Tuesday, 04 August 2009

• Back to Mexico

  
  

  I realize summer is drawing to a close and I haven't done as much as art as I would have liked, or that I haven't written anything about my trip to Mexico.
  

  The first smell that welcomed me into that warm night was the stench of petroleum. I often forget how strongly San Luis Potosí is tied to its railway and mining roots. You forget unless you live here.  4265 Calle del Agua looks even more dilapidated than it did last time I was there. High gates and window protections enclose the townhouses against gang aggression. There was a small party out on the street when we arrived, despite that it was past midnight. Everything was foreign to me now, especially the teenagers, with their cholo clothes and contemptible reggeaton music blasting from their out-of-date, pay-as-you-go, low-sound-quality cellphones. It would be impossible for me to adapt to life if I had to permanently live here again.
  

  The next day, we accompanied aunt Esther to church. There are more vehicles than there used to be, oblivious to pedestrians on the streets and drivers neglectful to wear their seat belt although their reckless driving clearly calls for it. Violence is escalating too. The cab driver that took us downtown recalled how last night one of his co-workers had been murdered. He revived with clarity the screams of his comrade screaming for help on the radio as his slayers pierced him fifty times with a knife before the man was beheaded. He sounded more affected than he appeared-- assaults are commonly one of the trade-offs for wanting a few more pesos in your pocket.

  
  

   It's impossible to travel to Mexico without once stepping into a church. It always amazes me how the churches are exquisitely decorated yet the rest of the city is infested by graffiti, run down by industrial weathering and abandonment. Is church not supposed to be a place of humility? Did not Moses become enraged when he found his people worshiping an ostentatious statue made of jewels and did he not condemn them of blasphemy? Why does humanity continue to pray to statues dressed in gold while the only thing they get in exchange is an uncertain spot reserved for them in heaven or hell? During mass, I limited myself to observe the people and its surroundings. My mother, always so attentive of me, pinched me for being inattentive. Thanks to that, I felt even more inclined not to pray to those lifeless eyes that stared judgmentally from every wall.
  
  A common Sunday activity is to stroll downtown on the evenings with friends or family. While aunt Esther and my female parent gossiped, I took in the scene and the crepuscular heat. Much to my dismay, the entire plaza was full of emos. They where everywhere: by the fountain, sitting on a bench... some of them simply stood underneath the shade of a tree, all dressed in black, pink and purple, and sporting the typical badly-dyed emo fringe and a Monroe. It's bad enough the emo subculture has swept through the United States...but in Mexico? Mexico is supposed to be full of machos, not sissy pansies. Alas, they pollute society even more than the smoke of their cigarettes.

  My aunt is a few of those individuals who doesn't drive. When I was younger, she used to own a Volkswagen but never learned to drive. Since pedestrians do not have the right away when it comes to crossing the street, everyone jaywalks. One could say we were suicidal. To get back to the house, we rode the city bus. The bus drivers, although hired by the city, are some of the most careless drivers one could find. Bus drivers, as a rule, are always late, always on a rush, always of impetuous character, and always come to a halt where they are not supposed to. I am not exaggerating when I say riding the bus was even more frightening than past near-death experiences.

  The food is another variance. I love Mexican food, after all, I was born and raised in Mexico. My aunt was kind enough to offer us some chicharrones in green salsa she'd bought the day before. When I saw this, I remember asking myself, "What the hell did I used to eat at home?" There was a weekly street market nearby, but the vegetables sold there were more suited for coleslaw than a salad. Needless to say, being closer to the tropics calls for excessive sunblock and hydration. One of the idiosyncrasies of my aunt is to collect baggage for later use. She has a water cooler she never uses because it will cost her a fortune to have it connected to the electric outlet. Instead of being a water cooler or heater, the appliance is merely a water dispenser. Whenever hot water is needed, it is heated on top of the stove, which wastes gas, and is thus, pelf. Whenever cold water is needed, the option of refrigerating water for a few hours is welcomed with a Bartleby-- "I would prefer not to..."
  

  

  My house is relatively empty compared with aunt Esther's house. This is not only accounted due to the low ceilings in her house, but to the clutter of furniture and the ever-constantly-growing tapestry of family portraits-- most of them involving religious episodes (first communions, baptisms, confirmations, etc). It is the most ironical circumstance to see her daughter's portrait (or mine) juxtaposed with a portrait of St Gerard. In her eyes, we might all be saints. And although it is facetious that every inch of the wall is covered on these portraits, subsequently to this is the abrupt paranoia to search an empty spot to rest the eyes, only to find thirty pairs of eyes staring back. If by taking a photograph, a bit of soul is stolen from an individual... sleeping in this house is hosting an effective seansé. Ouija boards need not apply.

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