A Broke Illegal Immigrant American in Mexico

Patzcuaro, Michoacan, Mexico- This blog is starting in the middle of the action, as I already have been on the road more than two and a half months. I have many stories that I would like to tell of the first part of my journey, and I will publish them in order.  But first I will give some context for why I am just now starting this blog:

About five days ago, just when I arrived in Patzcuaro, I realized I had lost my credit card.  I hadn´t used it for the last six days, so it could be almost anywhere in the large state of Michoacan.  I quickly closed the card (no one had used it) and took stock of my position.  I was (still am) camped out beside a hotel for about 7 dollars a night.  I had at least a week to wait for a new card in the mail... bare minimum.  I had the equivalent of 40 dollars in cash.  Forty dollars for more than a week.  Lodging alone would be $49.

My first solution was to go into a the Mexican bank Banamex to see if I could open an account there and have money wired to it to my account.  In talking to the bank rep, it seemed like everything would line up perfectly and I would be up and running soon.  Then he asked to see my FM3.

¨What the heck is an FM3?¨

¨It´s the tourist visa they give you when you cross the border.¨

¨Uhhhhh...¨

The truth is that when I crossed the border in Nogales, Arizona I had already been traveling for more than 36 hours nonstop by bus and wasn´t exactly in an alert state of mind.  I shuffle off the almost empty bus at the crossing with a couple other bleary-eyed Mexican passengers.  I showed my passport.  They nodded.  I shuffled back on the bus and was in Mexico.

¨So basically you´re telling me that I´m illegal,¨ I said to the banker. He turned red and gave a nervous laugh.

I am a broke illegal immigrant American in Mexico.

And so I found myself in the main plaza of Patzcuaro playing my harmonica with my sombrero upturned in the sidewalk to receive people´s coins. I played Christmas tunes: Feliz Navidad, Silent Night, Jingle Bells.  Blues tunes: Oh When the Saints, Swing Low, my own blues jam.  I made friends with an old man in the plaza and he helped me add La Cucaracha and De Colores to my repertoire.  After a few days of this I began to flourish.  I made a friend, Miguel, who had been living on the streets since he was twelve (he is now 32) and he showed me the Mexican tradition of approaching taco stands and playing a song and then doffing my cap to receive coins.  It was perfect... I was learning new songs and getting enough money to get by.

Then my harmonica broke.  In the middle of an impassioned performance of Swing Low Sweet Chariot to the patrons of the Mariscos de Mazatlan taco stand (always a winner, wicked good savichi), my D reed let out a hideous death cry.   Miguel and I tried everything... mouth to mouth resuscitation, repairs with a Telcel phone card, wiring with part of Miguel´s earring.  But the oh-so-important D was dead.  Deceased.  Done for.

I tried writing love poems in Spanish and selling them to lovers that come out at night to snog in the plaza.  It was a lukewarm success.  Some liked my poems but almost all resented the fact that I´d broken their romantic reverie to hawk my wares.  So I´m back to the drawing board.

I just discovered that a fraction of my repertoire doesn´t use the D reed on the harmonica.  Right now I´m going to go play in the plaza for a bit so I can earn some money to keep blogging.  Cuz that´s what an illegal immigrant in Mexico does.