REAL ESTATE – MEXICO STYLE

Our partner in Costa Custodio Real Estate, "Pepe" Jimenez has been a gem at coming up with some great listings, especially in secluded beach and other waterfront properties. However, sometimes his zeal for finding the bargain property takes us on journeys that fall well outside of normal real estate scouting trips.

It was Columbus Day, and the summer rains were not quite yet finished with us. It had rained hard the night before, and the cool, fresh, winter temperatures were still a few weeks away. So when Pepe arrived at the office with a prospective "seller", and asked me if I was ready to go view some waterfront property, my enthusiasm was not where it should have been. But some of the best bargains are found at the most unexpected times, so I agreed to tag along..

Sometimes finding things out like "Where?", "How big?", and "Cuanto" from a prospective seller makes nailing down Bill Clinton’s definition of Sex an easy task. Getting to the point falls well outside of normal business procedures down here, especially in dealing with more rural landowners. Having less patience than I should, I turn to the seller in the back seat and begin a gentle interrogation.

"So where exactly is your property?" I ask as we drive in the general direction of the ocean.

"Oh, it’s not MY property. It belongs to my cousins’ brother-in-law."

I glare at "Pepe" from the passenger seat, as he quickly changes the subject to the Asian monetary Crisis and how it will affect bean and corn prices here in Nayarit. Pepe is a master of the art of steering the conversation away from the direct approach.

"How many hectareas?" How much waterfront?" "Is there a beach?" "How is the access?" I keep trying to generate information.

Silence from the back seat gives me an answer I did not want to hear.

"We will be picking up the actual owner." offers Pepe, as we are now too far away from the office to turn back. Of course the owner is neither expecting us, nor for that matter does he seem happy to see his brother-in-law’s cousin. Actually I am not sure they have met before. But after some heated discussion, which I assume includes some negotiation between the two about commission, the owner grabs his machete and gets into the rig.

Now I have been in this business out in the jungle long enough to know better. If we need a machete, access is going to be a problem. But at least that answers one question. As we continue on I try asking the owner some of the same questions I asked his long lost relative.

Size? "Well, YOU would have to measure, but it is at least 4 hectareas, maybe 8." GREAT!

Waterfront? "Mucho, mucho!!" STANDARD UNIT OF MEASURE!

Beach? "Sometimes." HIS GRANDFATHER USED TO…STANDARD UNIT OF TIME!

After twenty minutes we drive through a small pueblo and head toward the water. Another five minutes and we have reached a quite large river, with not a chance of crossing. The owner looks incredulous, like the river just appeared out of nowhere last night.

"How do you usually cross?" I ask.

"Well, I always went with my horse, but one time in June I did see a truck on the other side." he replies. He has cowboy boots on, and the river is too fast and looks too deep to wade. He points out the "back" part of the property off in the distance and tells us there is a much easier way to access the property by vehicle.

"So if there was an easier access, why are we here?" I don’t ask, but look to Pepe for help. I get none, and we are off again, back the way we came, up the hill, through three barbed wire gates, which the "owner" does not offer to open and close. He knows that THE GIANT who lives here, and I am sure that he is guffawing as I try to disassemble and reassemble the wire gates that have obviously been stretched with a fence stretcher. We make it across another river – barely. At the far end of a large banana plantation we are told that from here we will walk. I look at the field ahead of us. It looks like a moonscape of wet cow pies separated by small grass tufts. I have on a very poor pair of thongs. I try to beg off, but Pepe and the owner assure me that just past this slight impasse the going gets better, much better. "Yeah, sure, that’s why he is taking the machete."

I dip through the barbed wire fence, only tearing my pants in two places, and begin following them, tip toeing through the stinky field. After about four steps, my right foot slips off a grass hummock and plants itself right in the middle of the biggest pie in the field. Unfortunately I go right through it, right up to my knee in you-know-what. Struggling to right myself, I come up without my shoe. Now I am standing on a piece of grass 5 inches in diameter, on one foot, my other foot covered with smelly cow shit, and no shoe. Pepe and the owner are quite a ways ahead of me, so I try discreetly to retrieve my shoe, in the process getting cow shit up to my elbows. There is no escape. The grass tufts are looking ever smaller, and my thong is greased as only can be done with a high grade of cow shit. Finally, Pepe looks back, fortunately from far enough away that maybe my predicament may not be totally obvious.

In my calmest voice I say; "Pepe, I am going to wait by the car. You go on ahead."

I wait on my little tuft until they disappear, take off my thongs and slop, literally, back to the area of the car, arriving with all appendages totally covered in muck. We bought a six-pack in town for emergency thirst quenching. I opt to use the liquid to take a beer bath, sit in the car and take a nap.

When Pepe gets back he informs me that there is much less property than promised, it is steep, and the beach, well there is no beach. And the asking price should put the parcel in Conchas Chinas.

We drive in silence to the office, as I think of all the beautiful properties at Costa Custodio that Pepe HAS found for us and our clients. Pepe asks what happened to the beer, and after I tell him the whole story we laugh ourselves silly.

Min – Oct 1999.