When people jokingly talk about la chicanada, they’re referring to that uniquely Mexican ability to solve a problem with whatever happens to be within arm’s reach. Wire. Zip ties. Duct tape. Fishing line.. An old hose clamp. A soda bottle. A rusty bolt that somehow “looks about right.” It’s resourcefulness born out of necessity…and occasionally out of stubbornness.
Every self-proclaimed handyman along the U.S.-Mexico border has practiced the art at least once. Some are casual students. Others are undisputed masters whose repairs have become neighborhood legends.
Every one of them has also endured the same ritual. A wife rolls her eyes. A brother laughs. The neighbor shakes his head. Somebody eventually says, “That ain’t gonna hold.”
The handyman simply shrugs and replies, “We’ll see.”
Then everyone stands around staring at it like they’re watching the final seconds of the Super Bowl. When it actually works, the critics suddenly become very quiet. Nobody apologizes, of course. They simply pretend they believed in the repair all along.
How long will the it last? Nobody knows. Sometimes it survives fifteen minutes. Sometimes fifteen years. The scary part is that the temporary repair usually outlives the factory part it replaced.
Every successful chicanada—and plenty of spectacular failures—is eventually celebrated the same way: with cold beer, carne asada, and enough family members showing up uninvited to qualify as a reunion.
The Official Chicanada Toolbox is one of the most understated collections of tools ever assembled. Your grandma has a better-equipped sewing kit hidden inside that old butter cookie tin than most mechanics have in their service truck. Somewhere between the thread, the safety pins, and fifty-seven buttons she’s been saving since 1973 is probably the exact screw you’re looking for.
The toolbox itself isn’t impressive. It’s usually an old metal box with a broken latch, a five-gallon bucket, or an empty Folgers coffee can. Half the tools are older than the person using them, and every one of them has a story.
Missing from the toolbox are measuring tapes. Chicanadas are measured using highly accurate Mexican engineering units:
“Más o menos.”
“Poquito más.”
“Ahí mero.”
And the internationally recognized standard… “Dale tantito.”
Despite what professional mechanics would have you believe, very little is actually required:
The Official Chicanada Toolbox usually contains the following:
- One hammer (usually the one with the cracked wooden handle that’s been threatening to fly off for the last ten years).
- One flathead screwdriver that also serves as a pry bar, punch, chisel, paint-can opener, scraper, and, in a pinch, an actual screwdriver.
- One roll of duct tape.
- One roll of electrical tape (the old black kind that’s been sitting in the garage so long it has become one with itself, the toolbox, and possibly another roll of tape it was stored next to).
- One can of WD-40. (If it doesn’t move and it should…WD-40. If it moves and it shouldn’t…duct tape.)
- One old T-shirt that has already sacrificed itself to at least three previous projects. It should have holes, oil stains, paint splatters, and at least one mysterious blood stain from a battle everyone insists “wasn’t that bad.”
- One crescent wrench (this one doubles as a hammer, because sometimes the problem isn’t that the part doesn’t fit…it’s that it hasn’t been properly convinced yet).
- One roll of yellow mason’s line (because somehow it always comes in handy).
- One carpenter’s pencil (worn down to the size of your thumb).
- One box cutter with only half a blade left.
- One tube of Crazy Glue with the cap permanently glued shut.
Everything else is optional and depends entirely on what happens to be lying around.
A coffee can full of mystery nuts and bolts is highly recommended. No one knows where any of them came from. No one is allowed to throw them away because someday, one of them will fit.
Some people insist this behavior is simply the result of being too cheap to hire somebody.
“Just call a professional,” they say.
Sure. But where’s the adventure in that?
Besides, a professional never gets to say, “You see that washing machine? I fixed it with a coat hanger, two hose clamps, and half a tortilla package.”
That’s a story.
There are a few unwritten laws every practitioner understands. If it works, it doesn’t need replacing. If it almost fits, a bigger hammer will convince it. If the hammer doesn’t work, shave a little off and add glue. Alambre, cinta, and faith can fix almost anything.
Nothing is more permanent than a temporary repair. If your abuelo built it that way thirty years ago and it’s still standing, don’t question the method. And finally, never admit how you fixed it. Just smile mysteriously and say, “I had an idea.”
It really is Mexican engineering at its finest. The calculations may not be written on paper. The blueprints may exist only in someone’s head. And the odds of success usually fall somewhere between “Probably” and “¡Órale!”
There are no engineering degrees hanging on the garage wall. No fancy tools. And certainly no instruction manuals. Just experience, stubbornness, and the quiet confidence that says, “Déjamelo… yo puedo.”
But somehow, against all common sense, it works. Maybe not the way the manufacturer intended. Maybe not the way OSHA would approve. But it gets the job done—with a distinctly Mexican flavor and a healthy dose of pride in making things work against the odds.
And around the border, that’s often all the engineering you need.
Disclaimer: The author assumes no responsibility for any repairs attempted after reading this story, especially if the phrase, “Hold my beer… I got this,” is spoken before the first tool is picked up.
Author’s Note: This piece is written with affection, admiration, respect and and a healthy sense of humor. It is not intended to offend, but to celebrate the creativity, resourcefulness, and ingenuity that make la chicanada a cherished part of border culture.
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© 2026 Mariano Velez ~ InkBlotz Press
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