Under the Microscope

3-16-'03

Last summer, by fax, I gave the job of separating us from our partner, Efren, in regards to our shell business "Seashella Kuki." For a long string of reasons I'd come to conclusion that we could no longer work with this man. I'd authorized Roberto to offer $1,000. U.S. for signatures from Efren, his wife and one of his sons. I stated to Roberto that I wanted a "clean" severance of ties. Efren had to have known how tired I'd become of his seeming constant stream of urgent, in dire-straights problems. I was sure he'd accept this more-than-generous offer for something he hadn't invested a single peso in yet.

The name of Roberto's company is-was-"Mexico No Problamas," this is no joke. I was confident that he could easily handle this assigned task; admittedly, one I didn't want to handle first hand. It came back to me as some surprise when I get return communications stating that Efren was refusing to sign off. Roberto asked me how to proceed.

"Tell him the company is going nowhere, or at least not in any direction that included him. Reoffer the $1,000. and drop the ax on this man's aspirations." I responded. Roberto was equivocal. I chided him for not having the guts to do something that I, too, did not want to do. I'd quit answering Efren's emergency calls months before this. Why he couldn't figure out that the relationship was broken, I found hard to figure.

But still Efren refused to sign off. And Roberto, determined to get the assigned task accomplished, slipped into a mode that he'd become quite comfortable with...and, well, he sorta finessed his way around the problem. What the hell, he was an expert at functioning within the loose fabric of the Mexican system, wasn't he?

We get the word that he, using what he's sorta describing as his power of attorney (something like this we'd built into this shell business charter), held a shareholders meeting in LaPaz at which magic was worked...erasing Efren and family, Roberto ending up with their 60%. And, according to him, this had all been signed and sealed by the proper authorities.

Ok. Great! We're rid of a major thorn. Good boy, Roberto.

It should be mentioned here that this was most likely Roberto's hoped-for, last-trip-ever to LaPaz. He, financially mauled by drastic reduction of activity in the city of Loreto do to the event of 9-11, had given up on the struggle. All summer long he'd been going back and forth between Loreto and...let's say San Francisco, the States. His wife tried to handle the office while he was doing this "one foot in Mexico the other in the U.S. dance."

Being not quite legal, he wasn't able to land a job that paid quite what he needed. At least, initially. The guy's a hustler, got talents. Little by little he figured out the system. It was like the day after he did this LaPaz magic for us that, with wife and kids, he made his split; what he hopes will be permanent.

Good luck, Roberto!

Anyway, it's our intention upon getting back down here to go in and see our accountant, Noe Barrera, and continue on with the still (after almost two years efforts) unfinished business of finishing the paperwork that it takes to get legal and finally start to do legal business in Mexico.

Phew!

And because we really don't want to get out off the rancho here any more then we absolutely have to...and because we can't comfortably adjust schedules (both accountant and us) the first time we're back in Loreto...and because we found it impossible to communicate by cell phone with the numbers we had, us trying to set up an appointment, it took us longer than we'd initially figured to make face-to-face contact.

By then, Roberto, who we had been able to communicate with, had taken time to call Noe and fill him in on exactly what had transpired. Noe had had the time also to check and see whether or not Roberto had touched all the correct bases in getting paperwork done. He told us point blank that Roberto had indeed accomplished what he claimed he had. Efren was out and now it was a simple matter of him doing some clean-up details and we'd, in a matter of weeks, be able-at long last-to open a bank account in the company name, and be ready to start doin' legal business: our aim from the beginning.

For the grand finalization of this thing we shell out a considerable number of pesos, us greatly satisfied with way things seemed smoothly moving along.

This meeting with the accountant was on a Tuesday. I remember this precisely because an hour before this we'd had a very good, set-down chat with the Presidente De Municipal of Loreto. I don't like having to but I'm striving to make my mug very well known there at Municipal Palace. The Pres. and me...well, we're almost first-name buddies by now.

We'd had another good meeting later that day, too. This one at Sr. Yee's office with members of the Quijano family. It's their idea, their lawyer's idea, that we should combine forces with regards to the fight against that offensive Plano Definitivo, the ejido. Certainly we were all for this.

We'd gotten out of Loreto early, made it down the Agua Verde road and landed at San Cosme with tide line still in our favor. We stop at Alejo's place, as is the norm, us almost always bring things back that someone from there has requested from town. Soon as I'm outta the cab Guadalupe, with this strained expression on her very expressive face, her asking how the town trip went? hands me this white sheet of paper. Official lookin' paper. Yeah. We've seen 'em before. Another citation. This time it's from Immigrations in Loreto. Friday. Friday at 11 A.M. Shit. I, we, had been hopin' that we'd get to lay back on the rancho fer like maybe two weeks.

I can't say we'd not been expecting some new form of attack. Especially Marcia. After the shameful way that SudCaliforniano had been blasting away at me, after the way that those new ejido members had been partitioning high-up political officials ta kick me out of Mexico...no, we'd been tensely awaiting something.

I can't say that this didn't upset me, either. In fact, it up set me plenty. We'd been through a number of less-than-pleasant incidents with Immigrations. It gave us some solace, anyway, that this citation requested our presence in Loreto, rather than LaPaz.

For three extremely restless nights I struggled for sleep, my mind not being able to stop the defenses I was continually constructing and then restructing in this foreign language. Roberto! My god how I was missing the linguistic skill of this hombre right then. The culprit knows exactly where damning evidence lays, ya know? Shit like that was givin' me hell.

Sr. Yee, whom I'd preadvised, showed up at Immigrations almost same time as we did; calm, collected, inscrutable character that he is. Me with clipboard crammed with what I'd hoped would be pertinent documents, heavyweight Chayo and Yee at my sides, into that den of surprises we head. By a young lady I'm greeted as "Mr. Smith," like she'd been expecting me. I'm told the Delagado will be with me in just a minute.

Not leaving all to chance I'd called my partner Ernesto, informed him of this possible attack. To my surprise he blurts out that the Delagado of Immigrations in LaPaz, the top guy, is an old family friend. He'd promised to make a call on my behalf, which I'd checked back about, him assuring me he had. There just is no sense going into these things lightly armed.

Maybe 15 minutes drags by before this female Immigrations officer informs me that it's my turn. The three of us troop into this small inner office, which is almost filled with oversized desk and two victims' chairs.

The guy standing behind the desk was younger than I'd expected; I'd guessed early twenties. He's a big man, broad shouldered, muscular and pleasantly handsome. He also impressed me as aggressive and bright. In uniform he look like "A.J. Squared away." I'd already heard from Roberto that he did things by the book, knit picked at fine details.

He shakes hands all around and comes off like official "straight arrow." Right off he asks me if I'd prefer we did things in English, which he obviously seemed to have a handle on. "Let's try it in Spanish," I answer. "If I have any doubts I'll ask for clarification." This suited him fine.

Questions start coming at me about SeaShella Kuki, this being something I hadn't spent much time worrying about. "Was I part of this company with one Efren Inocence Vega?"

"No. Because things have changed," I answered. I went on with greater detail explaining Roberto's actions with respect to this. None of this was new to Chayo because he'd been there when accountant had assured me all was a Ok. Even though Yee was my local attorney, he knew almost nothing about this affair. But I was just tellin' things straight and really didn't need any help.

I was relieved that this wasn't about the rancho gate er accusations that I'd been collecting beach rents. In some of the bad press I'd been getting there'd been rantings about the money I was shakin' down charging gringos for camping. The Immigrations officer who'd given Guadalupe that citation had specifically asked her about this. The rancho camping fee is $10. U.S. per adult, per week, and the camps aren't on the beaches. It all goes to Chayo, him being official caretaker. I'd coached him to only mention this as tips. He well understood.

Questions there never approach anything but this Seashella Kuki thing. This Delagado points to paragraph in my Mexican FM3 documents that specifically states that my papers have to be amended within 30 days of any change in my business status. I counter that my status hasn't changed. I'm still only a 20% entity in this enterprise. And, because there were details yet to be completed, well, there hadn't really been any change in anything...so I hadn't bothered redoing my documents.

He's got a copy of document that Noe, the accountant had filled out for the first years business activities. All the blanks are filled with zeros. He wants to know why?
Easy. Because we'd experienced delays in getting this company legit, we hadn't gone into operation yet. He taped his pencil on my FM3 documents pondering this for a bit.

Ok. He took out small sheet of paper and started to write down required things I had to come up with. Copies of my U.S. Passport, which I'd not thought to bring along. Copies of my FM3. Easy. Then he'd need Roberto's official Mexican documents, which I told him I thought I could get, if I could get ahold of Roberto. Then there was a list of like four things that he needed from the accountant, which I assured him would be no sweat. This list gets handed to the female officer and she hits the computer and it spits out official papers in triplicate that I have to sign and essentially this thing at Immigrations draws to a close. Five days. That's how much time they gave me to pull this together.

I thank Yee, me glad that he really wasn't needed. Chayo grumbles that this has been a waste of his time and effort getting to Loreto, and I happily admitted that was true. Within 15 minutes of clearing Immigrations entrance I was setting in front of accountant, him telling me that this short list of requirements, for him, would be absolutely no problema. He even had copies of Roberto's papers, Roberto having been his client, too. All I had to do was get there with copies of my Passport and FM3 documents and, within that five days, he'd easily handle the rest.

Excellent. Marcia and me, we cruisin' outta town early, congratulating ourselves for getting together with accountant just in time. We felt we'd dodged another bullet. We were greatly relieved that attack seemed to be coming only from Efren's direction. So what! We were rid of him....

We're counting five days from date of issue of that list of requirements, this making the next Wednesday the due date. This pushes us back into town the following Tuesday, mostly just for the copying of our documents. Marcia's hadn't been specifically requested but since she had 20% interest like I did, we figured we'd do hers too.

Copying done we're back at accountant's office with papers and I get a mild shock to see him there, me thinkin' that he had to go to LaPaz that day to have the other stuff for tomorrows due date. "No," he says, "I'm going tomorrow."

"But, but," I start ta sputter out but both he and his secretary catch on and laugh out that I was given "five working days." Gosh. That made sense. I had ta admit ta feeling a little dense at times.

Ok. We're back at the rancho, our heels dug in in resistance ta leaving for a considerable spell. The whole place is green and flower strewn and the birds are singing. The weathers about perfect and both of us are just hummin' along filling out time with all our normal, preferred projects. We've got time for exercises, reading, writing and working on shell jewelry. We're even getting' in a little fishin', which right then was pretty good.

It's a quiet early afternoon, I'm still enjoying my writing time. Our young dog, Puppy, whose got incredibly acute sense of hearing, from laying sleeping next to me, pops up to full-alert position, her ears obviously scanning, and then she gives a low growl, the hair from her neck to her tail raising almost straight up as she starts to bark and goes crashing her way outside, easily flipping aside lightweight screen door.

"Vehicle," Marcia says.

"I don't' hear anything," I reply.

"Yeah. Vehicle," she repeats. By now the two old dogs are also barkin'.

And then I do hear it and just about same time Marcia says, "White...pickup. Looks like it could be official." And then I look out window and see it and there's no question I didn't like what I saw. "Shit. Immigrations," I utter as I'm grabbing my shorts and headin' out towards yard gate, them already there beepin' carro horn.

I slip wire from gatepost and let it slump to ground and at about the same moment the cheery driver greets me with big smile and simultaneously hands me another citation through open window. I can't help but notice that the guy riding shotgun is that young Delagado. I'm in somewhat of a confused quandary. "Didn't my accountant make it in to you're office with all you'd requested?" I asked from this condition.

"Not all of them," the Delagado crisply answers.

"Well, eh, what didn't he bring?" I try for some foot hold in my bewilderment.

"We'll discuss that at the Immigrations office on Wednesday," crisp and neat this is all I get back. I look over paper. It's Monday. In two days at 1 P.M. I've got to be back there, "Sign here, here and here," the driver in merry manner tells me; him handin' me my citation's other copies. That done that pickup's engine cranks to life and with an "Adios," they're outta there.

Shit.

After siesta time I get on cell phone to accountant. "Noe. What's up? What went wrong?" I question.

Noe tells me that Efren has filed a demanda against Roberto and the Public Notary who'd provided official stamp and signature. The Public Notary, being in a compromised position, wasn't forthcoming with needed documents. There had been nothing he could do but bring in what he had, and try to explain, which wasn't enough. And yes, he'd be there at my side Wednesday at 1 P.M.

This time I was fairly sure that I wasn't the target of some powerfully-induced Immigration's witch hunt and, consequently, I didn't lose all that much sleep over constructing defenses in this foreign language.

I'm fairly relaxed about things when Marcia drops me off outside Immigrations. I'd checked in at Noe's office and in his absence reminded his secretary that he was to be with me at 1 P.M. He was in the area. She impressed me not to worry. I come walking through the entrance a good 15 minutes early.

The young Delagado (his name is Amet) and his crew of four er five are all right there and seemingly fairly occupied. This Amet guy looks up at me and makes comment about my less-than-Mexican arrival time. What could I do but confess ta bein' a gringo.

The truth was that I wanted to be early 'cause I had this box of show-and-tell stuff that I wanted ta spring on those there in that office. I'd brought a box with examples of Marcia's and my shell work. Dynamite stuff, if you'll permit me to pump our creations just a bit. These works always generates exclamatory reaction. The plan was to show those there that this is what we're teaching to a number of students. Students that are getting good at this art form and whom are making at least a part of their livings from what we're teaching 'em.

I go into my song-and-dance routine, quite practiced by now, and from almost all there I get the desired reaction, especially from that young female officer who jumps from her chair to lay hands of these gleaming necklaces. The only one not overtly reactive is the Delagado, who claims very busy...but I do get at least this part of my defense strategy laid out there.

The air within that office was quite stale so after my brief exhibit I elect to stand outside and wait for Noe, whom I'm hopin' will arrive real quick. There's some shade and a breeze so I'm comfortable doing small parts of my A.M. exercises that I'd mostly skipped to make this annoying trip in there. I don't have to wait long before accountant shows up. I'm relieved to see him.

Out there in the shade, we've got time to talk...Roberto and his activities being our initial topic. I showed him the clause in our shell business charter that alleged to Roberto's special powers. Noe was of the opinion that Roberto had stretched things, perhaps, beyond their legal limits. He was fairly sure that the Public Notary had been functioning in what could be described as an "extra legal" fashion, also. It was obvious, though, that I couldn't be accused of any foul play, seeing that I hadn't been in the country.

We discuss Efren for a while; Noe fully aware of this character's drawbacks. Noe has been his accountant, too, for the past 20 years. Erratic, at best, is shortest way to describe Noe's accounting of the man. He well understood why there'd been problems, why separation was best.

We get the sign that it's time to set before the busy Delagado. Noe sends his capable secretary to deal with this office, him almost never having to be there in person. Small town that Loreto is I'm mildly surprised to see the two first makin' introduction. Right away then Amet gets directly down to serious business.

I get questioned again about my status regarding "SeaShella Kuki."

Well...since Roberto does not seem to have cleanly separated me from Efren, I guess that still makes me a 20% partner in this miss adventure...somethin' like this was my lines.

"So you're not claiming any change of status?" Amet came back.

"Legally, no." I easily respond.

I don't think Amet had anticipated my direction. He pondered the issue before him for a good long moment and then switched courses on me. The subject matter changed to my relationship within "Ola International," the Mexican company we'd formed when we and our partners bought the old papers for El Carrizalito.

Without overwhelming him in a mountain of detail I gave just the briefest in explaining.

He holds up a sheet of paper which is a current yearly statement from the accountant in Cd. Constitucion who'd been handling books for Ola International, like the one he'd held up for SeaShella Kuki...a string of nothin' but zeros. A request was made for some form of explanation.

Phew! This kid didn't know what a long afternoon could have been spent giving detail. "For a long string of years," I started throwing out there, "Ola International was involved in the "Ring of Fire" project, a socio-eco type thing. Essentially we had a done deal with the ejido and most other "Agua Verde" area land holders...but the power in the ejido changed hands and...

Amet could only handle so much unrecorded detail. He stopped me cold, him stating that what he needs is a written statement, something that could be filed, investigated, verified. Noe thinks that maybe that's a good idea. At least that's the way he responded.

Out in the main office is where all this "sworn statement" jazz gets accomplished. I'd been through similar stuff before, right there, so I'm pretty relaxed when Amet invites me to set down next to him, whose got his fingers on computer keys. This kind of personal attention to detail kinda surprised me, though. Noe sets directly behind me and to my left so he too can monitor the screen.

Through about a page and a half of standard boiler plate he first weaves in pertinent details: age, sex, address, simple but time consuming stuff like this. He points out a clause that informs me that I can do jail time if any part of my statement is found to be but fabrication. "Did I completely understand this?" he makes a point to question.

"Si. No problema," I easily respond.

Ok. Formal statement for SeaShella Kuki:

In greater depth I delve into my association with Efren. I explain how from the start I'd told the man that I wouldn't work with drunks or anyone involved in drug trade. He'd assured us that he suffered neither problem. A raging six month drunk, this after we initiated things in regards to said shell business and after we'd supplied him with essential equipment and taught he and his family how to work shell...well, he'd pissed most of his advantage away....

Noe springs to action here to locate evidence in company charter, which shows clearly that nearly a year slid by before Efren and family added their signatures to this document. "That six month binge," he follows up, "was part of the reason that the company laid dormant."

I went on until Amet was satisfied with this subject, Noe throwing in backup tid bits that he was vouching for. If Amet didn't get the picture I was trying my best to paint, it wasn't gonna be our fault.

He thought out and then typed out first question about "Ola International." Ok, I'm thinkin', you've stepped off into this, buddy. I hope you don't suffer from finger cramps. He wanted me to start from the beginning.

I stick to the facts, which start back when Alejo first told us of his uncle's papers for El Carrizalito. Lorenzo Villalejo Furete. Alejo Romero Alvariz. Dr. Ernesto Gonzalez Marino. Gabriel Renero Lara. Oh yeah, I had all the names, and I could direct him to all the characters. I went on to the Ring of Fire project and the battles over Plano Definitivo and then the death of our plans to protect this huge area at the hands of one Francisco Savin Amador, and his grand parcelization scam.

Page after page went into his machine, him having to call pause after pause so he could go back and correct the text that he'd rapidly hurdled within. Noe's foot and Amet's foot were nervously tapping floor through almost this entire grilling. I was settin' there like I downed a five milligram valium. I was havin' some fun with this, actually. Another chance to get this rancho thing out in the open, documented, exposed.

Amet is close to exhausting his string of well thought through questions. He's staring at his screen, perhaps for crumbs of inspiration. Tap. Tap. Tap. I see the letters line out as text is formed on the next one: "How have my activities in regards to SeaShella Kuki and Ola International benefited Mexico?"

"Well...I guess if you're willing to count the number of people that both Marcia and I have been teaching shell working to, we can say we've helped a lot of locals."

"Who?" he wants ta know.

Ok. I do the three-name stuff on the ones I've got it for, one two three four of 'em. I switch to Jose Luis, Salvador Asuno, Raul Quijano. Then I throw in those who I only know by first er nicknames: Hacinto, El Gordo, who is Chayo's brother. I wind up by telling him that it's not just them personally that we're teaching, but most of their close family members are also catching on.

"We've mostly given them the equipment to operate with, and the lessons," I point out. This causes him to ask me to elaborate on this and I easily do, me showing him import papers with duty paid for all stuff exotic. Evidence like this seemed to impress him.

"And with Ola International?" he persists.

"Ha!" I laugh out, "If you count up all the expenses for lawyers, accountants, public notaries, etc. well then I guess I've helped support a whole bunch of Mexicans." And he actually puts this into his machine.

Ok. The entire text gets another examination and cleaning, all 12 or 13 pages of it. When Amet is satisfied that it can't be done better he hits the right key and all get put on paper in triplicate. Almost I suffer writer's cramp then in signing on the left outside margin each and every sheet.

All three of us heave a sigh of relief when this package is completed. I'm free to go Amet tells me but then in next moment he tells me that I'll need to come back on Friday, that's when decision as to what to do in regards to my official standing will be made.

"Friday?" I almost gasp.

"Si!"

The thought of this trip again on Friday, I found not-at-all uplifting. Back in the truck with Marcia she says, "Man. Was that ever a far reaching inquisition, er what?" She'd been in and out of the office numerous times, her checking on how things were progressing, Noe, Amet and me on stage right in front of her. "You talk about being under a microscope!" She blurts out. But she thought it was good the way I'd handled it.

So Friday, I'm back and yes again I'm early. But I could have been way late 'cause the Delagado is all tied up in some other matter. I was there alone having told Marcia she could go off and do town things, of which she had very few to accomplish. Outside in shade I again try to capture missed exercises. The office staff, which takes smoke breaks in the same area, seemed more than willing to be entertained with conversation, especially that young female staffer. Of course I had this seemingly endless line of stuff she found astounding to lay on them. Any time you get a chance to know, to impress the enemy, do it - that's my basic strategy.

After lots of bullshittin', finally, I get the go ahead to go in and see Amet.

He's neatly dressed in civilian clothes. His demeanor is way more relaxed, his smile warm and I want to believe friendly. He starts right off apologizing for my wasted trip there that day. I'm told that it's not up to him to make these type decisions. And because there was some scheduling problems higher up, well, he didn't really know when to tell me to come back. He surprises me by writing down his name and phone number and asking me to call in advance the next time it's convenient for me to come to Loreto.

"It might be two weeks." I caution. I told him I had trips to LaPaz and other places that I needed to make.

That was Ok. "It's a long way to your place to hand out citations," he says.

"It's a long way for us to come to town," I counter. I give him our cell phone number, tell him that we turn it on between 5 and 6 P.M. "Next time, just call me if there's a problem. I wont' try to run away from you," I laughed. We shook on this. That's how relations stand between me and that Delagado in Loreto...at least for the moment.

Email: david@dondavidonbaja.com