Surviving aviation in Mexico, or Ozymandias revisited
So like there was this (I'm learning teen speak, it's inevitable when you have three of them) missionary in Oaxaca, Mexico, who had a humble Stinson 108, and had trouble with the local aircraft mechanic. Seems the fine Mexican gentleman was somehow jealous and thought Lance was going to take away his business. So he sabotaged Lance's plane twice. Once by cutting the aileron cable. The safety wire was intact, so the preflight check showed nothing amiss. In mid-flight, the safety wire broke (one of those, "boy, that could ruin your whole day" events) and Lance managed to land by making big circles. Somehow. Anyway he made it, and the next time the guy emptied Lance's gas tank and poured water in it. When Lance went to drain the (usually minimal) water from the bottom of the tank, it didn't look quite right, so he just kept draining. And draining. And draining. He figured this one out before taking off.
That's the background. Now comes the story. One Sunday he offered an airplane ride to whomever in his Sunday school class could memorize the most Bible verses. A nice Mexican girl won, and he took her up for a joy ride. While in midair they suddenly heard what sounded like a gunshot, and he at first assumed this was the mechanic person trying to shoot him. Then he looked up and saw that the top cover of his fuselage was torn off. Rather than enjoy the new sun-roof his Stinson had acquired, he decided to land. He also decided his Stinson needed a new cover. That's where I come in. Sort-of.
Some time later I was in San Antonio at United Aero gathering supplies. As I walked in the shop, there was an older fellow looking at a Stits manual as if it were a Greek lexicon. Actually, being a missionary himself, he would have been comfortable reading a Greek lexicon, but I didn't know that. I approached the counter and Clint, gosh I miss Clint (the proprietor) told the older man “there's the gal you ought to talk to.” One conversation and a hamburger and malt at Whataburger in Austin later, I had the job. His son needed his Stinson recovered and I was to travel with the younger man and his family to Mexico. Oaxaca. Three hundred miles southeast of Mexico City.
The trip took four days. The countryside was beautiful. Lance and his family had a big RV (Wohnwagen) in which he had hidden fabric, dope, glue, paint - all you need. He also had a German shepherd dog that he was given to help guard his hacienda. At the border we got caught up in a whole caravan of retired folk in their RV's taking a group trip to Mexico. This was a good thing. Another good thing was that the border guard who was to check Lance's RV took one look at the shepherd and OK'ed us to go through. Yet another wonderful thing was that Lance speaks fluent Spanish and knew the in's and out's of traveling and living in Mexico. A very wonderful thing.
As I said, the countryside was beautiful - desert, jungle (that's tropical rain forest for you tree-huggers), prairie, mountains, forests, even the Atlantic by Tampico. When I wasn't enjoying the scenery, I was devouring a book entitled "How to Learn Spanish in the Four Days it Takes to Travel from Austin to Oaxaca." Well, not really, but close. Lance and his family had a 6-acre hacienda with a big house and a workshop and other outbuildings. Two Mexican men help with the yard and heavy work, and a gal helps with cooking and cleaning. Lance and Gloria have four daughters.
The cover job itself was not anything out of the ordinary, though with the help of visiting friends we installed supertips on the wings to fascilitate Lance's landings on short mountain village strips. I worked sunup to sundown and managed to put in some 60 hours a week for three weeks. With fieldtrips every now and then and of course church on Sunday.
After a week, Lance came up to me and said his uncle Dean was coming and I shouldn't be surprised or offended if Dean teased me about being from Texas or cracked jokes. Since Lance was about as humorous as a doornail, I was actually looking forward to meeting Uncle Dean. Sure enough, a couple hours later a big car drove up and out came an older fellow and his wife. Must be Uncle Dean and Aunt Ardith, I thought. I was gluing fabric on the fuselage at the moment on the lawn outside the little workshop, so I thought the best way to meet Uncle Dean was to smear a big glob of glue on my right hand. When he came and shook my hand in greeting, he jerked back, took one look at his hand, and said, "You did that on purpose!" From then on, we were good buddies!
Dean liked to watch me work, and I enjoyed his company. He had had a heart attack, so hard work wasn't in the plan for him. After a couple of days, he decided I needed a break. He and Aunt Ardith were going to take a drive to downtown Oaxaca to listen to the Mariachis and stuff. I told him he'd have to ask Lance, as I was here to cover a Stinson and not to party. Dean walked off and came back not long afterward and said “OK let's go!” In the car, I worked up the courage to ask, “Uncle Dean, do you drink beer?” Now understand, these were Independent Fundamental Baptists. They don't dance, they don't play cards, and the sure as heck don't touch anything with alcohol. But I, being a charismatic and not a Baptist, don't hold to those rules and I had the feeling Uncle Dean was also not so strict. And I had heard good things about Mexican beer. Anyway, Dean said “WEEEELLLL, I don't make a habit of it, but if you'd like to have a cool one, I just might join you!” We found a little outdoor cafe on one side of the main Plaza and had a round of Mexican beers and listened to the Mariachis. Not sure it gets any better than that.
One evening as I was covering a wing in the workshop, one of the Mexican helpers (who had a lot of kids) came by to watch with his wife. The wife said to Lance, who was there, “How can she come here to work and leave her children at home?” Lance answered (this is all in Spanish so I only heard later when Lance translated) “She doesn't have any children,” to which the man replied, “Would she like to have a couple of ours?” This made the wife very angry. I suppose she got over it. But I'll never know.
These Mexicans were very poor. How poor, do you ask? Well, Lance told me that if I should find myself in a "house" with a Mexican family and need to use the facilities, I should not ask "Where is the bathroom?" but "Where should I go to the bathroom?" and be prepared to be shown the back door. I think for this reason, all the vegetables and fruits at the hacienda were to be soaked in bleach and carefully peeled before preparing.
Nevertheless, there was always a big meal in the early afternoon with about 12 to 14 people! There was Don and his wife, and there was a couple from Michigan, and the four kids, and Lance and Gloria and Uncle Dean and Aunt Ardith and the servants and I've forgotten who all was there. So one day, after lunch, Lance brought out the fried grasshoppers he had bought at the market. He called his seven-year-old back to the table so she could show us how she eats fried grasshoppers. When she started popping them in her mouth like potato chips, Lance said “OK, now leave some for us!” and the girl skipped away. Then we all wanted to see Gloria eat one. Now Gloria was this very feminine lady who wore skirts all the time and high heels, even when walking on cobblestone streets. She was nice enough, but needless to say, I did not have much in common with her. In any case, we all waited expectantly while Gloria said, “I don't care for them much, really” and proceeded to pop one in her mouth and eat it. GRRR. That was the last straw. I was not going to let this prissy lady show me up in the fried-grasshopper-eating department. The bowl of grasshoppers was passed from person to person - the men at the table, probably thinking the same thing as I was, all took an insect and ate it. The women simply passed the bowl to the next macho man. Then it came to me. I took a grasshopper in my fingers and looked at it. It looked back at me. I have never eaten anything that looked at me. But I had to do it. I just had to. My pride was at stake. Suddenly there it was in my mouth. What do I do now? Swallow it whole? Chew it? Eyes, guts and all? Eh. This was it, the moment of truth, the leap of faith. I chunked down on it and saw blackness for a split second. Then it was over. I came out the other side and realized it was not that bad. So I ate five to six, just to prove whatever it was I was proving, and went on with my life and my cover job.
The three weeks were almost up, and the airplane covered and in the process of being painted. Uncle Dean had another fieldtrip planned. This time we were to visit the Miztec ruins called Monte Alban. If you have seen the movie "Nacho Libre" they show scenes of not only downtown Oaxaca, but also at the end, some scenes from Monte Alban. What I found out when we got there was that the way Uncle Dean liked to visit ruins was to say, "Shirley, you climb up there and tell us what you see!" Which was fun, anyway. We toured the ground level, and I climbed up the huge stone blocks to see what there was to see. Which smelled much better than below. In fact, it was rather nasty passing by a narrow passage here and there, so I call the place “Monte Al Banyo”. But never mind. On top of one ruin I was amazed at the view of it all - the ancient desolation - the futility of the once great civilization - the utter depravity of human sacrifice. So amazed that as I walked along, I said out loud “My name is Ozymandias.” Then a voice came from a man walking in the other direction about 12 feet away “Look on me, ye Mighty, and despair.” That was it. The man disappeared in the other direction, I continued in mine. A moment of abject poetry I'll never forget.
The three weeks was over. The airplane was finished. I found out I could cover and rib-stich and paint even between sessions of running outside to throw up, because that's what you do when visiting any country south of the Rio Grande. That and the speed race to the jon. Lance bought me an airline ticket and drove me to the Oaxaca airport. And that was it. I was back in Austin. No Aztecs, no Miztecs, just the High-techs.