota, Pennsylvania, South Dakota, Washington, and 27% of the popular vote, enough to lose the election for Taft and win it for the Democratic candidate, Woodrow Wilson.
Today, however, it would seem that a present day Bullmoose environmental party could go all the way against sniveling, ineffectual Democrats and arrogant, reactionary Republicans. I wonder who the standard barer might be?
Well now, neighbors, if you are experiencing a bit of deja vu, you are quite correct! The above article, "The Bullmoose Party" is a reprint from the July 1995 issue of THUNDERBEAR. Only the sorry cast of losers (Clinton, Dole and Gingrich) need be updated (Gore and Bush) to make the 1995 article absolutely in sync with the present year.
So, who would make a good Bullmoose standard-bearer. Well now, I understand that Senator Jim Jefford's (?VT) Grandfather was a Bull Moose. Perhaps we should ask him if he is doing anything in 2004.
RETIREMENT AND EMIGRATION
You will recall that we discussed the possibility of retirement in Mexico. Is retirement in Mexico a good idea, and if so, why?
Well now, without being unpatriotic, I think we can agree that much of the U.S. has three months (January, February, and March) that it really doesn't need unless you're in snowmobile sales and rentals. Indeed, when you think about it, there are only three American months that are pleasant enough for Americans to name their girl children after; (April, May, and June)
Mexico, or at least the Mexican plateau south of San Luis Potosi, is the Elysian Land of Eternal Spring. Instead of four seasons, there is a dry season and a wet season.
The dry season, generally from November through April, is precisely that, dry. The sun shines down from a cloudless, horizon blue sky, day after day, month after month. It is a polite sunshine that gently warms rather than bakes you.
The rainy season (May through October) is equally courteous. Instead of thundering electrical storms laced with tornados, leaving flash floods and disaster proclamations in their wake, as is the case with melodramatic American version of rain. Mexican rain is downright polite. The rain does not take up your whole day the way it does in the Pacific Northwest. Instead, the morning starts off inspirational, with crisp air, dazzling sunshine from an Iris blue sky, with just a few thunder heads on the horizon. (No slate gray sky with morbid drizzle as an excuse to stay in bed) As the pleasant rainy season day wears on, the clouds become more and more majestic and fill a greater quadrant of the sky. Finally, around 4pm (decent hour!) God pulls the chain on the Celestial Cistern, and the rain drops straight down. Yes, there is a lot of it. You see why the curbstones are nearly two feet high. This is where the saying "too dumb to come in out of the rain" acquires new meaning. Since the rain is on a tighter schedule than most airlines, there is no reason you could not have scheduled a coffee break at your favorite café to watch the 39th day of Noah's flood fill the street curb to curb then magically recede after an hour or so, to be followed by the spicy perfume of the semi-tropics after a rain.
Food, at least unprocessed vegetables and fruit (including some neat "exotics" such as soursop, mango, and papaya are cheap, about 25% what you would pay in the U.S.) Tortilla flour is subsidized by the government to keep the very poor alive if not happy. Fish is about the same price as in the U.S. Canned goods and other processed foods, at least those manufactured in Mexico run 60 to 75% of American prices. Meat is not as expensive as in the U.S., but it not particularly cheap either. I am told that the beef is tough (but tasty) as it is not finished on corn as in the U.S.
Although various guide books tout the "immense regional varieties of Mexican cooking" I did not find that the menus differed very much in various parts of Mexico any more than the Denny's menu differs in various parts of the U.S. In short, the restaurant food is generally the hearty Tex-Mex most of us Gringos are familiar with. ("Santa Fe" or "Southwestern" cuisine, less heavy on the lard and beans, is coming in--at Santa Fe prices.) I did have one "regional specialty", baked ant eggs, that was expensive enough to suggest that locals do not eat them but harvest them for the gringo trade.
As the saying goes, rents will vary. We assume you want electricity. (If you are a member of the Coleman lantern and white gas stove set, you can get some real bargains.) If you choose to live in Mexico City, you will pay Alaskan prices of 2 thousand to 4,000 dollars (not pesos) a month for a house or apartment in a "gated" (read "fortified") neighborhood.
However, Mexico City, as Mexicans never tire of telling you, is not the "real" Mexico, and things are much cheaper (and safer) in the other 99% of Mexico.
We paid $450 U.S. a month for a two story, two bedroom, two bath, kitchen, living and dining room with walled front and back lawns and a view overlooking the Popocatepetl volcano and the pyramid in the agricultural suburb of Cholula outside Puebla, Mexico's Third largest city.
This was a bit more house than we needed, and in truth, a bit more money than we needed to pay had we had time to shop around a bit. The house had its own well, which supplied water by electric pump to a tank or "bomba" on the rooftop for showers and cleaning. Drinking water arrives in the form of the 5 gallon plastic jug that is getting to be more and more familiar in the U.S. as Americans begin to doubt the safety and purity of their own municipal drinking water. The Mexicans have no doubts, they buy bottled water.
Gas arrives in the form of an orange 20 propane gallon tank that you buy from a flat bed truck that has a set of musical horns that announce its proximity to your neighborhood and needs (Speaking of "needs" the Mexican gas men occupy the same niche in urban folklore as the long gone ice man occupied in American urban folklore--that of the burly seducer of bored housewives, though I rather suspect that this rumor is perpetuated by the gas men's wishful thinking) Medical care should be adequate for your needs. "Should be" is the operative word. If you have a chronic condition that requires that your blood be drained, strained, and filtered through a bed of rose hips on a monthly basis, then a sojourn in Mexico is probably not for you. Mexican doctors are good, many of them trained in the U.S. There are just not that many of them, making getting into a car wreck in a remote area of Chiapas as dicey as the same thing in parts of West Virginia.
Should you have a long standing problem such as heart disease, you just might like to check out the local facilities and practitioners while you're still vertical, so you can tell the cabby or attendant where you'd like to go (in this world) if you suddenly feel the Devil's claw in your chest.
One very bright feature of Mexican medicine is dental care. If your health plan is like mine, it's pretty coy to non-existent on the subject of dental care. In Mexico, not to worry! Joan had an emergency root canal and crown. It cost her $150. She had it checked out by her dentist stateside. He pronounced it an A-I job, saying "I have a friend who could do as good a job, but it would cost you $1400." Naturally, you'll have to inquire of the Gringo community as to who does a good job.
As Joan had a teaching assignment with the University of the Americas in Cholula, we did not have a great deal of choice as where to live. This of course, does not pertain to you and thus you could choose to live anywhere in Mexico or simply move around until you find a spot of your liking.
Most gringos seem to opt for the "eternal spring" belt at around 7,000 feet and tend to settle in what the guide books describe as "Spanish Colonial Towns" such as San Miguel de Allende, Queretaro, Alamos, Taxco, Morelia, or San Cristobal de Las Casas (If you like aging hippies, or ARE an aging hippy!) Due to the fact that Gringo retirees have "discovered" them, these towns tend to be a bit more expensive than other towns. The presence of a sizable gringo population in a developing country town is always a mixed blessing. In the best of cases, some of these retirees act as a late-in-the-day Peace Corps, helping out in some of the volunteer programs , such as the Humane Society, headstart programs, free English lessons, or in the case of retired public lands specialists, help with the Mexican National Park and natural areas, many of which bravely show up on maps, but are underfunded or more often, unfunded.
On the other hand, there is the Gringo who seems stranded in Mexico only because of low cost of living and cheap alcohol. For these folks, life is a continual whine about Mexican inefficiency and lazy or thieving maids, cooks, and gardeners who "cannot be trusted". Why these gringos, who never had servants up North, don't simply dispense with the help, do for themselves, and avoid paranoia, beats the hell out of me.
There is nothing wrong with having some American friends in Mexico, but if you want to avoid long, boring discussions about the not very interesting grandchildren of not particularly interesting people, you will want to learn Spanish as quickly as you can, and get involved in the Mexican community and the Mexican practitioners of your favorite sport or avocation.
Which brings us to the next point; Do Mexicans like Americans? Historically speaking, there is no reason they should like Americans, but against all odds, they seem to.
You will remember from your history that we "acquired" about two fifths of the Republic of Mexico in the decade and a half before the American Civil War. It now happens that Mexicans now seek jobs in that former two fifths of what used to be their country. We demur. One might think that would make the Mexicans angry? Doesn't seem to.
However, as a sort of de facto "Outward Bound" program, we agree that if you are tough enough to survive border bandit gangs, a trek across a burning desert or snow flecked mountains, then you are worthy of a low paying job without health benefits, living six to a room, under constant threat of deportation. Is this a revenge provoking situation? Apparently not.
Now your editor admits that this is not a scientific study. I did not go into the working class cantinas of Puebla and say "Hi there, Amigos! I'm conducting a survey! How many of you underemployed folks REALLY like Gringos?"
Nope, my study was strictly anecdotal and based on chance meetings and conversations with recent Mexican returnees from "El Norte".
Briefly, it seems that most Mexicans regard the trip to the U.S., the way turn of the last century American males regarded the Klondike Gold Rush; An opportunity for Adventure, and an opportunity to make a great deal of money, and return home as conquering heros. Most of the Mexicans I spoke to had no desire to settle in the United States any more than the American Klondike stampeders had any desire to permanently settle in the Yukon Territory; the idea was to get your stake and get back to "civilization".
"Civilization" is of course, what one is used to. If provided with a living wage, most Mexicans prefer the climate and life style of their native country and I don't blame them.
I recalled talking to an adventurous Mexican from the tropical resort island of Cozumel off the coast of Mexico's Yucatan Peninsula. The island is unique in that unlike most airline flights that pass through or stop in Mexico City, Cozumel has direct service to Minneapolis. The flight is understandably called the "Minnesota Express". It is a humanitarian service for refugees fleeing the Midwestern winter. We had struck up a conversation with the young Mexican at a dockside outdoor café in the little main land port of Playa Del Carmen opposite Cozumel. We were watching the winterstruck mid-westerners as they debouched from the Cozumel ferry. Their February white faces lit up at the sight of the bougainvillea, jacaranda, and other flowering vines and trees. This is what they came for.
"I can see their point" said the young Mexican dryly, "I can definitely see their point."
It seems that our Mexican acquaintance had spent the better part of a year in Minnesota. Like many Mexicans, he was an expert shade tree mechanic and generally good at putting things together and keeping them in that condition. (In this field, the Mexicans are gradually replacing the Appalachian Anglo-Saxon as a source of mechanics in the U.S.). He worked in several of the resorts in Cancun and on Cozumel. He spoke good English and was of an affable, outgoing disposition and made many friends among the equally affable and outgoing Midwesterners.
One of the Minnesotans suggested that he might like to come up to Minnesota and "see some of the country" while doing a bit of work in his Minnesota resort the following summer
Being a curious, adventurous young man, he was interested in the homeland of these pale faced visitors (and there was the fact that a tropical resort sort of slows down economy wise during the tropical summer) So, with his Minnesotan friend "Bob"'s instructions, he got a tourist visa to come up to International Falls, Minnesota to visit his good friend, "Bob" and while away the summer water skiing, fishing for muskies, and canoeing Voyaguers National Park, or at least that's what he told the immigration folks.
In reality of course, he worked at Bob's resort. (Nope, no horror story here, our Mexican friend was not exploited in any way, shape, or form, "Bob" was as good as his word, adequate housing was provided and the Mexican was given as much work as he could handle at a rate mutually agreed upon, and indeed, there were unexpected cash bonuses for a job well done. The people were friendly, especially the tall blonde Minnesota girls)
In fact, things were going so well, there seems no reason for a percipient return to Mexico. The only drawback seemed to be the insects, the mosquitos and the dread little "bichos" (Black flies) which surprised him as he thought the cold weather would kill them off. Since Bob's resort was a four season enterprise, he decided to stay on a bit as the money was good.
Now the Mexican winter, the dry season, is a bit cooler in Mexico than the summer or wet season, but not by much. The Mexican thought that a Minnesota winter would be a similar moderate version of the Minnesota summer. He was to be disillusioned. "They have a nice season, they call the "Fall", some of the trees turn different colors and all the bad bugs die, and the leaves fall off the trees. but then the winter starts". he said, with a visible shudder.
Now neighbors, most of you are aware that in the summertime, the weather segment of the television news always give the temperature at Presidio, Texas as the hottest place in the United States. In the wintertime, the town used as a bench march for the ultimate in deadly cold in the lower 48 is...well, you knew, International Falls, Minnesota.
Our Mexican friend, of course, did not know this.
With still a touch of awe in his voice, the Mexican described the inexorable march of the Minnesota Ice Age. It wasn't the snow or the thickness of the ice on the lake (two feet or more) that got to him. (Tropical Mexicans are familiar with refrigerators, freezers and ice cubes, they just can't quite believe that it can happen outdoors without electricity) What really bothered the Mexican was the increasing darkness. He asked his boss, amiable Bob, if it would get any worse. (It was early December) "Bob" was honest but uplifting, stating the money to be made in repairing snow machines.
Finally, the Mexican had to get out, despite the money and the kindness of the Minnesotans. He took a bus down to Minneapolis and booked a flight on the "Minnesota Express" to dear old Cozumel where he and some friends opened a travel agency and car rental and are apparently living happily ever after.
"I didn't last even till February", he mused, looking out over the pale tourists, "It amazes me that people can live there year around!".
So if what I say is true, that most Mexicans would prefer to live in Mexico, then why are there 3 or 4 million illegal Mexicans living in the U.S.?
Well, I suspect that some of that is due to our "Outward Bound" program of requiring our new immigrants to do a bracing 100 mile slog through mountains and deserts to prove themselves worthy of those entry level jobs, not just once, mind you, but every time you reenter the U.S. After you do the desert trek a number of times, evading dangers natural and man-made, I suspect it gets kind of old, and more importantly, you get old. So, there is the temptation to settle down on the side of the border that has the jobs.
In his imperfect manner, President Bush seems to understand the problem and seems to be working his way toward a "guest worker" program that would eliminate the Desert Survival Course, save hundreds of lives every year and rationalize the ebb and flow of workers over the border. If the "guest workers" could come and go in a safe manner.
Such a guest worker program in which the Mexicans arrive by bus rather than by foot would also help the National Park Service. How? Well, about two fifths of the long Mexican American border is National Park land. Understandably, desperate, frightened people are in no position to comprehend or care about the fragile desert ecology ("Don't walk on the cryptogametic soil, seZor!" It is far, far better for all concerned that they visit and enjoy a national park during the day rather than try to sneak through it at night.
"But we've got to stop immigration!" say the Sierra Club and WILD EARTH cassandras. Maybe we do, but the problem is that the Mexicans (or most of them) are not immigrants. They are primarily Native Americans, Amerindians, or First Nation Peoples as our stuffy Canadian neighbors call them. Their "blood" is often closer to the pure native American Indian strain than many people who are enrolled in U.S. federally recognized tribes. (Of course their last names tend to be something like Sanchez or Ramirez rather that Little Bear or Black Elk, but a few mischievous civil rights lawyers could change the last names of the 3 million illegals into romantic Indian names which should satisfy the Sierra Club! If we were worried about Mexican immigration, we should have done something about that pesky Bering Strait land bridge ages ago.
But what about the reverse immigration? That is, your moving to Mexico to enjoy a considerable amount of the year not shoveling snow. Like the guest worker program has occurred to "Dubya", the idea of American retirees journeying down to Mexico to spend considerable time (and money) has occurred to Mexico's president Vincente Fox, who sees a secondary windfall in promoting Mexico as the Sunset home for an increasingly aging American population.
But would the Mexicans accept you? Don't see why not, but good question just the same. I must admit it would tiresome if you had just got your little adobe hacienda fixed up in some picturesque Mexican town only to note a mob carrying torches and ropes coming down your street, singing "OH! WE'LL HANG THE GRINGO RETIREE FROM A SOUR MANGO TREE! YES! WE'LL HANG THE GRINGO RETIREE FROM A SOUR MANGO TREE AS CHE GOES MARCHING ON! Admittedly, such a scene might cause you to regret not moving to a trailer park in Hope, Arkansas.
Fortunately, such a scenario is unlikely as every Mexican has an uncle or cousin in L.A. (or has lived in L.A.) and has learned to be tolerant of Gringo foibles. Indeed, after poking around Mexico for three months, I encountered only one case of in-your-face-Anti-Gringoism.
Joan was teaching in the picturesque Colonial hill town of Tlaxcala for a week and my job was to hike down the winding hillside road from the University to the zocalo (village square) order a cup of coffee and read the newspaper (dangerous work but someone has to do it) On my first descent, I noticed an automobile body shop of some kind. The interesting part about it was that to get to the proprietor's office-home in order to socialize or do business, you had to climb some concrete stairs. The really interesting thing is that the proprietor had painted a very well done American flag on the stairs. So in order to meet the owner, you had to desecrate Old Glory! Rather than being upset, I felt rather sorry for the proprietor. Tlaxcala was a fairly obscure town and this was a fairly obscure part of Tlaxcala. It would be very rare that a Gringo would show up to be offended. It was sort of like a member of the Ku Klux Klan burning a cross 500 miles from the nearest Jew, Catholic, or Black. It's frustrating being a bigot if the object of your bigotry never shows up.
I contemplated paying a call on the body shop proprietor to ask him why he disliked Gringos, but decided every man was entitled to his hobby.
Finally one day, he noticed me walking down the hill. (Gringos can usually be identified by their dress and walk) Like a flash, he was out in the street, yelling and screaming imprecations at me. I smiled politely and waved genially, like Prince Philip at a St. Patrick's Day parade in Belfast. He continued down the other side of the street in the form of a one man lynch mob, unable to stir anyone else to action.
Finally we reached the zocalo and he departed. Still, I felt good. I had made his day. A genuine Gringo had finally appeared. He was vindicated.
CORRECTIONS
Now neighbors, since THUNDERBEAR strives for a level of journalistic accuracy at least on par with the NEW YORK TIMES (Inside journalistic joke, friends: If the TIMES does an article on your park, you will be lucky if they get it in the right state and don't turn you into a "forest ranger").
Anyways, an alert Pennsylvania reader picked out a couple of errors in issue #238. It should be "Mike" Dombeck rather than "Pete" Dombeck. (We apologize to Mike's quiet, inoffensive brother, Pete, who probably can't get a job in the private sector due to our error, and is understandably curious as to why.)
The formidable Utah writer and environmentalist should be addressed as "Terry Tempest Williams" and not Terry "Temple" Williams as your editor put it. This is where logic gets you down neighbors; checking through my rapidly diminishing memory bank, I could not believe that this environmental gadfly would have the middle name of "Tempest". It seemed to be too deliciously apt. The moral is always check against hard copy, particularly names.
SAFETY MESSAGE
Here it is, friends! That which you have been searching for! The monthly Safety Message! This is the reason why you were accessing the Thunderbear website on the government computer and why you printed out this issue on the government printer! (You are a busy government employee and don't have time to scroll down through all that weird text to find the safety message and no! You certainly were not interested in the articles speculating on the I.Q. of the current president)
You xeroxed the safety message (and only the safety message) and threw the remainder of the issue into the waste paper can. It is not your fault that the park does not have a secure waste paper can and the issue seems to have gotten out. Perhaps the park needs a shredder; you might like to bring that up at the next staff meeting.
Anyways, here is the Safety Message for issue #239.
A few years ago, I visited one of our barrier island national parks and attended the park campfire talk.
Now, all park campfire talks are interesting, but those that occur "al fresco" at night on a beach are particularly fascinating. The campfire glows like a beacon a few yards from dumping bone white surf. The water hisses as it recedes to make more black waves on the horizon line of a starry sky.
The campfire participants are sitting cross-legged around the fire the way it was done in the old days; not the Stephen Mather days, but the REAL old days of our ancestors of 20,000 years ago, a campfire, a story teller, and an audience. In short, the basics, unimproved by amphitheaters or audio-visual devices.
You have to be reasonably good to pull this off, and the ranger was up to the task. The audience listened raptly (even children were quiet) as she told the stories of the local pirates and smugglers and their gory fates and rumored treasures.
There was one thing wrong. She had built her campfire from processed lumber, some of it chemically treated against decay. Some of it was driftwood, probably collected and stored up the tide line for drying. On the face of it, it was a form of recycling, the final use of the unusable.
However, the ranger was exposing her charges to possible doses of known carcinogens from the scrap lumber as the wind shifted and the smoke (and carcinogens) sought out different sections of the audience.
At the question and answer period after the talk, I chose not to point out that the audience were in all probability, doomed.
I chose not to, as I had no real proof that the lumber in question had been pressure treated and the park was well within the range of predatory tort claim lawyers and thus I would create a feeding frenzy amongst such sharks.
However, I did take the ranger aside after the talk and politely admonish her as to her fuel source for future talks. She was properly differential to the senile old fool and promised she would go forth and sin no more in the future.
The Environmental Protection Agency has been quietly leaning on the wood preservative industry (American Wood preservers Institute) to voluntarily come up with some guidelines on the handling of lumber treated with chromated copper arsenicals, as exposure to inorganic arsenic, a poison and a carcinogen if absorbed by the skin, digested or inhaled. AWPI has complied and come up with some guidelines, among which is the warning "Don't burn treated wood in open fires, stoves, and fireplaces" among other things.
AWPI now has a toll free safety hot line (800-282-0600 and a web site www.ccasafetyinfo.com that should be able to answer any questions regarding this product.
AS OF ISSUE #240
As of Thunderbear issue # 240, we shall say fond farewell to our former address, Box 2341, at the Wheaton Post Office. The box is now redundant as I no longer walk to work past the Wheaton Post Office, and now must make a special journey. Readers will remember Ben, our resident alcoholic, who dwelled on the floor of the post office just below Box 2341 during the cold months. I would provide Ben with a cheery wake up call each morning as I picked up correspondence from Thunderbear readers and sent Ben off to his job as Assistant Secretary of State or whatever he did during the day. Someone else will have to wake him.
For those who wish to contact your kindly editor through snail mail, the new address is 2011 Hermitage Avenue, Wheaton, MD 20902
Also, as of issue # 240, should you desire it, you will, like Ben, have your very own THUNDERBEAR wake up call. Some readers have complained that they have to check out the Thunderbear web site around the beginning of each month to see if the latest issue has been posted.
Starting with issue #240, WITH YOUR PERMISSION, we will e-mail you a short message stating that the latest issue of T Bear is up and available. Your privacy rights require us to inform you that while we won't post your name or e mail address at the header of the message, someone with a bit of know how and interest could come up with the fact that you had more than an accidental acquaintanceship with THUNDERBEAR.
Now, some of you are retired or simply don't give a rat's rectum what Gale or Dick like or dislike, and prefer being notified.
Therefore, if that is the case, simply snip out the following note and snail mail it to
- THUNDERBEAR
2011 Hermitage Ave
Wheaton, MD 20902
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Afternoon, Thunderbear! I would like to be notified through e-mail that the next issue of Thunderbear is ready to be accessed. I therefore provide you with my e mail address with the understanding that you will not willfully give or sell this information to anyone else. I also realize that e-mail is inherently not secure and, though my e mail address will not be published, I realize the possibility of my address becoming known. My e-mail address is__________________________________________ My signature is_________________________________________ Date______________________________
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