Viva Mexico, appreciating a new culture

We've been in San Jose del Cabo a little more than five months now.

We've gone through the process of obtaining our FMM3 visas, giving us legal residency for a year, we've been to a lot of places, seen a lot of things.

It has been an amazing journey so far.

The other day I went out fishing with some guys. Bob is a friend from Scotland. He brought along a co-worker named Sergei, who comes from Russia. The fourth member of our party  was a guy named ken, who is a member of the New Mexico National Guard and works for NORAD who was in the final days of a week-long vacation here. The crew was a Mexican national and his son.

The Sea of Cortes was splendid, hardly a ripple as we worked our way to an area known as Gordo Banks, one of the prime fishing holes in all of the world.


There was, as in any fishing trip, a high degree of anticipation. What would the sea yield today?


The water was warm -- more than 85 degrees. The sun was brilliant in the sky. There was a slight breeze to help with the heat and humidity. It was quite a day.

The four of us sharing the 28-foot super panga -- a nice fishing boat with a bit of cover from the sun and a motor that allowed us to cut the waves nicely -- had one of those very cool days chasing fish around the ocean.


It wasn't loud and raucous, wasn't an excuse to pound beer all day long, or any of that stuff, just four guys looking to hook into some fish.


I got more out of that, however.


It was interesting having conversation with these guys. First there were the accents. Bob's heavy Scottish accent and Sergei's Russian influences came forward throughout the conversation. Ken's inflections were clearly Norte Americano, as were mine. The skipper and his son spoke only Spanish. The boat was rich in diversity and there was an instant comradeship that happens when you get a group of people together on a fishing boat. We all wanted to hook into something nice, have a good time and enjoy the beautiful day at sea.


The fishing trip came about a week after we took in the Mexican Independence Day celebration, which, really, stretched out over several days.


It began on Sept. 15, the night before Independence Day down here, with a spectacular fiesta in the plaza.


The place was crowded with people who came to take in the cultural celebration. There were dancers, there was music, there was food. In front of the municipal offices -- a very old, two-story building with a balcony overlooking the plaza -- a crowd gathered as the Presidente de Los Cabos came out about 10 p.m. for the traditional poetry, patriotic speech, bell-ringing ceremony and flag waving. A large crowd stood beneath the balcony, entertained by the Los Cabos drum and bugle corps, awaiting the appearance. As he finished, the fireworks show began with stands built against the plaza depicting the Mexican flag and historic figures. Then, the sky lit up with a spectacular fireworks display.

Now, I don't know what you think of when you hear the words "fiesta," but I'll bet it's a little different than the reality.


I mean, this wasn't some drunken bacchanal, a crazy party, it was, instead, a very family friendly gathering, focusing on heritage, culture, community. There was no commercialization. In the United States, for weeks before the July 4th celebration, you can find tablecloths, napkins, paper cups, T-shirts, even bikinis all decked out in the colors and design of the American Flag. Not here. There were some token items -- hair ribbons, earrings, little flags and the like, but everything was tastefully and respectfully done.


And, there were no strangers in the plaza.

We sat next to an elderly woman, who kept talking to our daughter about what was taking place on the stage. Each dance, you see, represented a different state of Estados Unidos Mexicanos. The costumes were brilliantly colored.


There was a bit of a language barrier, but the woman was slow and patient as she pointed out the highlights.

We ate authentic Mexican food -- quesadillas that are nothing like what you experience in the States, tostadas that were about 180 degrees different than what you will find in any Mexican restaurant Stateside, tamales that were so rich and flavorful that your taste buds were on sensory overload.

The plaza was jammed, it was a hot, sweaty night, but there was no pushing and shoving. Everybody found a spot in the plaza, which was filled with green, white and red lights -- the colors of the Mexican Flag -- and took it all in.

Fathers placed their little ones on their shoulders so they could see the lights, the speeches, the fireworks. Children, some fresh from performing on the plaza's large stage, laughed, ate fresh fruit cups from one of the street vendors or chewed on a homemade ice cream bar, available from the tropical helado (ice cream) shop on the plaza. We shared a cab home that night with some turistas visiting from States who kept talking about how much fun they had, how beautiful the town looked, how friendly the people were. We couldn't help but agree.

So, we came back the next morning for the parade and watched the children march through town in their school uniforms.

Each school carried their own banner, each school had a drum and bugle corps. Each child was in a crisply pressed uniform, which was incredible considering hot very warm it was.

There was more dancing in the plazas, the Mexican Army presented the colors. Some folks dressed in cultural costumes and rode horseback in the parade.


There were no floats with signs advertising the local businesses. There were no Independence Day sales at the local markets or shops. There was just a celebration of Mexico's independence from Spain 201 years ago, freeing the nation from dominance that began when Cortes began his savage attack on the Aztecs.


After a siesta, we returned to the plazas for more food. Again, it was incredible. The flavors are much more subtle than you would imagine. I tasted an wonderful habanero salsa that was heavier on flavor than heat. The jalapenos here? They are sweeter, not as bitter andnot as hot as those I had grown accustomed to in the States. The fruit? Usually, it is flavored with chili powders or doused with lime juice. Rarely does it stand alone. You have not lived until you have tasted fresh mango with chili powder. 


We saw another round of performances in the plaza, meandered with the crowd. The pastiche of colors, smells, accents, cultures was refreshing.


Now, we came here from a small southern Utah community. There was little diversity there. You rarely heard a foreign accent, encountered people of color and, except for rare occasions, never sampled much of a foreign culture.


It's not St. George's fault, I realized. I mean, even when living in Los Angeles, I rarely experienced another culture. It had all been homogenized, Anglo-ized. The celebrations took on a commercial bent, the foods watered down to U.S. tastes, the fiestas not as focused on heritage. There was never any real context connected to what was going on around us, even in the more ethnic-soaked communities.

We are a part of a bigger, more interesting world and I cannot, for the life of me, understand why more people do not embrace it, seek it out, celebrate that which makes us different instead of trying to blend us all into a melting pot, creating this hybrid stew that is a compromise and a sell-out of who we truly are.


I don't like the homogenization of humanity. We lose our roots, lose our identity, lose our connection to who we are and where we came from until we all start looking the same, sounding the same, acting the same.


Because sameness, quite frankly, is boring.


I mean there's more to this life than bologna, cheese, and mayo sandwiches served on white bread, isn't there?


Take a bite out of life. 


You just might enjoy it.

I was wrong about 9/11 images

Sometimes, we let our emotions get the best of us.

Sometimes, we are just flat-out wrong.

I'm not sure what was at play most when I did a recent blog about the video and photo archive of the Sept. 11 attacks on the United States, but as I prepared an essay for my Utah Public Radio show, I realized that despite the harrowing emotions involved, we, indeed, must relive the events of that day, if for no other reason than to tell the story of what happened when a calm, beautiful morning in New York City was singed with the smoke of terror and the blood of innocents.

There is no way to soften the blow.

The first to point out that perhaps I should rethink the blog was my wife, Cara. She sees things, sometimes, that I don't; understands things, sometimes, that I can't; makes me think, sometimes, instead of simply react. Cara, you were right and I was wrong.


My dear friend Jud Burkett, multi-media editor at the newspaper where I last worked, responded to my blog. He disagreed with what I had to say. Now, you've got to understand that Jud isn't some hard-nosed, callous shooter. He's a very sensitive, talented guy. We worked together a lot over the years and his opinion always meant a lot to me. It still does, so, Jud, you were right, I was wrong.


There is no way to be honest, accurate, credible with this story without touching those same emotions that so wounded us on that day.

It would bear false witness to the tragedy that was Sept. 11, would disrespect the lives lost, the hearts shattered, the hope dashed. Horror, pain, disbelief, confusion, fear permeated that day. I heard it in the voices of the people I interviewed that day who were near the World Trade Center when the buildings came down, I saw it in the faces of everybody I knew, I felt it in my own soul.


I didn't, and don't, want to ever go to that place again. It was too much to bear, which is, perhaps, why my emotions and, I guess, skin-deep sensitivity led me to a conclusion that was ill-formed.


I still am not comfortable looking at images or videos from that day. But, I'm also sure I am not alone.


And, I certainly don't think it is appropriate today, as we prepare for the 10th anniversary of this tragedy, to politicize it in any way. All that would do is cheapen the sacrifices made by so many and take attention away from where it belongs: the victims, their families, our national psyche as we still, a decade later, try to come to grips with it all.


We probably won't, you know. 

Rock 'n' roll never forgets, Pt. 13 -- B.B. King

Lucille was resting languidly in purple crushed velvet.

She could scream, she could cry, she could whisper softly into your ear, a tempting seductress, or laugh out loud, a mocking shrew; her mood, her temperament all the result of her partner's caress.

Nearby sat B.B. King, who, I think, always keeps Lucille, his Gibson ES-355TD-SV guitar, within reach.

OK, so B.B. King isn't really rock 'n' roll.

Doesn't matter.

He's B.B. King and there isn't anybody quite like him.

In a little more than a week, Riley B. King will turn 86.

He sits in a chair these days when he plays, doesn't move around the stage at all. But, he still raises a glass, or two, of Jack Daniels in a toast to his adoring fans.

King is probably the most successful of the black bluesmen. He outpaced Sonny Boy Williamson, who gave him his break by offering him a spot on his radio show; sold more records than Muddy Waters; was received by a much wider audience than Howlin' Wolf and John Lee Hooker; and drew larger crowds than smokestack-lightning guitar virtuoso Buddy Guy.

What you need to remember is that King and his peers came up during a time when black musicians were being ripped off in just about every sense.They were playing Delta blues, Chicago blues -- rollin' and tumblin' blues music that was born in the heart and played through the soul. It was the foundation for much of what became rock 'n' roll, particularly '60s bands like The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin, Ten Years After,  Jeff Beck, and, of course, Eric Clapton, whether he was part of Cream, fronting Derek and the Dominos or as a solo act.

Those guys took old American blues music, gave it a new beat, set it through twin 100-watt amp stacks and introduced a whole new generation to this thing called the blues. Some -- Clapton, Alvin Lee, and George Harrison, to mention a few -- gave credit to the bluesmasters. Others, particularly the guys in Led Zep, tried to pass it off as their own. But, that's something black musicians were used to anyway. 

I mean, back in the '50s, Little Richard couldn't cut a break, particularly in the South and Midwest, where race music, as it was called, was banned from a lot of radio stations. You had to tune in to the high-watt stations out of Memphis or Chicago to get the real stuff, otherwise, you had gutless renditions of Little Richard's songs by white bread guys like Pat Boone. Chuck Berry? Ever listen to a song by The Beach Boys? Yeah, Carl Wilson nicked a lot of lead riffs from Berry and incorporated them into the West Coast surf sound. Just play Berry's "Sweet Little 16" back-to-back with The Beach Boys' "Surfin' USA." It took a lawsuit for Berry to get his due in royalties and writing credit.

It's what the business was like when King was cutting his chops, playing the Chitlin Circuit, making his first record, "Miss Martha King," for a tiny Southern outfit called Bullet Records in 1949.

He did well in the blues world, but there was a bigger audience out there waiting for him, if he could only open a few doors.

The first to let him in was Frank Sinatra, who was the original king of the Las Vegas Strip. Sinatra had a lot of respect for the black players of the day -- from Count Basie to B.B. King; Ella Fitzgerald to Sammy Davis Jr.; Billie Holiday to, well, B.B. King, again. He used his considerable muscle to get them into the Las Vegas showrooms, even if they had to stay in a hotel down the street.

By the time I ran into B.B., he was a dozen or so years into playing the Las Vegas showrooms, had a huge crossover hit with "The Thrill Is Gone," and was doing about 340 gigs a year.

He traveled in style, dressed to the nines, had a big diamond on his hand and had perfected his left-hand-tremolo style -- a gentle motion from the wrist -- to develop his trademark warble. His lead playing was uncomplicated, economic. I think it was King who taught Clapton that it's not the notes you play, but the notes you don't play that matter.

He was in Los Angeles a few days ahead of a big gig at The Roxy, one of my favorite clubs in town, to do some business with his record company and meet with the press. At least a few of us.

He was staying in a nice suite in a Sunset Strip motel with his valet. The place was spotless, not like so many other rock 'n' roll hotel rooms I had seen, and he was dressed casually, which for King meant a sports jacket, slacks and nice shirt with no tie. He saved the suits for the stage.

We sat there chatting about his roots, how he was raised on one of the last big Southern plantations in Itta Bena, Miss.; how he played for spare change on street corners; how he hitched his way to Memphis to start his career as a bluesman.

We talked of more modern times, about some of the guys who came after who were using the blues as the root of their joyful noise. 

There was Buddy Guy, who B.B. said he "absolutely loved."

There was Jimi Hendrix, whose passing left a hole in King's heart. "He came onstage and played with me once in New York," B.B. said. "He was in bad shape that night, but he played beautifully. Tragic. It was tragic when we lost him."

Then, I brought up Clapton.

"Eric's a good rock 'n' roll player," B.B. said. "I've met him. He's a fine boy. A good player. But he's not the blues. To play the blues you've got to live the blues. He can play some blues, but he's a rock player."

The debate was on, of course, and I asked if he'd ever heard Clapton's version of "Further On Up the Road," first recorded by Bobby "Blue" Bland, or "Have You Ever Loved a Woman," written by Billy Myles and recorded by Freddie King.

Of course, he had, but he was unconvinced.

He pointed at Clapton's latest album "Slowhand," with stuff that ranged from the country "We're All The Way" to the lovely "Wonderful Tonight." I pointed out it also had Arthur "Big Boy" Crudup's "Mean Old Frisco." B.B. added that Elvis Presley had also recorded a Crudup song, "That's All Right (Mama)," and asked if that make him a blues singer?

"Ya got a point," I told him. But, I urged him to take a closer look at Clapton and his guitar playing. I felt vindicated, sort of, when in 2000, they collaborated on the album "Riding With the King," a pretty fair blues album. I don't know what Clapton did over the years to convince him, but it worked.

King's Roxy show?

Outstanding. Once he and the band hit the stage, they owned it and didn't seem to want to give it up.

Flash forward to December 2009, a much different place and different time.

Neither of us had progressed much. I mean, he was still picking out notes on guitar strings, I was still pecking out words on a keyboard.

He was much more successful, of course, and was about to open his BB King's nightclub/restaurant in The Mirage hotel in Las Vegas. I was doing a weekly column about Las Vegas at the time and was invited to the grand opening.

There was a red carpet when we arrived. As we were checking in, I ran into singer/songwriter/guitar player extraordinaire Steve Cropper, whose path I had crossed many years before. We exchanged some old stories, remembered some old faces, went into the club.

Cropper, it turns out, was the emcee for that night's show. He welcomed the crowd, told some stories, played some songs. Then he welcomed Texas blues wild man Lee Roy Parnell to the stage for a set. Then he welcomed jazz stylist Lee Ritenour. Then he welcomed blues great Robert Cray. A couple songs into Cray's set, a roadie walked out and placed a battered old Martin classical guitar on the stage.

"Willie's here," I told my wife Cara.

"Huh?" she asked.

"Willie Nelson is here. That's Trigger, his guitar."


Sure enough, when Cray was finished, Cropper welcomed Willie, who did a beautiful version of "Always on My Mind."

Then Cropper welcomed Buddy Guy, who proceeded to tear the room apart with his blistering hot licks, piercing solos, gut-bucket vocals.

And, then Cropper welcomed King to the stage.

B.B. had been enjoying the show from a ringside seat. Was plied with a little Jack Daniels, but he made it to the stage, parked on a folding chair and gave everybody a lesson in blues guitar. 

And, then he welcomed all the players back up onto the stage for a lengthy jam with the house band. He was 84 at the time, but he played like a man half his age, wailing and growling, snarling and purring as he laid down some classics.

Lucille?

She was right there with him, dipping and soaring; seducing and mocking; the siren of the blues.

The lady was a champ.

Could Utah man's deportation have been averted?

Instead of the comforts of home, his wife and children, Ray Jesus is living with his parents in Guatemala, the victim of a suspiciously swift deportation process when U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement officials ripped him from his southern Utah home and shipped him out of the country earlier this week.

Luis Espinoza Muñoz, a facilitator-director for Community Aid and Immigration Services, is working with the Jesus family for Ray's swift return.

Could Jesus' deportation been avoided, or even slowed down?

Espinoza said, "possibly."

Over the years, he has worked with many people facing the same sort of problems.

Defense fund set up for deported Utah man

A legal defense fund has been set up to help a man who was deported from Utah after coming to the country 22 years ago on a political asylum visa.

Augusto Raymundo Jesus was sent to his native Guatemala Tuesday night, deported because he became entangled in a legal nightmare after his political asylum visa unknowingly expired. He didn't know the document had expired until he applied for U.S. citizenship. By that time, he had a wife and kids, including a baby diagnosed with autism.

He lived, worked, raised a family as a vital part of the community. He had his own business, paid taxes. He donated to charity. He got in trouble with the law by following the law when he went to renew his Utah driver's license. As part of the Utah renewal system, he had to submit fingerprints for a background check. It was then discovered that his visa had expired. Three U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement agents showed up at his home, placed him in custody and took him away. He was being held in a jail in Florence, Ariz., when, apparently, they listened in on a phone conversation with his wife, who told him that an effort was under way to obtain federal intervention by some of Utah's Washington, D.C. delegation and that the media was being informed. Jesus told his wife that while on the plane back to Guatemala, he heard one ICE agent tell another: "We had to get rid of this guy."

Now, he's back in Soloma, Huehuetenango, Guatemala, with no money and nobody but a handful of friends in southern Utah mobilizing to return him home to his wife and kids.

There is an awareness effort under way. Friends and people concerned about justice in the United States -- particularly in light of the Obama administration's policy on immigration that would, in practice, have placed felons with illegal immigration status, at the head of the line, instead of deporting people like Jesus, who tried to play by the rules -- are using social networking to spread the word; sending emails; doing what they can to put this issue before the people.