Letter from Mexico - Travel writing retrospective part X (final part)

Letter from Mexico

I was sitting down to “la comida”, the 2 o’clock main meal of the day, all members of my adopted Mexican family around me, when suddenly the table began to shake and wobble ever so slightly. A steady clatter of china and crockery started filling the air, my soup-laden spoon spilling its contents on the tablecloth. Simultaneously everyone put their spoons down, closed their eyes and clasped their hands together as they softly began reciting an Ave María. Tremors like this one, although certainly not a daily occurrence, were by no means rare in Mexico.

I had arrived in the central city of Toluca, capital of the State of México, with some 1.5 million inhabitants, a couple of months before. Incurably optimistic, very young and rather green I’d decided to set aside a couple of years to work as a volunteer in a Mexican orphanage, while having a stab at teaching English into the bargain – quite ironic as I happen to be Swedish originally, but nobody seemed to mind – Toluca was having a constant shortage of teachers who actually spoke the language themselves and this “career option” was somewhat forcefully thrust upon me once word got around that I had spent a full six months in England.

Finding work was easy, blending in a totally different matter. Toluca is hardly well-known for its sights and if visitors were few and far between, foreigners who stayed on were almost unheard of. We stood out like a sore thumb and I could soon count on my ten fingers the people who made up the “expat community”. Making friends with the city’s only black man, Letoy from Haiti, the orphanage doctor and fellow English teacher – anyone who could teach it, did – quite possibly made us the most conspicuous people in town when out together. Getting noticed and meeting people was never hard – to start off with they were almost literally queuing up to find out where I was from and above all, why I was here, alone. Overcoming the confusions as to the location of Sweden was easy enough with a map, but how to explain being a woman on her own, so far away from friends and family?

This was Mexico in the early 1990s and twenty years as a fiercely independent only child had in no way prepared me for the time-honoured traditions of the Mexican family. Quite possibly nothing could. “Wanting to be alone” was clearly an alien concept that I failed to explain any better than my vain attempts at putting my incorrigible wanderlust and persistent sense of adventure into words. Not having a husband, or even worse, not wanting one, was another tricky topic the señoras and abuelitas tut-tutted over in the kitchen and el living, as they always called the lounge.

The first six months were hard; never understanding a joke as my Spanish was useless – I thought I’d finally got the hang of it, but in fact whenever I thought I’d politely said “aren’t you going to introduce me?”, I’d actually been saying “aren’t you going to penetrate me?” – singing merrily in the Catholic choir and then accidentally letting my Protestant background slip, leading to widespread displeasure amongst all my newfound friends, accidentally blocking my family’s loo after they innocently fed me giant chillies disguised as peppers, bringing a copy of Cosmopolitan to English class, not realising it contained a feature on lesbianism, thus horrifying all my students and fellow teachers and undoubtedly countless other taboo-related boo-boos that fortunately no one had the heart to tell me. I survived that mini-earthquake, a week-long hospitalisation, large shots of tequila and too many strange come-ons from short men than I care to remember.

Still, I stuck it out, spending almost two years in Mexico in the early and mid-90s – years that at the time often felt almost too tiring and different and difficult, but that in the end proved endlessly rewarding. To learn a new language there’s no better way and fluent Spanish has stood me in good stead ever since, not to mention gaining a love for and insight into Mexican food, music, history and culture – I can even make that once loathed chilly dish, chiles rellenos, at home in London now.

Mexico in the 1990s was in a flux, a state of great change, and it was a momentous time to spend there. Mexico City was still in parts reeling from the large earthquake of 1985; the currency suffered devaluation and social unrest followed; it was the time of the NAFTA free trade agreement with the U.S. and Canada; the Zapatista movement launched in Chiapas and, perhaps most importantly, the era of PRI, Partido Revolucionario Institucional, the party that had ruled Mexico for over 70 years in various guises, was coming to an end. Mexico had its problems, but it was starting to come of age, the role of women was changing, a larger and stronger middle class emerging, political awareness increasing and living there then was to be a part of all the happenings, witnessing the changes firsthand.

Fast-forward some fifteen years to 2008 and I’m finding myself back in the country again, a full seven years since my last, rather short visit. If the changes before had seemed gradual, nothing makes transformations as obvious as a long absence. It’s hard to pinpoint the main physical differences, instead what’s taken place strikes me as a shift in consciousness, as though a new liberal, more tolerant mindset has taken over. This positive side, however, also has a tougher, murkier counterpart. Back home in London, the tube isn’t my favourite place, but in Mexico City it’s a different story. Mexico City’s metro, opened in 1969, has always been the easiest way to get through a city often clogged with traffic, people and pollution. Not only is it fast and efficient, but I also remember it as a real piece of Mexican street-life transferred underground, full of interesting characters; the vendors. “Spare some change” is not really a Mexican phenomenon and most Mexicans are busy making a living – by any means possible. Some of these means may be both annoying and illegal, but somehow they seem more honest. Stepping onto the metro train from the platform, I was looking forward to my re-acquaintance with this slice of Mexico on my way to Frida Kahlo’s Casa Azul in the southern suburb of Coyoacán.

When boarding I can’t help noticing two men in uniform getting off, both sporting that scarily bad, short army haircut, triggering a vague notion of military presence. Then, looking up a few stations later, there they are again – just getting off briefly, then getting on again at every stop. And does it seem just a little bit quiet in the carriage? Where are the calls for “chiclet 1 peso” and the likes? On closer inspection the uniforms boldly state “public security” and the guards have that fierce, unforgiving look about them. Curiosity always gets me, so I simply do what I’d never do on the tube normally and turn to the guy next to me, asking him “who are these guys?”. “They’re here to grab us,” he explains and he isn’t kidding. Hidden between his legs is a large bag with his stash of goods for sale, awaiting the right opportunity. Luckily there are far more trains than there are guards and as soon as the two of them leave the carriage, the vendors come out full force. They’ve devised an excellent warning system, signalling to fellow vendors on opposite platforms the number of guards they’ve seen and what stations they’re on. On the surface these guards are here to fight crime, but what they’re trying to kill off in the process is the sheer spirit of those in Mexico who have very little. At least it looks like they are very far from succeeding – an atmosphere of creative resistance still prevails here and I instantly feel transported back to the Mexico I know and love, the minute the guards are gone.

Later on I take a casual stroll in La Zona Rosa, the Pink Zone, one of my old favourite haunts. The English name might cause you to suspect this to be the gay area, but only seven years ago there was nothing of the kind – just posh shops and eateries. Now suddenly the place is living up to the name and a whole gay village has sprung up. Further south, in Mérida, I happen upon an animal rights’ demonstration, something you wouldn’t have seen much of in the past – people wouldn’t have had the time and if they did, they often had other more pressing issues to deal with. This is not to say that sectors of Mexico’s population don’t face economic hardships and difficulties still – this is a very large country with well over 100 million people, some of whom live far below the poverty line. There are environmental and racial issues, drug cartels and corruption – sadly Mexico has recently become one of the world’s most dangerous countries for investigative journalists to work in – the conflict in Chiapas has been joined by more unrest in neighbouring states Oaxaca and Guerrero and it’s impossible to turn a blind eye to atrocities such as the unsolved murders of hundreds of women in the northern city of Ciudad Juárez. Still, upon returning I feel quietly optimistic, struck by the fact that Mexico is taking leaps towards a more tolerant and open frame of mind, one that allows for its own citizens and its many visitors to experience and explore the diversity of this wonderful nation to the full and become truly enriched by it.

By Anna Maria Espsäter

First British Rights