From the look of things, inflation continues to be on the rise. I don’t need to tell any Mexican that, but their government finally admitted it, and it has been growing quickly too. Although Mexicans go about their business attempting to put tortillas on the table, fill up their cars with gasoline, and pay their utility bills, they regularly fear that inflation will be on the rise. After months of negating inflationary growth, their government reacted by raising taxes once the diminishing returns from crude petroleum sales became apparent. The voters never put their faith, trust, or hope in anyone in their government, anyway ~ even Felipe Calderon’, who is basically honest and proactive, is regarded as cynical and impotent. Their government reacts about as forthrightly as a sea turtle set down at the base of El Popocatepetl and then is forced to climb it. The inflationary rise destabilized a steadily collapsing NAFTA driven economy. Most people in this country were aware and smart enough to know the statements about Recovery from President Calderon’ and his ponderous ministers (and I do mean ponderous considering just how metabolically challenged they all seem to be) were all words blowing with the dust of many a ruined public work or social project. Things are still in decline. Things are vexing the cynical populace. No recovery is in sight, the pig flu remains a convenient “wag of the dog,” and the hours of indecision tick away as real cases of infection turn deadly with the exposure of negligence.
The jobless rate kept increasing, not decreasing as the same government charlatans had claimed. When confronted with reports to the contrary, they naturally reacted with surprise and decried the increase in joblessness, that it was America’s fault for not guarding the integrity of the dollar against her own banks.
Really? Since they have single-handedly ruined the Mexican Economy, one was left to wonder how next they would voice their surprise at the mess they purposely created.
Foreclosures are in evidence all over the place; around the Atzcapotzalco barrios alone I counted 134 homes (hovels rather) in foreclosure, and many more were up for sale or rent. All the hundreds of billions of dollars (trillions of pesos) the Mexican Government has taken from her sub-soil riches, where is the accounting? The great social projects and works, what became of them? And the pledges to alleviate hunger by providing starvation stipends to the poorest of the poor? I still see too many beggars and bums roaming the streets of the capital to be convinced of any good intentions. All has been in vain ... all in vain. And so, public confidence continues to collapse. More people lose their homes, estate values continue to decrease, and official promises once again are quietly broken.
Meanwhile, as visual news outlets focused on the foiled efforts of the Calderon’ Administration, the contending legislators with their confrontational party loyalists have been creating their own red herrings without anyone paying attention. They’ve been affecting, adversely in most cases, every Mexican living and dead. They have been busily about passing laws granting gay marriage, raising taxes to stem the recession, hampering flood disaster relief efforts, and voting contrary to the best interests of the majority of Mexicans. And why not? The silly masses believe in them still, so why shouldn’t they get away with proverbial murder? Never do they ask themselves this - when was the last time anything came out of the Mexican Congress that was good for the majority of its people? No one can answer.
New Question: In the next Mexican disaster, will the exhausted people have to wait until some other country, namely America, can come to their rescue and save them from their socio-political atavism, which has left them incapable of doing so on their own at this point in Mexican history?
I wonder: if Mexico suffered another devastating earthquake, like she suffered in 1985 and the entire area was in total ruin (an all too real possibility), and all the people that survived were blindly wandering the streets scrambling for scraps of tortillas or handouts of beans, would it take their own government a week to get their act together (like it took them after the 1985 quake)? Well, I know America might be there, ready to help control the inevitable wave of illegal immigration or attending to those in real need, but would it also take whole a week for the rest of the Mexican nation to finally get their act together and save their country from themselves? Only questions and more, but few convincing answers.
Nevertheless, as long as they force their lies and excuses down their citizens’ throats, the frustrated survivors have to ask why it is that whenever a catastrophe occurs, some event that devastates and captures the compassion of the entire world, America and many other nations always are on the scene, always offering help, always providing aid and millions worth in logistics ... yet, very wealthy Mexicans are nowhere to be seen? Can they not offer aid and help? I have been reading that oil prices are escalating a lot, and perhaps they must first skim the money off the top of their profits to finance native narco-traffickers intent on siphoning billions of pesos from the tax rolls as well as their pathetically addicted clientele to pay for their ridiculously opulent lifestyles. Their own drug-abusing victims would think they’d have a few pesos to spare for help in situations such as this, but they are rarely forthcoming, and when they make a big show that they are, it is usually with a paltry offering hardly worth accepting. Questions remain, notwithstanding, and few are brave enough to ask them, thus the masses feign belief in official propaganda, and their leaders are all too glad to continue feeding it to them.
... And so, my quest goes on. The riddle of Fulgencio’s origins now confounds my search for fulfillment, and nobody knows like Mexicans know the troubles that Mexico knows!
BEATING A DEAD HORSE
As long as there was much to see and do in Mexico City, I did not mind much the prolonged and forcible stay. The remarkable variety of people assuredly piqued my interest and, sometimes, provoked my baser nature. The carnal pleasures were not forbidden to me so, as long as nobody was obviously sick, I made the most of the lascivious opportunities before me. As long as I was stuck in this town, I had few options before me.
I was well in to my second week in this grand old metropolis, and the shimmering lights of the down-town Zona Rosa, or Red-Light district, delighted my evenings, and provided many distractions for my fancy. I have to say though that Chapultepec and its historical and recreational attractions together with the famous national Anthropological Museum were the most satisfying local landmarks. Everything else was no more remarkable than anything I had experienced in other great cities. Much of what is typical of everyday life in Mexico City proceeded without incidence or hindrance, and some semblance of normalcy was to be had despite the recent social upsets. The bad economy in any case found the residents mulling around with drooping spirits, and the signs of hunger were everywhere ~ situation hopeless as it were, but never serious. There were signs as well that measures were being taken by the city meisters to jump-start the stagnating economy, so badly battered around by the confounded epidemic. Many locals, however, sarcastically observed that it was more beating of the dead horse, or burro in Mexico’s case. June holidays, however, would not be the same this year, and the more well-to-do people I’d inter-acted with were as sullen as the poorest of the poor surviving in the grimy streets. Local events scheduled for the latter part of the month remained canceled even though no casualties had been tallied in the previous days, and most of the city was going about doing business. Nevertheless, the death count left many disturbed. Some tourists had succumbed to the virus, including a couple who had stayed in the same hotel in which I had taken refuge.
It soon became apparent that the big-wigs would try and stimulate important industries, resist prohibitions on Mexican pork products, and were going all out to convince tourists to return and enjoy the pleasures of their country. As one fellow said, to “rapidly rebuild confidence in our country.” And, that said it all.
It also became apparent that pork products would have to learn to fly before some discontented tourists would ever return to this country.
Meanwhile, I battled traffic as it picked up in the Zocalo a
nd Bellas Artes districts, but the lovely cafes’ had been re-opened and serving some of that great coffee for which Chinese immigrants are famous. It was also nice to gaze on the lovely, swarthy faces of the locals again without the irritating surgical masks everyone was wearing as of late. The recovery seemed to be going ahead of time, and a palpable calm was descending on the harried citizens. The much decried nation-wide shut-down was meant to rein in on the spread of the virus, but it ended up causing much resentment. Some people believed the severe measures had helped, but others were worried the illness would rebound as the unwashed masses would gather again. Just in the Metro-subway alone people are in such close proximity that it is a wonder that things never got worse.
Some would argue, in between sipping that fresh-brewed Veracruz coffee, that their society really needed to weigh the pros and cons of keeping the country under high alert. On the one hand they were showing the world that Mexico was on top of things, impressing the richer countries in the process. On the other hand, tourists were being scared away left and right, and it is a fact that Mexico lives on tourism dollars. Hence, in terms of how the epidemic was handled, they would keep every option in mind, and the affrighted politicos refused to make any forecasts of what new disappointments the epidemic could bring.
It was all really a bad case of Post hoc ergo propter hoc, or Latin for “after this, therefore because (on account) of this.” As the academics would say, a logical fallacy (of the “questionable cause” variety), in this case the repercussions of the epidemic, which states, “Since that event followed this one, that event must have been caused by this one.” Well, not for the tourists or the tourism industry!
But it is so typical of my fellow Mexicans ~ They cling to any fallacy that lies in coming to a conclusion based solely on the order of events as they perceive them, rather than taking into account other factors that might rule out the connection. Most typically, much of Mexico’s magical thinking and many of her superstitious (religious) beliefs arise from this attachment to the very principle of fallacy.
To the contrary, Fulgencio, in the body of his work, would insist that Mexicans simply maintain their aloof attitude of “minding not the times but the eternities.” If this be true, then they complain out of habit, but without malice in their hearts. They complain out of compassion for their fellow citizens, but with thoroughly egotistical intent at root. They prefer to leave each man and woman to workout their individual salvation, as it were. Considering all the steps backward their own leaders were taking, they felt all vindicated for their dissatisfaction. Fulgencio, according to Uncle Rafael, believed that a strong leader is what they should always aspire to, like a Porfirio Diaz or at least a Lazaro Cardenas, but they end up relenting to their obligation toward democracy. Fulgencio would often say that so long as their government was thus limited, they would, “prefer to be ruled by a lion (strong-man; dictator) than one of their fellow rats” (democrats). They do not take themselves too seriously in any case, but, in between sipping his Pedro Domecq, Fulgencio would reflect on the days’ disruptions, and would lay the blame for the corruption and decadence in their country squarely on the shoulders of his people. He would remorselessly disparage his countrymen as being stupid and dim-witted, often saying that, “For a Mexican, it is even good to have somewhat lengthy words in his mouth for he thinks slowly, and they give him time to reflect.”
Anyway, the events of the week that were canceled included re-enactments of some famous revolutionary battles and accompanying parades. This would surely be a downer since many had been looking forward to the festivities. Then the president himself appeared on television once more to compare the threats (the civil conflict vis-a-vis the epidemic) in a speech some of my fellow patrons believed was not quite apropos:
“Almost a century and a half later, Mexico is facing a new threat, this time of a very different kind; an unusual threat, specifically the appearance and spread of an epidemic that has put at risk the lives and health of Mexico’s families.”
Well, if the president of the country no less wants to compare revolutionary heroes and the battles they fought with diseases and germs, well then that puts the reason why Mexicans treat each-other so badly into proper perspective.
After 26 confirmed deaths, nobody had actually perished from the porcine flu in Mexico since late April, giving some the courage to re-open their restaurants and other local commerce before the curfew had been lifted. The five days of the shutdown had proven salubrious to no one and nothing except the virus itself. Despite the longer days, bright sunshine and Summer heat, the mood of the city remained somewhat lugubrious.
Hereinafter, the economy had lost, according to the local news-papers, billions of dollars, and the rumors of the government stimulus for small enterprises and tourism, which had been hit the hardest, would have little salutary effect. So, what do the big-wigs decide to do next? They just slash at health benefits and payments, but would reduce taxes for foreign airlines and cruise-ships making money in Mexico. Will Mexicans ever get their dignity back from the rapacious outsiders? Funny though, but hereabout I learned the true meaning of the racial slur Gringo: it basically translates into “outsider,” or foreigner, someone from the outside wishing to despoil the beauty and riches of their national patrimony.
Universities and other academic institutions were being thoroughly sanitized to allow their student bodies to go back to their studies lest they get too comfortable with the idea of a life without purpose. Younger students would be looking forward to Summer recess in any case, thus avoiding certain pools of contagion that their mommies and daddies worried would make the virus return.
The schools would nonetheless reopen even as teachers and parents demanded more resources to deal with potential flare-ups, and begged local commerce to assist them in controlling their children, which most especially involved sports and other recreational facilities. The pathetic adolescents and pre-pubescent rascals were further upset to learn that sports events and weekend ball-games would not be allowed for awhile. That caused me much annoyance since I was planning to attend a few before taking off for Colima.
Despite what others had called it, a return to “normalcy” would have sufficed for most people, but it was not in the offing. Everyone had to remain on guard, and it was evident everyone was throughout the city. They were not by any means out of the woods, as they say, and severe cases could surface at any time, anywhere, and my quest for meaning would be plagued by all this. The search for the pieces to this unexpected puzzle of Fulgencio San Roman left me feeling sick in either case ~ just where did he fit in to my search?
I did try again to get a vaccine, but the local clinic had run out of them just as I got there, and the prices of anti-flu drugs were jacked up despite anti-profiteering laws. Not even because this country had been hardest hit by the outbreak, or was rather “most in need,” as the Health Ministry spokespeople would say, did merchants stay their hand from feeding on the misery of their compatriots. Thereunto, they continued to stockpile the drugs while the poorest of the poorest resigned themselves to the worst.
As of the following Tuesday, Mexico had nearly 840 confirmed cases, and few details had been divulged about the most recent porcine flu death in and around the government center,. The same officials said the victim was a woman with chronic health deterioration who lived on the poorest part of Tepit, the filthiest, rottenest part of town. World health officials had said a pandemic could be declared in the days to come. Again, this could be terrible for me for once again I would be forced to stay put while the screaming bureaucratic pansies would go about scaring everybody about the relative severity of the spreading infections, even though nothing really exceptional had been going on, and no more deaths had been registered than in previous years.
For the time being I thought to tract down a contact of Renato’s who, he’d said, might help me to make sense of Uncle Rafael’s letters. It took me a couple of days to track him down in and about Tasquena, a rather unple
asant district on the other side of the city. This fellow, Jose’ Pino, turned out to be (small, dark and humble fellow that he was) quite gracious and helpful. From what I gathered, he had known both Rafael and Fulgencio well, and shared some amusing anecdotes with me about their days at the Azteca and Churrubusco Movie Studios, and all the magic they produced for the Cinema Industry. This placated me for the moment, but I was anxious to learn about the possible connection Fulgencio had with my recent ancestors. Once the initial pleasantries had passed, Jose’ did confide to me that Fulgencio’s mother, Carmela Martin, had in fact originated from Tepatitlan. She had erstwhile been promised to, and had earlier birthed a bastard child by, her second cousin, Arturo Gutierrez Martin. Sadly, the bastard child did not survive infancy. All this had transpired before having to run away in shame and marry her secret lover of four years, Ramiro San Roman: Fulgencio’s father, and a rather sodden union boss of some repute. The marriage lasted about 18 years until Ramiro had drunk himself to death. At that point Carmela, never one to mourn for her dead, found herself a wealthy liquor distributor, Ernesto Najar Pereira, and married him on the spot; the fact that he was 23 years older and suffered from heart disease left him quite impatient to exchange vows as well. But, what of Arturo? I asked impatiently. Where did he fit into this mystery?
It just so happened that Arturo, who I had never heard of before, was my grand-father’s second younger brother. He was the chosen inheritor of the Martin estate, thus leaving my grand-father, who was a libertine and dissolute asshole, to fend for himself. He managed alright and piled up a fortune of his own in the process, so there are no unread missives or eulogies regarding him. Nevertheless, Fulgencio, by way of his mother who had re-established relations with the family clan following her marriage to Najar, ending up meeting and getting to know well some of my ancestors, including my grandfather and his children.
A Wetback in Reverse Page 20