Impressions of Mexico

Some early impressions from my latest visit to Mexico.

It is my tenth visit to Mexico since 2015, but in the first 24 hours of this latest visit I already have three rather terrible stories to record. 

I have often been told tales of kidnappings in the City, and drug-related murders in the country, and learned the shocking word 'feminicidio'; but until now I was always able to waive that away, calling it 'hearsay', and saying that it did not impinge on me personally, nor on my friends, directly. Not now! Perhaps this is a 'new Mexico', a post-COVID Mexico, an AMLO-governed Mexico, suffering a spike in unemployment and a deliberate erosion of respect for middle-class virtues.

I was met by Isaura and her driver as I issued from customs at Benito Juarez airport and we drove in modest traffic to General Juan Cano 79. Eduardo (the driver) brought the suitcases up from the basement garage while we contacted Valeria to see if she was at the Wine Shop (Brutal Vinata) further up the street at No. 42. I washed my face, changed my boots for sandals, stripped off a couple of layers of surplus clothing and was ready to go out. It was only 8 pm and the evening still warm. I calculated that for my internal clock it was 2am and I had been awake for 19 hours. 

At the wine shop we met and greeted Valeria and her friend Mercedes, a friend from primary school days. We joined them at their end of the long stone table, Isaura for a glass of Fluxus Blanco (a Mexican Chardonnay/Chenin Blanc), I for water, as I had already drunk well over my daily allowance on the long flight. I learned that the husband of Mercedes made and repaired instruments (violins, and organs), that they had 2 children and lived near San Angel. On my heavy-lidded way back to our flat at 10 pm (4 am GMT), Isaura told me that Valeria had lent Mercedes a large sum of money which she and her husband were steadily, and scrupulously, repaying. The luthier had been kidnapped and had been forced to pay a large ransom for his release.

Next morning, after a somewhat restless night, Isaura and I had got up at 8 am to be ready to join the Banbury Spanish class by Zoom. Eduardo the driver arrived punctually at 10am. We decided to go south to the 'Cineteca' to see the new Mexican film Tótem, by Lila Avilés. We set off after lunch with Eduardo to drive the 8 km south (25-30 minutes). There he left us and made his own way to his home in an eastern suburb of the city. 

Why was this punctilious and capable man driving us around the city, and doing odd jobs around the house ⎯ even washing the dishes on occasion? It turns out that Eduardo used to run (or own) a taquería, had been asked to pay 'protection money' by a gang, had refused; whereupon the shop had been attacked and one of his employees murdered. 

We bought our tickets for the 4.30 pm showing, but had half and hour spare, so we decided to call in on Cati Bloch, now at the age of 81 a sub-director of the Cineteca National and in charge of the library. She greeted us warmly and took us along to the Cafetería, where we drank various types of water. Two senior men passed us, greeting Cati as they did so. When they were out of earshot, Cati wrinkled her nose and told us that the taller man was her boss, the director; no love lost there; did not normally greet her in like circumstance. She then explained that the National Film Library had just celebrated its 50th anniversary, that a book had been planned, and created under the direction of Cati, printer chosen and contracts signed. The director was to write a preface. When that failed to turn up, the director told Cati that he had decided to scrap the project, and with it a year's worth of her time and effort, not to mention that of others, and the costs involved. 

What a climate in which to work! Nothing to compare, of course, with my two previous stories; but the story still shocked me, coming (as it did) on the heels of the other two.

On the other hand, the film Tótem was a delight. It has scored 95% satisfaction in the Rotten Tomatoes scale, and won prizes everywhere. It is surprising, stimulating and warming. Totally Mexican, it is drenched in colour, emotion, fun, flavour, and originality. It seems to speak about ordinary people doing extraordinary thing with complete naturalness, and ordinary things with extraordinary gusto. A birthday party with a hot-air balloon, a parrot, an exorcism. A cancer death framed in love and gratitude.

We came out into the rapidly fading daylight. Still warm. Youngsters in groups on the grass. A short queue quietly waiting to buy tickets for later showings on one or other of the ten screens.
A waxing moon was already bright in the darkening sky, positioned vertically above us ⎯ something you never see in England; which could as well be said of all the above.