Where's a Wealthy Nigerian When You Really Need One?
or
Uncle Donnie's Down and Dirty Deportation Blues
By Don Adams © Don Adams 2004

Well folks, here I am, barely settled into a new year of happiness in Mexico and already faced with a threat of deportation. Actually I guess it's more of a suggestion that I'm "lucky" that I haven't already been deported---a fate that one of the more revered and respected uber-fuhrers of one of the large gringo associations in my part of Mexico has recently implied most certainly awaits me if he chooses to rally his legions of wealthy goose-steppers. Or at least the "two or three" who have offered to help pay for the legal proceedings to have me banished. Evidently he believes that something he thinks I wrote about him several years back was "wrong". I think I remember him recently asserting "You can't prove any of it." Things could be worse…

"So he said 'We can bury him alive on the other side of the lake and no one will ever know what happened to him.' ." The speaker, a well-dressed, well-educated Mexican-born, U.S. schooled professional man shrugged his shoulders, and speared another forkful of egg as we continued our breakfast conversation. "But I said 'No, as much trouble as he gets into, someone else will eventually do it.' "

Deportation? That's for sissies and wienies! Live burial? Gotta be the way to go if you really and truly want to make a lasting impression.

So here I sit, evidently expected to be frightened at the threat of deportation, but in fact merely thankful that the parties on the other end of that threat haven't yet thought of live interment.

Voltaire, one of the great French philosophers (and never, to the best of my knowledge, a leading light of any of the gringo associations in Mexico) is reputed to have spoken thus: "I have never made but one prayer to God, a very short one: 'O Lord, make my enemies ridiculous,' And God granted it."

Ever wonder why nobody ever gives Voltaire's first name when they write about him or quote him as though they had actually studied his work? I did, so I looked him up and discovered that Voltaire is the single pen name of an old boy identified as Francois Marie Arouet. My guess is that Frank Mary wrote under a nom de plume to avoid threats of deportation, or as a nod to his times in pre-revolutionary France, beheading. Some folks get awfully sensitive when their bad behaviors are brought to light.

Speaking of threats, I guess I'd better come clean on my sources before one of the local research librarians comes up with yet another nail for the crate in which some would hope to see me shipped North. Other than the occasional reference or quote contained in an article I'm reading, I know damn near next to nothing about Voltaire, in either of his identities. The closest I've ever come to even remotely caring about him was in a long ago history class titled "Napoleon and the French Revolution." A class in which I earned one of my few college 'A's. For laughing. It's a long story and nearly as boring as the Episcopal clergyman who taught the course but sometimes it amuses me to think that I was actually awarded a decent grade for having a sense of humor. Of course since my deportation might be near, my sense of humor is currently somewhat dampened. Maybe Father Harmon would come to Mexico to testify before a migra tribunal that I'm a really good guy. With a great sense of humor. As long as he never discovers that I said he was boring.

But back to the source. Even though I did major in history, one of the sure-fire fields of study that'll rocket you to the head of the pack for a job at the drive-up window of most of the top-tier fast food chains, I fell back to a source other than a history text. I earlier specified that Voltaire was "reputed" to have spoken the words I attributed to him because I found the quote on page 344 of Uncle John's Supremely Satisfying Bathroom Reader, the 14th volume in a series offered to an information hungry populace by the Bathroom Reader's Institute. They offer bits and pieces of interesting minutiae in three lengths; Quickies, Regular, and Extended Sitting. The guys are obviously brilliant so it's entirely possible that the afore mentioned quote is accurately attributed.

I'm trying to be careful here because I'm not sure if any of the BRI writers moonlight as Nietzsche worshipping minor functionaries of any one of the Mexico based gringo groups. I think not, as I can't really picture guys that intelligent and funny sitting around a fireplace full of burning books effetely sipping fruit flavored schnapps and dribbling bratwurst grease and sauerkraut juice down their tunic fronts while listening to a 78 of Wagner's Greatest Hits and farting along to the backbeat.

Actually, I can picture a few of the more officious expats in almost any country doing that very thing. Sometimes tiny tumorous clumps can run the risk of giving National Socialism a bad name.

Here's a piece of information that I believe I can safely offer up without fear of facing a long forced march North in the company of Mexican Army and Immigration officials. We've all heard any number of wild and weird stories offered up under a variety of headings; urban legends, urban myths, fairy tales, sea stories, plain old BS, and others, but how often have any of us ever been able to track down the specific source of any of them? I'm both pleased and excited to announce that I did that very thing recently. Actually I didn't track it down, it was more or less delivered up to me on a silver platter by the perpetrator --- who incidentally happens to be one of my favorite amateur scribes --- during a casual conversation.

I've heard various versions of this story in a number of venues down here but this was offered to me as the gospel. By the actual psalmist. Here we go.

A bright-eyed and enthusiastic would-be author, new to Mexico and seeking support and guidance in practicing the art of creative composition was directed to a writer's group. Appearing at his first meeting he introduced himself and asked permission to read a short piece he'd recently crafted.

Permission was granted and the piece was presented. The poor hopeful immediately had his ego plowed asunder, his talent lambasted, and his ass barbequed by the resultant waves of acidic criticism slathered on by the assembled confederacy of geniuses.

Somewhat doubting his abilities as a storyteller, but determined to face the test presented him through the collective wisdom of the writer's group, led by a very influential member of one of the very powerful expat groups in the area in which he lived, the poor hopeful resolved to return to the next meeting of that group of talented and accomplished authors to once more read for them and to reap the benefits of their learned and astute analyses of his offering.

Nervously he stood after again being granted permission to read. At the conclusion of his presentation he asked for feedback from the skilled and creative members slouched around the Official Writer's Circle Round Table gathered together to assist each other in developing their craft.

Once more the poor hopeful was greeted with comments guaranteed to remove the starch from any soul with even the tiniest hope of retaining any semblance of self-respect. "Rubbish!". "Too detailed." "Not at all interesting." "Too boring."

Of course I wasn't there so I'm taking a bit of creative license with the quoted comments but they're true to the overall gist of the encounter as related by my new friend who shall forever remain nameless because I'm guessing he doesn't want to have to deal with the threat of deportation either.

"Would it make a difference if I told you that this piece had been published?"

"Who would publish something like that?" demanded the Lord High Martinet; reportedly and allegedly the same who along with his "two or three" accomplices threatens my expulsion from Mexico should he ever awaken in a peevish mood.

"The London Observer, in 1857, after it was submitted by some guy named Charles Dickens."

Oh my! In polite society blow torches and cold chisels would have been required to remove the egg from the faces, but then we could here be considering a group that believes The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari to be a slapstick comedy. Certainly not polite society in that case, should the story be true. My new friend obviously speaks Voltaire's prayer on occasion.

And by the way, Charles Dickens was actually John Huffam. Maybe John Boy used a pen name to avoid being deported from Jolly Olde by those who didn't care for his writing.

Another author those critics don't know a damned thing about is Wes Fancher. The reason they know nothing of him is because reportedly he was not deemed worthy of admittance to their sacred circle of incredibly lovable and talented published writers because he had not been published prior to application. He has now. Unlike the majority of the elite writer's group, and its exalted leader he actually wrote a book. I love this guy's tenacity. Eighty-plus years old and he gets his book published!

Wes doesn't have a secret identity because he obviously doesn't care if someone threatens him with deportation. He's already settled in up there in Arizona. The book? The Hidden City. Go to www.publishamerica.com to order a copy of Wes's "…fast-paced story about the ancient Incas set in the sacred city at Machu Picchu." It sounds to me like the Incan version of Aztec only with a bit more intrigue. I'll get a copy and review it for you. Before I get deported. I'll bet Wes has been known to mutter Voltaire's prayer on occasion.

It sure seems to me that restricting writers from joining a writers group might be somewhere at the same campfire as throwing a chili cook-off and interlarding a rule that everybody has to use the exact same main ingredients. Or add beans to the red. Or use ground beef. Hell, stranger things than that happen down here. Some of them might be deportable offenses. You can see how they do things where I live by going to www.chilicookoff.com.mx.

I hope that in the upper few paragraphs I didn't offend anyone because one deportation hearing at a time is about all I'm financially and psychologically equipped to handle right now. Plus I'm not sure that I have "two or three" friends who would be willing to chip in on my legal fees; especially more than once. Several however, have alluded to their possible willingness to assist with the cost of psychological counseling totally unrelated to my deportation woes.

I had thought I might be able to escape to Southern Florida to live out the rest of my life in relative calm and safety without fear of deportation but that avenue of escape was blocked when I read an article from CourtTV.com. I was over there trying to gain a quick and cheap legal education so I'd at least have a fighting chance of defending myself during any upcoming deportation hearings but instead I found out that Florida can be much more dangerous than Mexico.

It seems that a couple of movie loving New Yorkers retired to Southern Florida with their wives. Actually I'm betting that number is just way too low to reflect reality but since I can't prove otherwise, and being extremely careful with my use of the language in the face of possible deportation hearings, I'll just go with what was reported. Two couples.

So Seymour and Irving were standing in line to purchase discount tickets for the 7:10 showing of a movie named "Never Again." Does this scenario sound familiar to some of my fellow expats? Anyway…

Irving was in line in front of Seymour and his wife Yvonne. According to Yvonne, Irving was taking too much time to get his money organized to pay for the tickets for himself, his wife Myra, and three other couples from their condominium complex in the famed Sunrise Lakes Phase IV retirement community near Fort Lauderdale. Keep in mind now that these folks are from 69 to 74 years old. Retired. Too old to even think about starting a game of Monopoly for fear the Grim Reaper will appear before the hotels are built on Boardwalk. Sorry Wes; you're obviously a genetic masterwork but most of us start cashing in our chips at a much earlier age.

But back to the nuevo Floridians who were, evidently, not too old to create mischief. Yvonne, apparently hearing the hoofbeats of the rapidly approaching and most terminally disabling of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse demanded that Irving hurry up. Irving responded to her polite request by suggesting that Yvonne "Shut up." In Texas the correct terminology is "Shut the f*** up" but we've learned that not every state or province or shire is prepared to correctly employ the mother tongue in all it's subtle nuances so I think we can safely assume that CourtTV.com accurately reported the comment.

Whew!!! I nearly took a misstep there. There last thing I need is a mob of 21st Century killer expats teaming up with those good folks who possess a website, a TV network and a washtub full of law degreed piranhas joining my Mexico-based nemeses and all collectively clamoring for a big chunk of my butt. I'm serious as a pre-prom pimple here folks, I really can't deal with more than one deportation hearing at a time right now.

But back to the movies. As those of us who belong to the "Oh My God, Whatever Possessed Me To Marry This Mouthy Sweetie'" fraternity are too well aware, Seymour was forced to back her play. We OMGWPMTMTMS frat boys are relatively easy to identify. No Greek letters, no beanies or secret handshakes; just missing teeth, bent and battered noses, scars, and flinching grimaces every time the little harridan by our side screeches. That's all we need to identify ourselves to each other. I used to think age would deliver me to emeritus status in the group but Irving and Seymour dashed that fantasy. I decided it was easier to change brides than to change a bride's deportment, so I finally took the smart route and married a sane woman.

I hope this doesn't offend Yvonne because I understand she already has two lawyers, David and Jayne. Referring to them by their given names makes them seem almost human, doesn't it? I guess if Yvonne did take offense I'd be facing an extradition hearing instead of a deportation circus.

Anyway, Yvonne and Seymour had to put David and Jayne on the payroll because Seymour, in a testosterone induced frenzy of over-protectiveness and general orneryness lunged toward Irving and in spite of the efforts of bystanders to restrain him tagged Irving a good one on the chin. Irving hit the pavement, lost consciousness, later fell into a coma, and then died. Evidently the State of Florida frowns upon such actions being taken by their own brand of domestic expats (inpats?) so lawyers for both sides had to be dragged in. Dragged in. That's a joke.

I realize part of the preceding paragraph may be viewed with skepticism by some but testosterone really can be produced right on up til death does y'all part. The problem is that in some cases at a certain age a hormone dam erects (pardon me) itself somewhere in the neck so that the testosterone is blocked from the Southern stream, where it might benefit both genders, and instead clots up around the rapidly deteriorating cerebrum thereby leading to disasters like the Irving and Seymour incident.

All we get here in my part of Mexico is a comparatively tame slap and tickle ballet every once in awhile although several months back a demi-praetor took a fairly severe butt thumpin' on the hallowed grounds of one of the gringo power palaces but that's a story for another time and place, and not nearly as serious as the New Yorkers in Florida occurence.

Of course I may be expressing that particular opinion in hopes of deflecting yet another deportation hearing. I'm serious as a cantaloupe-sized hernia, my friends. I swear I can deal with only one deportation hearing at a time so I'm being extra careful not to offend anyone .

Especially those computer-savvy Nigerians who keep writing to me and offering huge sums of money to help them transfer various financial windfalls out of that country.

Widows and gentlemen, I apologize for not responding prior to this time but until I found out that I was at risk of deportation I was perfectly happy to just rock along down here in Mexico where I don't need millions of dollars to survive and lead a blissful existence. I'm ready to talk business now if you'll kindly keep me on your mailing lists. I had hoped to change my retirement residence to your lovely and prosperous African paradise until I started figuring up the death rate of Nigerian multi-millionaires.

Those guys are dropping like roaches in the Raid factory and once you transfer tons of money into my Lloyd account I figure my mortality risk will skyrocket. Even more so than my low odds of surviving a Southshore funeral service where I might be able to hear my own entire eulogy being delivered even as the shoveled dirt clogs my ears.

Here's a deal for you. I consider myself too young to run the risk of a Nigerian multi-millionaire's fate so perhaps we could work out a deal where in exchange for my assistance in spiriting massive amounts of cash/diamonds/stocks and bonds/misappropriated government funds or other valuables out of the country you could just front me a few pesos to fight any and all deportation hearings to which I might be summoned. Come to think of it that might be a losing proposition for you guys, considering the powerful positions and the sheer numbers of those allegedly coming after me.

As I mentioned earlier one of them says he has been promised financial backing by "two or three" members of his vast and adoring retinue. He also claims to fill a high and prestigious office in one of the expat groups. That may be more opposition than can be withstood by the left-behind riches of an entire platoon of decaying Nigerian multi-millionaires.

Woe is me! I despair! Possible deportation from Mexico, pending burial prior to the cessation of breathing, probable death in a Florida exile, and the impossibility of returning to my previous home due to the fear that several of those Texas warrants may still be valid means my present situation is nigh unto hopeless. Thankfully the words of one of my spiritual guides comfort me and give me hope that tomorrow will be a brighter and more peaceful day.

From the mouth of that legendary philosopher, The Godfather of Soul, The Hardest Working Man In Show Business, Soul Brother Number One comes the observation that helps me carry on. James Brown says…

"Hair is the first thing. And teeth is the second. Hair and teeth. A man got those two things he's got it all."

Hey, I have half the package so maybe they'll only be able to deport me as far as Monterrey. See ya round the courthouse. I'll be the guy with the shaved head and the great smile, chanting Voltaire's prayer.

=============================================================

Disclaimer: In the non-writer's group affiliated author's opinion writer's groups conducted to benefit both fledgling as well as experienced writers are invaluable resources for many. I in no way mean to denigrate the support and assistance they offer to serious students of the art. There are many excellent groups in Mexico. Unfortunately, one alluded to in this piece might not be. Hell, it might not even be a real group. Or it might. If you think the jackboot fits, feel free to wear it.

As usual, the opinions expressed in this piece are those of the author and he accepts full responsibility for each and every word, in spite of the threat of deportation.