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Once I had decided on Mexico as my next destination, once I had a job to go to in Guadalajara, I began to pay attention to mention of these names in the press (‘the press’ was at the time CNN; my house in Bolivia had cable but the only channels it could pick up were the coalition of northern acronyms – CNN, MTV, ESPN). There was little there to inspire confidence in my future home.
Through the early months of ‘09 a popular destination for journalists was any of the US-Mexican border towns, where they could don helmets and flak jackets and crawl under cars and report that no they weren’t in downtown Baghdad, but in fact were in Mexico, former spring break destination of choice turned failed state. The frequent reports came with grotesque statistics, over 5000 drug trade related executions in 2008, the number for 2009 growing sharply and sure to surpass that of the previous year.
Then came the swine flu epidemic, and the journalists donned face masks and went in search of the pig farm at the epicentre of the promising pandemic, and it was suggested that Mexico was on the verge of collapse. Hilary Clinton promised to help.
Maybe this was why it was so easy to find work in Mexico. Maybe it would have been better to stay in Bolivia, where the pausity of international flights has kept swine flu at bay, and where state failures do not mean that the state has failed. Evo had even stifled the war on drugs (and let’s face it, it is the war on drugs and not the drug trade itself which produces high murder rates). It was too late though; I needed cash, and so I prepared myself for life in the failed Mexican state.
There were more face masks and heat detectors and other swine flu paranoia paraphenalia in Sydney airport and in Santiago airport than there were in LAX or Guadalajara.
During my first jetlagged week in Guadalajara the country could have collapsed completely, obliterated by swine flu or drug war or whatever; I wouldn’t have noticed. When the lag finally receded I found myself in a city that looked suspiciously unpostapocalyptic. It didn’t even look preapocalyptic. It actually looked quite… peaceful.
This is the grim reality of Guadalajara; a sprawling, middle class city. A city of suburbs and SUVs. The weather is always mild; the ‘wet season’ consists of nightly storms that pass within an hour but which fill the sky with lightning before they go. Every major intersection is clustered about with American franchises and shopping malls. Taco stalls bloom in the parking lots.
This is not to say Guadalajara doesn’t have its dangers; these are just a little less glamorous than CNN and its failed state stories suggested. These dangers come in many insidious forms; the unpotable drinking water, the tantalising re-heated street food, the prevalence of whisky-by-the-bottle, the drunks protesting their lucidity as they slide into driver’s seats, the ‘just one more shot’ hospitality, the pork fat hidden within seemingly innocuous refried beans, the multitude of double entendres in Mexican parlance, the pre-sunrise school start time.
These dangers ensure that while life in Guadalajara is very very easy, it is never without its pitfalls. Talk among new teachers quickly turns to the state of one’s bowels, or of one’s nerves if one has a car and drives in the city. If CNN says the nation is on the verge of collapse then this must be true, but if this is what collapse looks like then perhaps it is time we had more failed states, especially if these involve extra swine flu school closures. Because we really do have to get up very early and that isn’t fun.
Two short pieces about Mexico’s precarious position on the verge of collapse…
http://www.thetruthaboutmexico.com/2009/04/mexico-as-failed-state-media-narrative/
I hadn’t seen my very-new housemate for two days. I’d blinked my way through long jetlagged afternoons, I’d made hesitant attempts to bond with the house cat, I had almost nothing to show for my first week in Mexico, and then my housemate arrived home to declare that we were going to the football.
Chivas vs. Tigres, goats vs. tigers, Guadalajara vs Monterrey. Chivas is arguably Mexico’s most prestigious team, and on game day half the city turns out in red and white stripes.
I almost didn’t make it into the game. A cursory frisking at entry revealed that I was wearing a belt. My beloved belt has a metal buckle and metal eyelets around its holes. It is apparently a deadly weapon at football matches. The security señor sheepishly informed me that I couldn’t enter with such an instrument of death wrapped around my waist. When I did enter it was beltless and with jeans slowly sliding off my hips.
A second line of security behind the first dispensed mandatory globs of hand sanitiser into the palms of every entrant. Swine flu isn’t causing havoc in the streets (unlike belt-wielding hooligans..) but cursory measures are still in place to maintain the calm. Ladies with sanitiser pump-packs ambushed anyone emerging from the bathrooms.
Chivas has won more Mexican championships than any other team, and are one of the most popular teams in Mexico. They maintain a policy of only fielding Mexican players; no foreign ring-ins, just patriotic pride. They were the easy favourites in this encounter. Their fanatics occupied one end of the ground and cheered and jeered emphatically until five minutes into the game when their team slipped behind. The tiny band of Tigres fans, wedged into a corner of the stadium, were exuberant, waving blue and yellow balloons.
The bane of Chivas was one man, Tigres’ Brazilian striker Itamar. Fast, strong and deft, he isolated defenders and left them foundering and floundering. He scored Tigres’ second goal.
At half time a slapstick relay course was laid out, with teams competing to climb over giant beer bottles, escape hooded wrestlers, and finally score a penalty goal. The whole stadium – the many goats and the few tigers – howled in laughter.
Itamar is also black. Early in the game desperate fans shouted at the Chivas defense to follow the black one, to keep up with the black one. Not very PC, but not exactly malicious either. After Itamar scored his second though the crowd became frustrated. Every time the Tigres keeper kicked the ball he was greeted with a stadium-wide shout of ‘whore’ (although this is pretty common anyway). When Itamar ran at the defense Chivas supporters bellowed ‘negro negro negro’. Of their own team some Chivas fans joked that they weren’t hungry enough because they weren’t from Africa (never mind that Itamar is from Brazil; black people apparently only come from Africa).
The final score was Chivas 1, Tigres 1, Africa 2, but since Tigres will field non-Mexican players they had the support of ‘Africa’ and so had a surprise victory. The stadium emptied fast, the streets clogged with traffic, I hitched my pants up and slipped back into my belt, and at taco stands throughout the evening disconsolate Chivas fans muttered together and laughed off the heartbreak of defeat.
…Nuño Beltrán de Guzmán
Probably the most despicable of the Spanish conquistadors, Guzmán arrived in Mexico after most of the initial conquering had taken place. He defamed Hernán Cortés and insinuated himself into (very corrupt) government, before marching into the west to pillage, torture, enslave and slaughter – accounts of his rampage read like a Cormac McCarthy novel. He also found time to found a few settlements, before he was arrested and spent his remaining days in a Spanish prison. The most significant settlement was given the name of his birthplace in Spain – Guadalajara.
…Mariachis
Traditionally a large band of spiffily-dressed troubadours playing all string instruments, mariachi culture has evolved to include brass instruments and groups of varying sizes and styles. They still wear big hats, and still tend to make their living serenading lovers, or playing weddings and 15th birthdays (although they can be hired on the spot for any occasion from the plazas in which they congregate).
…The Mexican Hat Dance
Mexico’s national dance, the Jarabe Tapatío is a relatively recent invention; the musical medley was composed in the 19th century and the standard choreography was developed in the early 20th century. The dance is (of course) one of courtship, the man approaching and dazzling the woman with his machismo, then disgracing himself with drunkenness, before recovering to conquer his woman (is there any other narrative?).
…Tequila (almost)
The real home of tequila is Tequila, sixty kilometers from Guadalajara. Although the blue agave plant had long been used to produce modestly alcoholic beverages, it was Hernán Cortés that introduced distilling to the area (before Guzmán ruined his fun), sealing the area’s celebrity fate and putting it forever on the booze world map.
…José Clement Orozco
One of Mexico’s big three social-realist muralists, Orozco was born in Guadalajara and is now buried there. Influenced by Goya, Orozco’s murals are grand, bleak things, eschewing idealistic themes such as the triumphs of socialist man in favour of depicting human suffering and struggle; “instead of red and yellow sunsets I painted pestilential shadows… and instead of nude Indians, drunk women and men”. His doom and gloom style can be found in most of Guadalajara’s most famous buildings.
…Gael García Bernal
Politically aware, down-to-earth, multilingual chicmagnet who has played Che Guevara twice (as if he wasn’t loved enough), Bernal was born in Guadalajara, studied in London (where he mixed drinks and worked in construction to support himself) and now lives in Madrid (I think) with his girlfriend and baby son. Bernal is still very active within latin cinema, which is perhaps not surprising given there are about fifty million women in Mexico who nurse daily fantasies of doing the hat dance with him.
…one more gringo
When I stepped off the plane in Guadalajara I already had a job, an apartment, and a cat lined up; such things I’d been told were impossible for foreign teachers in Mexico, but largely thanks to couchsurfing and a friend I had met in Kansas City this was the easiest settling-in-to-a-new-place that I’ve ever done. Apart from the jetlag; I’ve never been so lagged in my life. For a week all I could do was lie awake watching lightning illuminate the nighttime windows. During the days I tried to make myself explore; I’d drag my enormous head, my heavy hands about the neighbourhood, and then spend the muggy afternoons in a daze. As the jetlag passed though the city around me began to sink in. First impression; the people are incredibly, incredibly warm and friendly. Second impression: they speak way too much English, which may scupper my plans to become magnificently and completely fluent within the year…
