A Wetback in Reverse

by Frederick Martin-Del-Campo

  HIJACKINGS AND KIDNAPPINGS ~

  MEXICAN STYLE

  My stay in Mazatlan was not without its distractions, of course. News of a local prison riot was no longer a novelty since these events, which the Mexicans call “mutinies,” occurred with a disturbing frequency in most states. The latest one in a maximum-security ward outside of Mazatlan was a bit noteworthy because of the success enjoyed by the convicts in kidnapping a couple of guards, and hijacking a couple of armored cars that allowed 53 of them to escape into the hills. All this would have been enough to capture my interest when right outside my hotel I witnessed the kidnapping, in broad day-light, of a local journalist by what seemed like Federales. What the Hell is going on here?

  As I watched the unfolding events below, I wondered if this had anything to do with some American journalist who’d been snooping around Sinaloa raking up trouble, and a few death threats in the process. Sure enough, he opened the wrong can of worms, and the narco-traffickers got a hold of him. Not a few hours had passed when the muckraker had been abducted for trumped up reasons of espionage, and worse yet, the local officials, obviously in cahoots with the drug-lord and his operation, charged him with the same as well as illegal entry into the country. Thank goodness they never suspected me of anything!

  The journalist’s father called the press, denounced the abductors, and implored them for his son’s release and said he would not leave the country until he was freed. After asking a few questions my-self, I learned that Romulo Renteria Robles, a 32-year-old dual American-Mexican citizen, had been previously arrested in early February of last year and was initially accused of working without press credentials. A Mexican judge, bribed with the right mordida (“bite”; amount of money) leveled a far more serious charge the day before, charging him with spying for the United States. “I demand them to release my son as soon as possible so that he can return to his normal life and continue his job,” Romulo’s father told The Mexican Press in an exclusive interview. “I will stay here until he is freed.”

  The local American consulate had been pressing for Romulo’s release and the new charge this week was a setback at a time when the drug-lords should’ve worried about their public image.

  When the Mexican Government learned about the case, their spokesman Roberto Madera said the following day that the espionage charges were “baseless” and that they were “deeply concerned, and looking for ways to resolve the case forthwith.”

  Robles had been living in Mexico on and off for the last six years, working as a freelance reporter for organizations including national Public Radio and some mysterious European out-fit. His father had complained in the past that his son told him in a phone call he was arrested after buying a bottle of Bacardi Rum. Under the advice of Roble’s lawyer, he would not comment on the latest charge.

  The Government official then changed positions, and now alleged that Robles had been passing classified information to the drug-lords themselves before stabbing them in the back.

  “Under the cover of a journalist, he visited government buildings, established contacts with some of the more corruptible workers, gathered classified information and sent it first to the paying drug dons, then on to the Mexican intelligence services,” the judge, who under security rules was identified only by his surname Henriquez, said later that day. “His activities were discovered by the counterespionage department of the Intelligence Ministry.”

  In another indication of the gravity of his case, his American advocate Manolo Escobar learned that week that it would be reviewed by a Sinaloa court, which normally wouldn’t handle cases involving threats to national security. The lawyer said later on that he had not yet been allowed to read the text of the indictment, which Robles could not hope to see until his day of sentencing.

  The judge, said the elder Robles, would go on trial next week, but he did not give the exact date.

  The Mexican born Romulo Senior and his wife arrived in Mexico the previous Sunday and visited their son that Monday in Guadalupe prison north of Culiacan, well-known for holding political prisoners as well as high-profile drug-runners.

  “We were allowed to visit him for only 15 minutes,” the father said. “We talked to him. He was spiritually better than before. However physically, he was extremely thin and debilitated but he said he eats now and is going to exercise,” he added. “This gave us the hope that he will recover the sooner. That is my prayer.”

  Young Robles had grown up in Illinois. But the Mexican judge in the case told state TV that the judiciary had not yet confirmed his American nationality. The U.S. government had said he is an American citizen, but the suspicious Mexicans weren’t buying it.

  “He is assuredly an American national,” his father insisted. “He also came to Mexico and received an Mexican Identification card and passport and so, according to Mexican law, he is Mexican too. He is actually a dual citizen, so he has to pay his debt to Mexico.”

  All this was so much ado about practically nothing, but the two sides argued on. The Americans had been pushing for Robles’ release, and they were looking for information from the responsible diplomats. The latter made some headway between the beleaguered father and the drug-cartel, but without much success. The drug lords accused him of the worst kind of treachery, and insisted he pay his debt to him even if it cost him his life.

  Robles was actually one of three missing or detained Americans mentioned in a written message passed by American officials directly to Mexican diplomats in the last months at the embassy in Mexico City. The elder Robles had also attended the conference.

  The drug-lords had not yet responded to the message, which sought information about the three.

  Then, if they didn’t have enough to worry about, Human rights groups have repeatedly criticized Mexico for not doing enough to prevent the harassment, kidnapping, or even arresting of journalists and suppressing freedom of speech. The government had arrested several Mexican-Americans in the past few years, citing alleged attempts to incite civil disturbances against the conservative government, or play “gotcha” with the narco-traffickers, or anything else in order to get Mexican officials off their backs, which would allow them to do whatever they want given the profits to be made in the continuous trade in illegal drugs.

  Well, that’s how I heard it, how I saw it, and the rest would be up to the government and the good graces of the drug-lords! After all of that kidnapping excitement, I settled back and hooked up with some old friends I hadn’t seen in at least 10 years: the Escofet family, and the two sons, Jesus and Gustavo, with whom I’d shared many a wild party while attending UCLA. We spent Friday together, had a lot of laughs and clean fun. Fortunately, they had taken time out of their work and took advantage of the up-coming long holiday, and I seized the time to get together with them. We first went to get some shopping done. We went to the local Mercado to buy a few things and they had no air-conditioning system so I melted during the 45 minutes I was there. Then we went off to a haughty and expensive Liver-Pool department store for a couple of things, but their air-conditioning was semi-working and their lights were half off so I continued to melt. By the time we hit the zocalo shoppes, which had great air-conditioning, it was too late. I was too far gone ... but not too far gone that I couldn’t pick up a 6 pack of Modelo brand beer for the weekend. I needed some beer to go with the bologna sandwiches they offered back at their house.

  During my first afternoon with them we had a long discussion about organized crime and the rampant corruption despoiling Mexico’s greater society of her vitality and security. Both Gustavo and Jesus just laughed off the whole state affairs. The recent journalistic abduction was small fry compared to the greater problems Mexico contends with on a daily basis. With the upcoming Bicentennial festivities in the Autumn of 2010, they cynically referred to the “pride” average Mexicans could nurture for their beloved country. First, it is common knowledge that Mexico is one of the top most corrupt countries in the world. Second, it ranks last among the wo
rld’s most developed countries in educational development. Third, it ranks 95th in the world in environmental protection, what there is of it. Fourth, it takes first place in adult obesity, and second in child fatness. Fifth, the country ranks second in cybernetic hacking and other crimes. Sixth, it takes third place in the world for child abuse. Seventh, it takes first place in kidnappings, of all sorts. Amongst all nations at peace, Mexico endures the most daily killings of innocents. The border town of Juarez is recognized as the most violent city in the entire world. Furthermore, Mexico ranks 110th among industrialized and developing countries for worker efficiency. Next, it ranks third in the world for video-games, DVD-video movies, and software piracy. Then, it takes sixth place in violent aggression against journalists, whatever their political leanings. Surprisingly, Mexico takes sixth place as well in the world for organized crime activity. And finally, the country takes first place in violent juvenile delinquency. So, I asked them with consternation showing on my brow, what is there to be proud about? They just laughed some more, and replied, “Well, we are surviving aren’t we? With all those challenges before us, it is truly a wonder that Mexico is still alive and breathing as a free and independent country. Mexicans themselves survive by not giving a shit!”

  And with that, I just had to shut my big, fat mouth!

  There wasn’t much to remark about our evening reunion afterwards since they had filled up on the beer before we had a chance to taste the sandwiches. Well, I got home and after a couple of side-trips to a cantina and an old-fashioned club complete with floor-show and pretty scantily-clad dancers with plumb and jiggling derrieres. The latter certainly gave me much to remember about that reunion. I went upstairs to cool off in my air-conditioned shoe box of a hotel-room. I might say my over-priced room was almost as small as a closet, but when I leave the dump I wouldn’t want anyone saying I “came out of the closet.” It was a good time to relax, watch a movie, and reflect on the day’s events. It was a foreign movie with subtitles that I wasn’t in the mood for reading, so I stopped it and waited for the melodramatic novelas (native soap-operas) and the original “Ugly Betty” (“Betty la Fea” at 10pm).

  I had no idea what to do with my weekend. On Saturday my friends’ undertook their weekly visit to their parents home, which is located outside the city. Their father had suffered Shingles for more than a month, and they were finally drying up. Juan, their oldest brother, remarked that they looked like islands erupting from his stomach to his back. In the last weeks they were indescribably GROSS with a capital “G” but the old guy was getting better, so that made them quite happy. On Sunday I planned on not doing very much, and a little bit more of that on Monday until Tuesday rolled around. The weather held up, and I basked in the morning sun without worry of sunburn. Later on, the weather would get hot and smoky because of nearby brush fires, so rather than checking out the scene at the zocalo and trying out a new restaurant specializing in Carnitas, I planned to do ... nothing!

  In trying to coordinate something for my final days in Sinaloa, I ran into some frustration because Jesus had planned to spend time with the rest of his family, while Gustavo had planned to take a beach-trip with other friends, thus shooting my good intentions to hell. One of our mutual acquaintances, Lucy, left for Puerto Vallarta together with her husband, so that brought an end to my bail-out plans. They did ask me, however, to watch over their dogs while they lived it up on Playa Mismaloya. Instead of checking out the local action, I found myself checking on their 3 dogs for the next three evenings. They first had 2 dogs, Sofie and Burrito, then she found a cute little homeless terrier down the street from their home and named him Nacho. Imagine my chagrin over having to compromise my fun for the sake of friendship. A few months later, however, I would get some pathetic news from Lucy about her pets. She had cared for Sofie and Burrito since they were weeks old and when Burrito died of old age (he had to be “put down”), Sofie followed a few weeks after that ~ sad isn’t it? That did not limit Lucy and her husband, and they got two more dogs from the animal shelter, and I swear they are almost identical to the previous dogs. She named the female “Sofie” (how original), and the male “Buddy”, but they always forget Buddy’s name and call him Burrito. They don’t think he minds, as long as they feed him.

  The good thing about Lucy is that she and her husband are alcoholics ... eh-hem, I mean, they like to drink ... so if I ran out of beer while they were gone, I could always count on their refrigerator!

  HAVE IT YOUR WAY AT McMEXICO

  While I packed my things to get moving and head for Durango, I received late word from Corazon that Andres’ condition had taken a turn for the worse. He was barely conscious now, almost comatose. He was young yet, so how would an old dog like Fulgencio hold up? Cases of H1N1 porcine flu were continuously reported despite the down-turn of the epidemic. The latest reportage left many disturbed as it was alleged that the outbreak commenced in fast-food out-lets, like a McDonald’s, and the casual contact amongst paying customers caused the virus to expand to epidemic proportions.

  As I persisted in Mexico, I found it was safer to depend on American fast food joints for quickie meals. The good “Mexican” restaurants were too expensive, the local dives were havens for flies and a thousand gastrointestinal infections, so the safest and cheapest options were the aforementioned food-joints. These conveniences were not without controversy, however, and soon the biggest chains had to apologize to the public, but for something other than the pig flu. Specifically, Burger King spokespeople said on television, “have it your way” after grumbling Mexican officials complained about a promotion campaign featuring a diminutive luchador (wrestler) dressed in a cape resembling a Mexican flag. The company promised to remove the advertisements for its chili-flavored “Texican” hamburger, saying they were “not intended to offend anyone.”

  “BKC (Burger King Corp.) had made the decision to revise the Texican Whopper advertising created out of respect for the Mexican culture and its people.”

  For those few who’ve never heard of it, much less had their food, Burger King, which is known for its signature Whopper hamburger, would undergo a change of sorts as its representatives announced they would air redesigned ads, “as soon as commercially possible.”

  “The revised campaign would zoom in solely on the Texican Whopper sandwich and wouldn’t feature any characters deemed insulting to the Mexican psyche, or the use of the Mexican flag.”

  That wasn’t the last of the controversy, however, because print ads that ran in Spain prompted the Mexican ambassador there to demand Burger King officials withdraw them, concluding they “improperly use the stereo-typed image of a Mexican.”

  The TV commercials also depicted the Mexican luchador teaming up with a lanky American cowpoke about twice his height to emphasize the cross-border blend of tastes. Then a narrator blurts out, “The taste of Texas with a little spicy Mexican”.

  That was really so funny I purposely refused to laugh!

  Then, the two become roommates, and the gangling cowpoke boosts the luchador up to reach high shelves and helps clean tall book-cases, while the Mexican helps the cowpoke to open a jar.

  “It was our intention to promote a product whose culinary origin lies in both the American and Mexican cultures, and was meant to appeal to those who enjoy the flavors and ingredients that each country offers,” one of the spokes-persons admitted, but the damage had been done. The commercials, which Burger King insisted ran only in Spain and in Britain, irritated obesity-sensitive Mexico. The newspaper La Jornada ran a front-page story under the headline “Denigrating advertising,” and reported the commercials “show Mexicans as notably inferior to all Americans.”

  What? Americans think Mexicans are inferior to them? Big Surprise!

  An editorial cartoon in another Mexican newspaper, Reforma, showed a short Mexican attired in a wrestler’s mask and gripping a hamburger with the caption “The only thing more insulting than deceptive ads are the ones that expose the truth.”
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  Needless to say, both professional wrestling and American fast food joints are increasingly popular in Mexico.

  The Mexican government has very strict rules, nonetheless, about the handling of the national flag. In 2008, according to an addendum to the subject I’d subsequently read, the government fined a foreign-owned publishing house, Random House Mondadori SA, for demonstrating a lack of due deference for the country’s flag in a promotional video posted on the INTERNET, where I first saw them. In any case, Burger King may not be subject to any potential fines because its ads did not run in Mexico. The company spokes-man said “the existing campaign falls fully within the legal parameters of the United Kingdom and Spain where the commercials are being aired.”

  It is not the first time that fast-food outlets have offended Mexican sensibilities. Mexicans and other Hispanos in the United States objected to a Taco Bell ad from the 1990s that featured a pint-sized talking Chihuahua that spoke with a Mexican accent.

  Well, enough about spicy hamburgers. It was so god-damned hot in the state of Durango, that the last thing on my mind was a spicy burger. The state of Durango, which heretofore I knew about through legends of Pancho Villa, the notorious rebel leader who’d led a counter-insurgency against the usurper Victoriano Huerta during the 1910-20 Mexican Revolution, did not hold much fascination for me as the cranky interstate bus crossed its borders. We then made straight for the capital city, also called Durango. The city attracts close to one million visitors each summer for its annual month-long Feria Nacional De Durango (Durango’s National Festival) which had just wound down by the time I got there. It has reputedly taken place since 1929, but it seemed to me like any typical town festival with all the hawkers and shameless peddlers getting out to reach in to your pocket. Naturally, the locals make a big stink that it is the most important festival in the history of the state and the city itself because Durango celebrates the anniversary of the founding of the city which occurred on July 8, 1563, according to city archives. Happily for me, Durango has various cultural venues to host events such as conferences, concerts, theatrical performances, among many others, and I partook of a couple just to alleviate the boredom.