Peyote What?

At the mechanic's, as a part of my seasonal transition maintenance program.

When I lived in the States, I pretty much knew nothing about maintenance. I took my car for regular oil changes (I guess, that's maintenance) and I re-stained my two decks in early summer. Oh, and I changed the furnace filter too. AND got the furnace serviced every year. Ok, so I guess I did do a bit of maintenance.

But NOTHING like what's going on over here.

Between the beating sun, the wild rain, the 90% humidity, and the occasional hurricane - as a start - it seems that maintenance is a way of life. A new-to-me way of life.

I thought that once the house was built, that would be it. HA! que loca! Not at all. And I get it now, I get it. Things can rust and fall off, they can disintegrate, stop working, leak ... just to name a few.

I have surrendered and I have given "Maintenance & Repairs" their own line on my budget spreadsheet.

Which is why I was at the electric-mechanic's shop (you know what I mean. The guy who takes care of all things electrical on the car. Uvaldo is not actually electrical himself) to get a whole bunch of small stuff fixed.

I left my car Mitsu there, took the bus home, which was fun, and at the end of the day between a lift from a neighbor and another bus ride, I was ready to pick up it up. The windows moved up and down easily, the back door lifted without me having to crawl inside the car to open it, and even though there were still a couple of things to address, we were moving in the right direction.

"But I can't get you the windshield wiper arm," says Uvaldo.

Dang, that's pretty important. I have been making do with one wiper for the past six months, just to wipe up the dirt/dust, but when the skies open and the rain pours in buckets, I am going to need all the help I can get.

"So, what do I do?" I ask. One thing I have learned living here is that there is pretty much always a solution.

"The dealership." He says. "You have to call Mitsubishi. This is a proprietary part."

Ok, I can do that.

But I wasn't prepared for what came next.

"It's just like the peyote car," he tells me without skipping a beat.

The Peyote Car.

Having been here almost three years now, I am aware of the many beloved medicines available. What in the States would have shocked me, no longer does. Medicines abound, they are a part of life, of culture and even though I have not experienced them myself, I have a growing respect for all this traditional culture I am just now encountering. In fact just a few weeks ago, as a friend mentioned feeling low energy, another friend had handed him a little bit of peyote to pick him up. Which it did.

But a Peyote Car? What is that? Is that a car that goes around dispensing Peyote just like the Tamale Car and the Shrimp Car? I had never heard it and I was super curious.

Seeing my questioning face, Uvaldo points to a car in front of his shop. This one, he says, The Peyote Car. You haven't seen a Peyote Car before? I thought they were French.

French. The Plot thickens.

I turn around, look for some sort of psychedelic-colored vehicle but all I can see is a red Peugeot sitting there, looking as though it has been sitting a while.

I turn to him.

Si! He says. That one. The Peyote!

Oh boy. The Peugeot. In Spanish, where they sanely pronounce every single letter written - as opposed to us French who like to randomly add not-to-be-pronounced letters at the end of words, just for pretties - Peugeot had turned to Peyote. I am delighted.

It is rarely boring around here.