A Wetback in Reverse

by Frederick Martin-Del-Campo

  Meanwhile, I thought I’d get in touch with an old acquaintance, Jose “El Chepe” Antonio Salinas: tall, lanky, funny-looking with a long nose, he lived in a crummy house and didn’t realize it, and, to date, he was most notorious amongst friends for his malodorous feet. I thought he might be able to help me out while I walked around his quaint town. Indeed, Zacatecas is relatively small, everyone seems to know each other, and neither secrets nor rumors are borne with much humor. This newest alert sent us all on edge, and the common folk were as worried as the responsible officials feigned concern that the damned virus appeared to be settling itself in smaller communities, like Zacatecas, and could spread therefrom, thus worsening the prospects for a pandemic.

  I expressed my concern over the whole dirty mess to Chepe, and he responded, “Yes, I know ~ It’s a frightening possibility, but don’t get your panties into a tizzy just now. I think it would be wrong to think all this is inevitable.”

  So, what could I do but follow his calm example. He was always pretty reliable in a scrape, and as long as I enjoyed the Old World charms of his town, the last thing I wanted to think about was the odds of catching the damned flu.

  In addition, he cited cases in which some local students had been exposed to the sickness but did not spread it around to their clueless classmates, most of whom were very susceptible to it. Unlike the real fear in the streets I experienced in Chihuahua and elsewhere, the people of Zacatecas, even with some of their neighbors stricken with the infectious germs, watched the unfolding events very carefully.

  Little could he know, and I only found out about it through the newspapers, that this particular strain of the pig flu had spread to six other states, prompting the hapless officials to call for another alert, which would last till the next Monday. Fortunately, and much to my relief, they did not call for a ban on travel or inter-state border crossings. They did warn against non-essential travel in any case. The only ones to be affected by the latter warning, and Chepe would agree with me, were the ever restless drug-traffickers since their business lived and thrived by inter-state commerce.

  I asked if he’d experienced these sorts of restrictions before, and he responded, “Well, yes, in a way. Border controls never have worked ~ Mexicans are just too restless, and will be damned if any chota (police), or low-grade official is going to tell them when and where they can move or not. Travel restrictions are definitely not respected, even if it’s for the people’s own good; even if it means saving lives, and helping the oppressed ... they just don’t give a rat’s ass!”

  There would be much more economic frustration by the look of things, and that, more than anything, would provoke a public outcry. After all, people have to eat and earn money, and the safety measures were not to their benefit. The local ayuntamiento implored the surrounding communities to provide treatments and other assistance to sick people, should they come forth to seek help, and to stock up on medicines and food-stuffs in case of a greater outbreak. I had little to worry about because Chepe and his family were solicitous and forthcoming; the hotel was getting to be a little expensive, but I had my vista, the clang of the cathedral’s bells wafted me to another reality, another experience of Time, and the local food was genuinely palatable ~ these people, in contrast to inhabitants of other states, kept the flies out of the soup!

  A couple of days passed by, and things were genuinely calm around the town zocalo. Chepe complained that, “These local governments don’t have any real power, or they just pass the buck. They don’t think about larger-scale measures to prevent or treat illnesses, even in emergencies they manage to fumble everything, and then blame someone else for their loser attitudes.”

  Do they even have the infrastructure? Do they have the necessary provisions and equipment? Do they have the medicines?

  These were questions that resonated in my head as I considered his complaints, but Chepe was always one to be prepared whether for an atomic war, a flash flood, or worse: being confronted with news that his latest girlfriend might be pregnant!

  Even when news that Bird Flu and SARS had broken out in Asia a few years before, my intrepid and gung-ho friend was at the forefront preparing his fellow Zacatecos to guard against any uncalled for intimacy with their family chickens ~ and with sexual frustration rampant amongst teen-aged boys, not even poultry were safe during a full moon.

  Well, Monday came and went, and the number of proven flu cases had risen to 64, but they expected the worst was over for the moment. To me, this was becoming frustratingly monotonous.

  The Flu was nothing new to anyone, and this time around people were expressing annoyance more than anxiety. People die of the flu, that is a fact of daily life, and some people I overheard gabbing in the hotel lobby said that they’d rather die in bed from the flu than from a hail of drug-traffickers’ bullets, or from the dysentery they might catch from the previous night’s fly-infested taco-fest. Obviously it was more of that uniquely Mexican defiance of death that keep them psychologically healthy while they surrender their bodies to high-cholesterol foods and deliciously fattening beer.

  One city ordinance that did irritate me was announced on Tuesday: the mayor “advised” that sports clubs, gyms, swimming pools and cantinas be closed, extending a growing quarantine of sorts that had already included schools, cinemas, and other public places.

  Luckily, the order did not include restaurants since one has to eat when one has to eat. Chepe was not in agreement, however, but, I argued, they shouldn’t be prohibited from serving since the latest alert proved to be rather feeble even if people gathering in close proximity may not always be the smartest thing to allow given the nature of the virus. Still, for my part, I had imbibed enough Tami-flu and Presidente Brandy to give me the courage to defy any virus that dared to nuzzle my lips and nostrils.

  Mexico City would be one of my destinations, so news from Hidalgo and Nuevo Leon, both of which I had recently visited, that several of their respective residents who had recently returned from the capital had contracted the virus, and they turned out to be especially nasty cases, did distress me. The symptoms were unmistakable, but all cases reported from Mexico City were particularly vicious, how could this be? Why were the latter cases worse than those reported from the other states? The provincial Mexicans themselves, of course, regarded the riddle with a cynical eye because everything that comes out of Mexico City, they say, is nasty and degenerate even if comparing strains of the same disease.

  Well, that certainly made me feel better about the whole mess!

  I tried contacting Angelina in Monterrey, and one of the members of the Quezada family in Hidalgo, to find out how things were transpiring in their respective regions, and they confirmed that the disease was spreading, but, sadly, it was the poor who had the most to worry about since they had next to no protection, medical, financial, or otherwise. Angelina, who worked in a hospital on occasion, confided that some patients she had treated had recovered, but they would remain hospitalized until they received word from the Health Ministry, all the way in Mexico City, that it was safe to release them. It was really all this waiting and uncertainty that exacerbated the simmering anxiety.

  And, a spokes-person from the hospital the Quezada family sponsored, located not far from the central town of Tula in Hidalgo, said that a 50 year-old Roman Catholic priest, who had just returned from a clerical conference in Mexico City three days before and had checked himself in when he had grievously soiled himself in public, had in fact contracted the virus and was being kept in less than spiritual isolation. But, thanks to the Virgen de Guadalupe, Santo Nino de Atocha, or, mostly likely, a couple of shots of good Tequila, the ol’ closet-Protestant was expected to recover without further incidence; later, he was presented with a gift from one of his parishioners, which consisted of new under-wear.

  Meanwhile, several more cases involving high-school and college-age students had been confirmed by early Wednesday ~ this could not be good. As many as 26 had taken ill and were under observatio
n, but their individual conditions were not serious so everyone could breathe a sigh of relief ~ especially me because some sinister dope in the Mayor’s office was advising in favor of imposing more travel restrictions just as I was preparing to wrap up my activities in their town.

  There really wasn’t anything to worry about, and the daily occurrences of city life were as evident as they ever had been. The coming days were, by now, sure to be filled with more warnings about this sickness, so why all the scandal? I never imagined these people could get so paranoid about nothing.

  Good food and preventive drugs were really the best things anybody could take to avoid coming down with the sickness. Yet, once again, people will be people, and if they can find a way of screwing things up for everybody, they assuredly will, and once again they would have to deal with a growing outbreak-related panic.

  Deaths or no deaths, I was beginning to feel blue all over. My original plans, to seek some companionship, were shot to Hell, and a lovely wench I was supposed to meet, an especially sensuous Latin lovely named Araceli, “stood me up,” as they say, without apology or advance-warning. Now what the Hell was I supposed to do? My libido wasn’t going to simmer down just because of these insensible outbreak warnings. So, what if 152 new cases were reported in Mexico city, would that make romance more desirable? So what if no one bothered to find out where the outbreak began, would that satisfy the flesh of its cravings? Ah, romance in times of war, pestilence and death is supposed to be intense and passionate. Instead, all I could think about was pigs, pigs, pigs, and more pigs. And to think, I got out of America to get away from the stifling sexual frustration that seems to have gripped everybody with its mocking talons, only to end up in this lustful land stricken with a pandemic that originated in America! Clearly, my demons had resurrected and had organized this entire folly just to go after me. Yes, I know it to be true ~ they’ll go to any lengths just to see me stumble and fumble all over myself.

  “I think it is stupid to say, or want to say, how it all began, or where it began, given that we had been hearing of some bad cases before,” insisted Chepe after I’d called him to complain of my deteriorating mood. “Your lust will just have to find some other outlet of release, no pun intended. All of Mexico can’t be concerned if you are deprived of some affection, mi amigo. So, just bite the bullet, and call on Manuelita (Mexican version of “rosy palmer” = masturbate) again.”

  Fine and dandy, I thought, so it was back to lonely fantasies, and damning Araceli in private and every other coquettish hussy who’d left me stranded as of late.

  At the local hospital the next day, lines of people had formed in order to take advantage of some free government-sponsored vaccinations, only to discover that amid their ranks 29 hapless souls had succumbed to the virus ~ I certainly am glad I decided against going there at the last minute. Amongst them, however, was a sad little 5-year-old boy who’d tested positive for a particularly nasty strain of the swine flu, and the fact that he’d arrived there unaccompanied raised the question as to where he’d come from; it seems the pathetic ass-monkey had been abandoned there without papers, without money ... nothing but the infection flicking in and out of his facial orifices. Some passersby commented that he had the look and manners of a Veracruzano, which raised further questions about how he got to Zacatecas. I couldn’t help but to feel like he must have felt: alone, abandoned, scared and rotten, though I, at least, could call on my friends for some aid, and just gather my duds and get the Hell out of there.

  Finding solace in a bottle of Viejo Vergel and consoling my ruined hopes for romance by damning the very word “woman” whilst playing out my titties-fetish fantasies in my head, I then gathered my things, sent Araceli a nasty note of repudiation---flowing red-hair, hypnotizing jewel-like eyes, and scrumptiously perky breasts and all---and called to reserve a seat for the first bus to Plateros where I’d visit the shrine of Santo Nino de Atocha just for the Hell of it. I had sampled the local Pozole stew, and mingled with Spanish Criollo folks before heading off to mingle with the Morenos and Mulatto folks of Veracruz, which beckoned ever so seductively.

  At least the local cultural society put on a show before I’d left in the sunken plaza in front of the governor’s palace whereby the philharmonic orchestra played some Mariachi classics, as well as the Marcha Zacatecas again and again, and so loudly in fact that the hotel windows vibrated. But, it was a pleasant interlude amidst all the festering resentment and inquietude. Hence, who cared that the health ministry reported a Phase 4 and 5 alert that the sneaky virus was becoming adept at infecting humans despite preventive measures as well as treatments? The full-blown Phase 6 pandemic alert was just around the corner, and Mexico would assuredly get the full brunt of it. So, it was to back to singing, dancing and invoking the demons of “I don’t give a damn” for the festive yokels, to fiddle away the night with her misfortunes and sinister tricks, as well as egging their compeers on,” Let us eat and drink, for tomorrow we are to die.” (Corinthians, chapter 15: verse 32). Such an attitude often leads my friendly Mexican hosts towards overeating, heavy drinking and anxiety, not to genuine peace of mind. And yet, who the Hell cares, eh?

  I must admit, I thought I was beginning to come down with a fever of more than 100, and during those early hours of sobriety I awoke to find myself coughing, whining about joint aches, swooning about with a severe headache and, for all practical purposes, vomiting and holding in the Squirts. Meanwhile, the locals were distressed to learn that it could take months before they could receive their fair share of vaccines. For the present, they could rest assured that some anti-flu drugs could alleviate them once they were infected. Much to my romantic consternation, the best way to keep the virus from spreading, obviously, is to avoid intimate contact with others, peculiarly their private parts, and taking obvious precautions like frequent hand-washing, staying away from public places if not feeling up to the occasion, and, what seems most difficult to do for these provincial cro-magnons, just covering up their mouths while coughing and sneezing. I certainly don’t look forward to the prospect of being quarantined just because somebody rudely coughs without a hanky.

  It was further to be expected that the recent developments would have a deleterious effect on commerce. I am sure the local bakeries, tortilla-makers, beer-peddlers, what-have-you, felt derailed by the needless curfews imposed on the surrounding communities, but they’d soon recover. Now, to travel and tourism, and how the latest flu-scare had hurt the latter ~ It was my concern, and the negative effects would be needlessly prolonged. What would I do now? Chepe wasn’t exactly encouraging, so I thought to creep out of his town without a peep. The bodily parts that were “blue” begged me to get out, and head for the swarthy sensuality of Veracruz.

  Hence, to Veracruz I went, boarding the bus without even waving good-bye.

  GETTING WICKED IN VERACRUZ

  There must be something really special about Veracruz, this state on the Eastern-Gulf Coast of Mexico! The atmosphere is scintillating, and the people, a mix of Spanish, Negroid, and Indigenous peoples, are among the most sensual, virile and healthy, not to mention desirable, people in the whole of Mexico. I must admit though, as the bus pulled in to a border stop around midnight of that same Friday when I had departed Zacatecas, it was very humid and stifling, the waitresses weren’t particularly pleasant at the local cafe’ and, since it was an open-outdoor place, flies and mosquitoes abounded, much to my chagrin; but, there were plenty of insect-eating bats flapping about, much to my delight. The town was La Gloria, a foot-hill settlement near Mount Orizaba, the largest mountain in the state. The residents in this community of about 3,000 would all be rather hostile since, I later found out, they believed all outsiders were infected, and were afraid their town might be ground zero for the next pig flu outbreak even if their local health officials wouldn’t admit to it.

  It didn’t help either that more than 470 residents are involved in the hog-raising industry, many of whom admitted that they had suffered from r
espiratory problems for quite some time, and the latter could be due to contamination spread by pig waste at the nearby breeding farms ~ conveniently co-owned by a U.S. company. Well, here we have more evidence that this terrible pandemic everybody was blaming Mexico for actually emanated from the United States, or at least from Americans working in this country. Naturally, when pressed with accusations, the company lackeys insisted they had found no sign of the dreaded flu on its farms, and Mexican lackeys hadn’t determined the outbreak’s origin as of yet.

  The flu strain was blamed for more than 150 deaths in and around Veracruz alone, and cases had been confirmed in at least three other surrounding states, especially Tabasco.

  I thought I had some maternal relatives I could contact in this delightfully tropical state, but there was no one to track down, so I’d be chasing plump buttocks without a compass (in a manner of speaking). I had tried to make it for this state alone as far back as late February, but it is just as well that I did not; roughly one-sixth of all Veracruzanos near the western border with Puebla had been complaining of respiratory infections that some whistle-blowers reported could be traced to a farm that lay upwind some 8.5 kilometers to the north-west, in the town of Xaltepec. Luis the Lout, a gregarious drunkard I’d met on the bus and native of those parts, whined that he understood the second he’d heard about the latest alert by way of his relatives and their confused description of the symptoms, particularly the coughing, headaches, and joint pains, that it was the dreaded flu, and everyone he knew in the locality had come down with it.