A Wetback in Reverse

by Frederick Martin-Del-Campo

  Worse yet, cases of tourists from Europe and Australia coming down with the flu were now being reported to the local authorities, so now they were really worried, not just pretending to care like they did when they were informed that their fellow country-men had been infected. And, of course, the foreigners were given top priority at the hospitals, courtesy of the Mexican tax-payers. Cases reported in and around the popular beach resorts were given sensitive treatment because officials feared any further outbreaks might adversely affect their precious tourism revenues, which they did in any case. Most cases, though, turned out to be negative, so, hah! hah! to the puerile pansies who were afraid they’d no longer be able to charge the hapless visitors nine-American dollars for a Coca-Cola!

  Anybody and everybody was suspected of carrying the germs, hence, everybody would be observed with a cynical eye and treated as if one’s neighbor had been suddenly turned into one’s closest enemy. The wavering panic and citizen surveillance activities felt like some Stalinistic political purge was being carried out, and I’d be next on their hit list. Hence, for the rotten time being, Mexico’s schools would remain closed; museums, libraries and theaters, in a measure to contain the outbreak after hundreds were sickened within their respective walls, would be barred to the public, and I’d be left to record it all in my diary before going back to play with myself ... figuratively speaking.

  The next day, the reporters announced that more clueless persons had succumbed overnight to the flu in the local hospital, and four other fatal cases were blamed on the returning strain.

  The officials also reported that nearly four-score had been hospitalized with the illness, but they just did not know if many of them, or any of them had been due to the actual pig flu.

  Most of the recent or expected deaths involved victims who wanted and demanded medical help, but only after the disease was already well-advanced. Consequently, all would have to pay for everybody else’s negligence. Even with the urging and the alerts and warnings, however, people will be people, and they just could not give a flying damn about someone else dying from the flu. They were all smug in their nests so long as it didn’t touch them. As the clerk at the hostel said, “If you notice your neighbor’s head has been sheared, get ready to be shorn!”

  I wonder what San Roman was thinking just now ...

  THUNDER ROLLS OVER AZTLAN

  At last I could safely pack up again, and roll on out of Queretaro. I have to say, in spite of the newest pig flu scare, I enjoyed myself enormously; of the interesting sights and sounds to be had there, the most prominent feature of the city is its humongous aqueduct consisting of seventy five arches, each twenty meters wide, was built sometime in the 18th Century at the request of the nuns of the Santa Clara Convent to bring water to the residents of the city from La Caida.

  Most of the remainder of Queretaro? fascinating landmarks are to be found near the historic center. It is friendly to pedestrian-traffic, and filled with lovely Spanish colonial-era buildings. I have to felicitate the local yokels for doing a fine job of up-keeping the area, if not for themselves at least for the sake of tourists. Cleaning crews keep the streets swept, and the police regulate the nasty vendors so that they do not bottle-neck the streets and sidewalks with their worthless junk. At every eventide, the town center fills with, mostly, young people; strolling the plazas and alamedas, patronizing the traditional restaurants, cafes and snack stalls, I could feel their joie de vivre.

  One of the best ways to experience this part of the city is during the Noche de Leyendas (Night of Legends), which is a hybrid between readers’ theater and live historical docu-drama. A group of actors would guide their audiences through the romantic streets of the old town narrating legends and fables about what was historically endemic about the respective place. The event begins at the Plaza de Armas in the center of the city with a reenactment of the legend of Carambada. The spectacle then meanders through the streets, all the while guides recount tales related to bandits, romantic trysts and myths. These tales require audience participation, providing verses and dialogue, and provoking debate amongst the hapless participants. This just shows some of the more pleasant aspects of Mexican life in given regions, and helps one to understand that, despite all the daily miseries that assault your average Mexican, there is much to experience, much to enjoy, much to remember with fondness and delight. I could do no worse, so I decided just to enjoy it all. I then got my gear, and hopped on the bus for another state.

  As the bus rolled into the state of Hidalgo, wandering it felt like, through the Llanos, or plains, of Apam, scattered haciendas breaking the rolling fields of magueys, I suddenly became introspective; the images of San Roman movies certainly moved my thoughts, and my imagination felt free to soak it all in, the fleeting winds blowing dust through the bus windows as our attention was directed toward the monolithic Toltec sentinels standing in the ruins of Tula looming in the distance. By now it was obvious that this country is not a happy garden where primordial beings of virtue and innocence dwell in accord and abundance. Mexico is not the wonder-land of mystery and play that, many say, San Roman tried to create in his movies. Mexico may be colorful and exotic, Toltec temples adjacent to living Tule trees more ancient than the ruins themselves, but the impression is illusory. In this country, the peasantry have progressed little since the devastations caused by the 1910 Revolution; the peasantry continue to be excluded from the prosperity, are shamefully humiliated, allowed to wallow in their own ignorance and superstition for the sake of traditions, tribal loyalties, and the preservation of their indigenous cultures. Their present leaders are no more sensitive to their desperation than were the military dictatorships that ruled them prior to the great revolution. In the war against the narco-traffickers they have amassed a record of cold-blooded executions to match the sanguinary murders of the drug-pushers themselves, whilst exploiting the fears, and degrading the expectations, of the paranoid masses for the sake of national unity, or, better yet, “law and order.” There is something definitely ruthless running in the veins of every-day Mexicans that leads them to justify, at least in their minds, the reprehensible repression that ranks with the worst of the cocaine overlords whom for decades made of Colombia a killing ground of innocents.

  The wild and starkly contrasting beauty of Mexico can capture your breath, cause you to pause in astonishment, to sigh in bewilderment, and to remark self-righteously on the barbarous attitudes that pervade their feelings toward the society and culture that have borne them. I have tried to capture as many images with my faltering digital camera as with the descriptive powers of my pen, but none would fully understand the pictures I’d hoped to share, unless they come to see it all for themselves.

  Nevertheless, average Mexicans are losing their right and title to their lands, slowly driven away by force of economic-industrial development, promoted not by their own entrepreneurs, but, once again, by foreigners; they are promoted by Americans whom love Mexico so much that they are all too willing to trade any amount of cash for the whole shebang. Many Mexicans, all too aware of the power of the Green (U.S. Dollar), are making it easy for them.

  But, that is not the whole story. Vicious bands of mafioso officials, mixing socially with murderous narco-traffickers and using any excuse to pilfer public resources for their own enrichment, and nothing else, feel justified by the speculative activities of Americans. Whether legitimate or related to the drug-smuggling, the sale of human lives for cheap labor in sweat shops, as well as dangerous passage for illegal immigrants willing to lose their lives for a chance to creep into America, the narco-pushers have utterly plundered the natural treasures of their country. They have exterminated, or tried to, local opposition groups. Organized peasants, fighting for the legacy of Zapata’s fight for their rights, have faced eviction from lands they and their ancestors have tendered for centuries. It is almost too sad, too maddening to face with an objective eye.

  Thus I say to Maestro San Roman, or anybody else who has turned a b
lind eye to the dark side of Mexican culture and history, there is nothing beautiful or inspiring about these heinous deeds. There is nothing wonderful about the murder of honest police officials who tried to rise to the demands of their duty, and were brutally cut down for caring too much about their own people. There is nothing charming about rounding up teenagers and younger children for the purpose of turning them into criminal drug-addicts, destroying the institution of family in the process.

  That is why I say that thunder rolls over Aztlan---the name of the traditional home of the Aztecs before they abandoned it to seek the land promised to them by their god of war, and ultimately arrived in the Valley of Mexico---presaging a new disaster, social, political as well as natural, that will consume the entire country in its explosive rage. That is why I say that to celebrate the boasts of their political leaders, that they have brought Mexico into the First World of economic progress, is adding insult to injury. No amount of poignant images, of moving dialogue, of disturbing messages or sub-text by San Roman or anybody else could convince me that Mexico’s greatness is vindicated by the misery and useless sacrifices of its people. They all know that they are dealing with the on-going, ever-repeating, struggle of the Mexican masses for emancipation from the degradation of their own superstitions, enveloped beautifully and majestically in the trappings of church ceremonials; expressed in the profusion of idols, which the faithful insist are not idols but statues representing their favorite saints, they worship them as if the statues themselves could grant them their wishes just like old-fashioned pagan idols could. Mostly though, they struggle against the oppression and down-right tyranny of their elected officials, though they call themselves defenders of democracy and friends of the people. Little could Pancho Villa or Emiliano Zapata, still potent symbolic figures of resistance against reactionary dictatorship, have imagined the monstrous distortion that became of the Mexico they fought and died for, needlessly.

  My observation is that Mexicans live, thrive, and connive at constructing a Mexico founded upon a distortion of reality ~ the reality they wish for themselves, but do not trust their fellow country-men to uphold, to protect and defend against all onslaughts of corruption and threats of recurring tyranny, even while clinging to their much-abused facade of democracy, which reassures them of the status quo.

  Perhaps I am being unfair to Fulgencio San Roman. Perhaps it was the very beauty of his cinematic imagery that obfuscated the reality I was experiencing, and confused the meaning of his art. Perhaps he did in fact see right through the distorted reality fed to his people by their leaders and left-wing intellectuals, and he could distinguish between what was truly inspiring about Mexico, and that which provoked our mutual repugnance. His original conceptions ultimately did satirize or condemn rather than glorify the state of affairs. He never actually romanticized the reactionary practices of the Mexican regime, especially as it stood after President Plutarco Elias-Calles imposed one-party rule back in the late 1920s. On the contrary, through his masterful montages and tragic scenes we do in fact learn that his Mexico is a land of sorrow, of unrequited fears, and of chronic despair. Thus, the children are taught, as they have been for centuries, to mock death early on, and to invite it to preside over their most life-affirming rituals and festivities.

  I would, if I could, call upon all faithful Mexicans (or, at least, fans of San Roman movies) to re-affirm, and to live out the motto that has sustained oppressed generations of the common herd: Me Vale Madre! ~ so says the motto, or “I don’t give a shit!” And, like magic, everything is restored to a proper perspective. Reality may still be distorted but, they figure out for themselves, who is really qualified or wise enough to interpret what reality is supposed to be? Therefore, I would say as well, let their protests be heard wherever pretense and presumption are being plugged up their asses by their pablum-puking politicians; May their own posterity allow their protests to echo in their own hearts before ignorance creeps around, and history repeats itself ... Again!

  It is true (one can assert, now that I know more about the man) that San Roman had expressed the pious hope that his body of work should be imbibed by what he called the “pop-corn popping crowds,” instead of by a relatively limited group of devoted fans and film-touting intellectuals, but the latter turned out to be the case. Even so, the silver screen no longer graces his compelling imagery, and most Mexicans have never even heard of their native-son, revered in other countries as one of the greatest artists of the 20th Century.

  What does echo in my mind are the comments he included in one of his last films, Once Upon A Time In Old Mexico:

  “If the lie returns to the mouth of the powerful, our voice, aflame with righteousness and truth, will cry unto the angel of Justice again ...

  We are tired of years of oppression, lies, and hunger.

  We have the right to fight for our lives and dignity!

  Death does not scare us, though the tyrant invokes it to scare us.

  The angel of death is, after all, our friend ...”

  ACROSS BORDERS,

  AND CLASS DIVISIONS

  The days passed slowly in Hidalgo, the dry fields and dusty rows of maiz seemed to delight in the quiet of sunny afternoons. I too felt a certain serenity, in spite of the abundant evidence of poverty and filth around me. I was permitted to stay at a traditional hacienda called Itzlayac, which belonged to the Quezada-Potrillo clan; an old Criollo family, which had been upholding traditions around these parts since the era of Emperor Agusto de Iturbide, right after Mexico had gained her independence from Spain. It was a fascinating stay, and our hosts were stiff, dignified, but forthcoming nonetheless. I left with no complaints, only indelible memories.

  It was also about that time of week when I could expect an email from Billy in which he reports his activities, gossips about his adulteries, or shares some bit of poetry or lyrics he’d learned recently and wished to impart to me, if only to bolster my usually sour mood. The latest lyrics, I think, he heard from a modern Christmas song, but this time around they touched me for some reason, and resonated in my head for many days to come:

  “A Birth Certificate shows that we were born;

  A Death Certificate shows that we died;

  Pictures show that we lived!

  Have a seat. Relax ...

  I Believe ... that just because two people argue, It doesn’t mean they don’t love each other. And, just because they don’t argue, It doesn’t mean they do love each other.

  I Believe ... that we don’t have to change friends if we understand that friends change.

  I Believe ... that no matter how good a friend is, they’re going to hurt you every once in a while, and you must forgive them for that.

  I Believe ... that true friendship continues to grow, even over the longest distance. Same goes for true love.

  I Believe ... that you can do something in an instant that will give you heartache for life.

  I Believe ... that it’s taking me a long time to become the person I want to be.

  I Believe ... that you should always leave loved ones with loving words. It may be the last time you see them.

  I Believe ... that you can keep going long after you think you can’t.

  I Believe ... that we are responsible for what we do, no matter how we feel.

  I Believe ... that either you control your attitude or it controls you.

  I Believe ... that heroes are the people who do what has to be done when it needs to be done, regardless of the consequences.

  I Believe ... that my best friend and I can do anything or nothing and have the best time.

  I Believe ... that sometimes the people you expect to kick you when you’re down will be the ones to help you get back up.

  I Believe ... that sometimes when I’m angry, I have the right to be angry, but that doesn’t give me the right to be cruel.

  I Believe ... that maturity has more to do with what types of experiences you’ve had, and what you’ve learned from them and less to do
with how many birthdays you’ve celebrated.

  I Believe ... that it isn’t always enough, to be forgiven by others. Sometimes, you have to learn to forgive yourself.

  I Believe ... that no matter how bad your heart is broken the world doesn’t stop for your grief.

  I Believe ... that our background and circumstances may have influenced who we are, but, we are responsible for who we become.

  I Believe ... that you shouldn’t be so eager to find out a secret. It could change your life Forever.

  I Believe ... two people can look at the exact same thing and see something totally different.

  I Believe ... that your life can be changed in a matter of hours by people who don’t even know you.

  I Believe ... that even when you think you have no more to give, When a friend cries out to you ~ you will find the strength to help.

  I Believe ... that credentials on the wall do not make you a decent human being.

  I Believe ... that the people you care about most in life are taken from you too soon. The happiest of people don’t necessarily have the best of everything;

  They just make the most of everything they have.

  ... I Believe ... I Believe ... yes, I Believe!”

  The sentiments are soporific, the message is mawkish, but Billy meant well, and the verses would serve me well to remember in the weeks ahead. Now Zacatecas beckoned: a stern and graceful old colonial city with steep and narrow streets, and a friendly, mostly White-European citizenry bearing a palpable pride in their traditions as well as their land. The minute I had a chance, I headed straight for the nearest inn and ordered a bowl of their famous Menudo stew, which was just what I needed to get over the beer-hangover that followed me the rest of the way. The hotel was not much to smile about, but it over-looked the stunning civic plaza, the stately cathedral to the right of my balcony, and the sumptuous governor’s palace to the left. In spite of the quiet welcome, the empty streets, and the chill air rolling down from “La Bufa” (the cave-infested mountain land-mark), fear lurked about with the alert of the oncoming Swine flu, crossing new borders on its way further south. A number of confirmed cases of the damned malady led to the immediate closure of restaurants (which were allowed to serve take-out in order to curb unnecessary gatherings), and general service stores.