Arriving in Mexico

I can’t remember exactly what Ramon told me the first time I walked into my place in Bucerias, Mexico, and found the kitchen ceiling had collapsed, my cabinets were water damaged, and my floors showed where a flood had sought exit out through the patio doors, but it must have gone something like this:

“Ramon, did you know that a pipe had broke in the kitchen ceiling and the roof collapsed?”

“Sí, claro.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I knew it would upset you.”

There it is. Ramon, who is my property manager, does not like to be the bearer of bad news.

So it didn’t really surprise me when I arrived late last night and discovered that I had no hot water, the outside furniture was ruined from this fall’s monsoon rains, and a very large sisal rug in the living room was covered with an inch of fuzzy black mold. Despite the fact that I’d e-mailed Ramon last week to tell him I was arriving and asking him to be sure to make sure everything in my little condo was in working order. The next day he texted me: “Everything is ready and waiting for you.”

And, really, everything was waiting for me—the broken water heater, the water-damaged teak furniture, the rug destroyed by rain and humidity. It was all there, ready and waiting for me.

Vicky doesn’t understand why I continue to hire Ramon as my property manager. She thinks I should hire John and Carol, a Scottish couple that live in nearby La Cruz. “You could have had a hot shower if John took care of your place,” she said when I told her about Ramon’s latest failures over dinner at her house in Bucerias. “I know you feel sorry for Ramon, but frankly, I don’t think he’s even really interested in taking care of your place. It’s too far away for him. He’d probably be happy if you fired him.”

Ramon lives in Puerto Vallarta, about 45 minutes south. So he doesn’t actually come and take a look at my condo every week, as it’s specified on the contract I signed with him three years ago. In fact, I don’t think he gets here every month. Or even every three months. But he does provide the cleaning ladies and I’m sure they report back to him.

“Oh, Señor Lansing’s hot water heater does not work and his rug is ruined from the rain. But I dusted and washed his sheets.”

“Bueno.”

I have not fired Ramon because everyone else I know who once hired him to manage their property has fired him and I don’t want to be part of that crowd. Also, his wife died of brain cancer last year leaving him a widower with two little boys. Frankly, I think Ramon is a little out of his mind with grief and I find it difficult to call him up and complain because I am not able to have a hot shower my first morning in Mexico. Anyway, the weather is good here, if not hot, and the cold shower this morning felt restorative. Eventually the hot water heater will be repaired. Eventually Ramon will contact his handyman, Bulmaro, who will knock on my door and smile and shake my hand and inquire about my health before being led to the hot water heater which he will study for several minutes, frowning,  and pronounce, with much sadness, that it is not possible for him to fix it (only god knows why) and that Carlos, a plumber in Sayulita, will have to be summoned. And then Bulmaro will tell me that Carlos is very busy in Sayulita or that he has once again tried to cross the border into the States or that his car is not working at the moment and that it could be two or three days before he can come to fix my hot water heater. I know all this. This is the way it always is in Mexico. The dependability of the Mexicans can always be counted on. And, for me, this is reassuring. Even if I have no hot water.