A Wetback in Reverse

by Frederick Martin-Del-Campo

  Gazing at the peak of Orizaba from my balconied room gave me cause to reflect on its snowy serenity ... snowy like the gray-mantled Popocatepetl, one of two mountains sacred to the Toltecs and Aztecs, but thorny and harsh, rough and unyielding is the vegetation at its base. The harshness, roughness and cruelty is inherited by the male tribe of “Charros,” or Mexican cowboys, campesinos, and hacendados who dwell within the intractable environment. The endless fields of magueys, or “green gold” to the enterprising few who have made tremendous fortunes by its products of pulque and mezcal, or henequen fibres and sisal; but it is the wretched Indios who must cut the prickling, sharp leaved cactus, or have to suck, through exhausting labor, the sap of the Agave’s heart in order to extract the sweet honey-like “aguamiel,” which when treated becomes the much reviled “Pulque.” To the sad and ever-struggling natives, it is their uniquely Mexican brandy, a relief of sorrows, and sorrows are forever recurring. There is little to be found of the aguamiel’s sweetness in the Criollo entrepreneurs who still command the commerce and industry of provincial Mexico; their agents and henchmen crack his whip and roar his orders, and lower bend the backs of the native Indios, even in this day and age.

  Today the drug-traffickers are the cruel overlords, and the daily news reports about their crimes are nothing like the tales told of the feudal social structure that existed before La Revolucion. There is nothing romantic about the insensible tribulations and barbarity they endure for the marijuana harvest; nothing romantic about the bloody tortures and shocking murders perpetrated by provincial drug barons.

  As I hiked along the foothills surrounding Xalapa, the capital of Veracruz, I noticed a tired, middle-aged Indio down the road trudging along with his little burro, which all day must drag the delectable load of aguamiel from the boundless fields to the fortress-like bodegas, or ware-houses. His ancestors must have been doing the same for centuries, which goes to show that, despite all the developments and shows of technological progress, not much has really changed for the jaded masses. Their living conditions have not improved in decades, and their standard of living is lowered with every generation, or so it seemed to me. Democracy might reign throughout the land, but the average person is still, thanks to the demands of trade and commerce, trapped in a state of pure slavery to the peso (like we all are, actually). Socio-economic troubles abound, even in these festive and easy-going lands where life is taken one day at a time. Living in the Twenty-first Century may have its advantages, but the jaded masses’ state of mind is still medieval, and their life-style is still primitive in ways and habits. Females today do not seem to have any more rights than their grandmothers did, since they still cry the same complaints about their insensitive men ~ thanks to their religion and tribal superstitions, the right of the men to their women is, in practice if no longer sanctified by Time and Tradition, absolute. Nevertheless, they both must work in the fields, in the factories, or in commerce like equals. Conflicts abound between the males for their women, honor, money and business, or for no reason at all, and they all go back to their tribes, to reassert ancient customs in spite of the age they live in.

  The right of the people, their occasional outbursts of protest, and the cruelty of social repression carried out by individuals against their own laws, if it is not one thing, it is another that defiles the dignity of the Mexican character. And then the shadows of traditions and beliefs, of holidays and rituals guarantee the perpetual suffering of the Indios, though they are meant to affirm their bond with the Earth. Whilst worshiping their land as sacred, they weep and pray, waiting for better days... days of serenity before dying.

  Masking their hatred for their betters, usually the Criollos and foreigners, under grim smiles, these “Christian” faces reflect the pagan masks of stone tigers and serpents worshiped by their ancestors, the Olmecs, Aztecs, and Zapotecs. But, the grotesque laughing of the living becomes risible in itself as they delight in the violence of their customs: cock-fights, dog-fights, bullfights, and the teaching of youngsters to mercilessly beat the card-board “pinata” faces for candy, thus imparting the lesson that by violence you get what you want in Life. Christmas dolls bring smiles to the innocent, until they are exchanged for the suffering expressions of polychrome Roman Catholic saints ~ Catholic idols of saints that were mounted on the sites of ancient pagan altars. Here, like exotic yet poisonous flowers, continue to bloom the iron and fire of the Catholicism that Hernan Cortez brought, even with all the shows of social progress. Catholicism and paganism, the Virgin of Guadalupe, all worshiped by wild dances, degrading prostrations, and bloody self-flagellation. Bleeding and mutilated, like the human sacrifices that were made atop pagan pyramids, the people uphold these awful traditions, ever waiting for better days ... days of serenity before dying.

  They express their cultural identity by feathered costumes, disturbing percussion, dangerous acrobatic feats, like the Voladores (flying men) de Papantla, tower-high Indian hair-dresses, and sorry rituals like leading a procession of mendicant-pilgrims on their knees to the chosen site of adoration. Then the Spanish blood asserts itself in the Mestizos, and they emerge wearing either traditional mantillas, or Mariachi and Charro outfits, broad sombreros, leather boots, and, of course, Sarapes.

  Hence, by exhausting hours-long dances in sunshine and dust, by the sprinkling of consecrated water done by arrogant bishops and priests in their fanciful canonical robes, by miles of knee-creeping penitence, by the blessing and display of favored farm animals, by the regalement of idols with unique flower decorations, and the resplendent ballets of bull-fighting cuadrillas ... the soul of Mexico lives on, and on to fight for a reason to go on existing.

  All this is the legacy inherited by Mestizos as well. They know they are the dominant majority in Mexico, yet have lost their identity. They anxiously bear an inferiority complex, which burns in their hearts with respect to their still over-bearing White-European Criollo sires. It is as though they all had a bug up their asses with respect to what they think others think of them. Most of the time, though, they just go about their business asserting their place in the scheme of things, while bearing with a grudge their typically Mexican Me vale una chingada (I don’t give a shit) attitude. Something always comes up, nonetheless, like an economic or political issue that reminds them exactly of the place they occupy on the social ladder, and the resentments are once again stirred, and the old hatreds simmer in the bile of slander, loathing, prejudice, and a violent anger explodes over the status quo they’d helped in great part to construct.

  Still, they do not make any attempt to mask their contempt for their Indio relations. At once they lay claim to the country as the true inheritors of Mexico’s bounty, and at the same time suffer the same doubts, the same insecurities all half-bloods anywhere have about belonging, about what they represent, and what their true place is in the society that bore, and supports their insolence and non-conformity. It is up to them, notwithstanding, to build the truly free Mexico that eluded their ancestors. It is up to them to bury the hatreds and ancient feuds that have made of this land a purgatory of oppression and brutality. They inherited their hatreds from their be-knighted ancestors. They just cannot bring themselves to abandon those medieval rancors, regardless of the social or spiritual catastrophe they invite as a consequence thereof, lest the saints and the spirits of their antecedents condemn their souls for faithlessness and blasphemous disloyalty. Oh, but such are the mocking reproaches of Time!

  So, in spite of the revelations that have shocked my conscience out of the insulated intransigence that guarded my feelings against the unpleasant facts about humanity’s evils, I am forced to ask myself once more: how could I know that I didn’t know anything about nothing of no importance?

  THE POBLANOS AND THE PIGS

  As much as I hated to do it, I had to leave Veracruz for a spell because my wetback status was catching up to me; my tourist visa had long since expired, so it behooved me to keep on the move in order to dissuade the federales from ove
rtaking me in any given part of the republic. It wasn’t all together hard to do, and the constant traveling kept me light on my toes. All I had to do was cross the border into Puebla, and I’d be safe. Well, I wasn’t safe for very long since I had disembarked at a stop not far from the capital city Puebla where I just had to try some Mole Poblano ~ the rich, dark local recipe for the well-known gravy. I was not disappointed with the taste. I was disappointed, however, to find out that the kitchen was infested with flies, and the cooks failed to wash their hands every time they used their urine-soaked excuses for public restrooms, and not 24 hours passed before I started with the wrenching stomach pains again. I rushed to procure more American Pepto-Bismal to allay the mounting agony, which had firmly gripped my belly, but the local beer did a better job of curing me. This would not be the end of my frustrations, for no sooner had I crossed the border into the lovely state (though her people surely were wanting in courtesy and friendliness) when the flu scare showed up again.

  Mexico was again telling its weary citizens to stay home, urged commerce to limit operations, and government business would be curbed for a few days while they waited for word from the world health organizations to give the green-light that it was safe to emerge from their hovels once more.

  In Puebla alone the local officials announced on TV and radio that the number of cases within their state had risen to over 100. The presidente municipal, Bartolome Obrador, told his fellow citizens, by printed fliers and other means since he was loathe to mix with the unwashed populace, that his local government was “taking the necessary precautions and procuring the necessary medicines” to stop the virus ~ I think he sought to solve the problem with good, old-fashioned Quinine.

  Things at the national level weren’t all that encouraging either, so people were advised to carry out only indispensable tasks, and that only “essential” places like markets, pharmacies and hospitals be permitted to operate; and some witty fellow suggested that non-essential agencies, like the government, close down for a spell, leaving critical services, like the police and military, to keep an eye on the common folk lest anyone should sneeze on someone else just for the sake of malice. They would indeed remain on duty, by the look of things in Puebla, guaranteeing the safety of the local yokels for the time being. Schools, fortunately for the grade-school children, had already been locked up, and the parents of said students were exhorted to take their progeny to centers of examination and vaccination. At least in this operation I was impressed with their resolve and activity.

  Hence, now that I worried that I would be deported for remaining illegally in the country, and all too conscious of the irony of my situation, it did not take me long to recognize that the steps being taken to stop the further dispersion of the implacable cooties might be the very means by which the federales would nab me in the end. Frankly, I had no desire to be fustigated by the Mexican police, regardless of any individual background. They all had a well-deserved reputation for sexual sadism, and I was not going to give them any reasons to probe me for evidence that might lead to my incarceration, penetration, and eventual expulsion. Blamed already for many deaths, the virus changed their minds, so officials focused instead on minimizing its effects rather than containing its spread.

  Upon settling down in a local pensione, or boarding house (very inexpensive and rather pleasant, with good, home-made cooking, I would be alright for the length of my stay), I just had to ask if I’d be alright there given the epidemic scare, and the concierge assured that “There is no safer place to protect yourself against catching swine flu, except perhaps for your own house.”

  I supposed he was being forthright, despite the presence of many strangers. Yet, he defended the actions of the people in charge against derision, or typically Mexican excoriation ~ that they’d been slow to move their arses, and arrest the dangerous illness.

  Though Puebla has no coastline, it is a state of special beauty. The low-lands of the state typically enjoy dry or semi-dry conditions, while the valleys of the south present a hot and sub-humid climate. This would be fine with me since I had already acclimatized myself in Veracruz to such weather differences.

  I found the state to be particularly startling because of its mountains, and those it shares with other states. The Pico de Orizaba, the highest peak in all of Mexico, is shared with Veracruz, its neighbor state to the East. Other major elevations in Puebla include the famous, and, regarded by natives, sacred mountains of Popocatepetl and Iztaccihuatl, the warrior and sleeping maiden of Toltec and Aztec mythology. Thus, I had some pretty stunning scenery to accompany my thoughts as I suffered my latest bout of wanderlust. It was actually fun just exploring around by foot, and the pueblerinos were quite friendly and accommodating for the most part, and making up for the initial rudeness and hostility, which had greeted my arrival.

  I had little to complain about while the flies stayed out of my food.

  Further on I learned that officials in Mexico City were advising families everywhere to stay off subways and commercial airlines again because of the obvious, and made a special effort to dissuade people from traveling to America now that it was apparent to the rest of the world that the virus did in fact come from there. I thought I might cut short my stay in Puebla and backtrack to Veracruz where the sensuality available left me with a desire for more, but I weaseled out at the last minute. The recommended precautionary measures went beyond what most people expected from the latest outbreak ~ everyone, naturally, just wanted the damn thing to go away. In retrospect, it didn’t hinder me so much since that day I’d left Billy and wife back in Chihuahua. Mostly though, people were being urged to wash their hands, cover their coughs, and stay away from public gathering places, especially if they felt sick. Simple, logical advice? Not to the average Mexican. Unless it is a direct order given under the threat of death, he/she would likely ignore such advisories.

  Fortunate as well was the report that they would not be closing the U.S.-Mexican border to stop the flu because I certainly would not like to be corralled along with other foreigners should I be faced with an emergency that forced me to cut short my sojourn.

  The Health Ministry did in fact raise the alert to a Phase 5, the second highest, which meant that the spread of the virus was imminent. I did not let that limit my activities, however, and went about interviewing people about what they most liked about their state. Many of them replied that it was the very centrality of their home-state that afforded much trade and traffic with the surrounding states, that it was historically significant, and that their mountains protected them from their neighbors as well. The local culture, I agree, is most quaint, and the sight of China Poblana maids promenading with their Charro out-fitted gentlemen on Sundays made for a mental postcard that I would not soon forget.

  There was nothing, to my knowledge, in their state’s past that should make them ashamed of their own history. On the contrary, the placidity of their surroundings reflected on their faces, and the unique dishes of Poblano cuisine kept me experimenting and snacking while I could. The alerts had been subdued, so there’d be nothing to prompt me to get the Hell out all of a sudden.

  At this time, again, they repeated that there was nothing around; nothing which suggested that things would get immunologically worse. Therefore, everyone breathed a sigh of relief and went about their business. The country was entering a “period of stabilization,” according to the Health Minister ~ the very source the people wanted to hear from, not their conniving political leaders. They expected a down-turn, and would liked to have seen the trend continue indefinitely, but that was too much to hope for at this point of the emergency. At the same time, the same officials offered hope that deaths and new cases were leveling off.

  It behooved the banks and currency exchange offices to insist that, so it appeared, things had been getting much better in just the last forty-eight hours. I didn’t need money just then, anyway.

  As for Poblano commerce itself, Puebla stands out nationally in the producti
on of flowers, eggs, coffee, beer and beans in open uncovered environments, and the restless natives would remain as busy as they ever were. Even the traditional production of marble and onyx and related products was kept open, regardless of the warnings against it.

  During this whole time I sought to take it all in stride. Happily, the dogs ceased to bark just for the sake of restoring quiet to the beleaguered town. Everybody seemed to be twiddling their thumbs as rumors passed among the commons that patients were being mistakenly released from the hospital after a check-up, then hastily readmitted on the grounds of a sneeze or a mild cough. Most of the commons were out and about crowding the streets, fighting over merchandise, or dirtying up the markets while they shopped, or conducted other business or banking, or eating. Other folk, mostly visitors from other parts of the country it turned out, had contracted symptoms of the Porcine flu and were being treated, and even recovering well enough. I honestly couldn’t say if they were coordinating efforts even at a local level in preventing the spread of the disease, but it certainly didn’t look like it. Just more of the same, more of the waiting game that was making of my purpose more than an adventure.

  So the responsible officials raised the tally to more than 250 of confirmed cases in Mexico, up from 148 or so, but that still did not seem like such a big deal in a country of over 100 million. This bit of history in the making will rank highly in the annals of human stupidity for damned certain!