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The High Hills

February 16, 2020

As the sun comes up every morning, it hits the upper cliffs behind me, to the west, some minutes before I see it rise over the ridge in the east. If I walk part of the way into town, as I did today, my path runs for a couple of miles south of the same mountains in which the village nestles, while ahead of me I can see long-extinct volcanoes rising several miles west of the town.

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The cliffs over which the Sun rises each morning. This was taken in late afternoon, so they’re sunlit.

My perspective here is always governed by the mountains around me. And I’m not just surrounded by mountains, but by stratified mountains. The layers in the rockfaces are very clear in many places, and the sense of how many thousand of centuries were needed to lay them down isn’t far from my thoughts. I don’t know a lot about the seismic forces that heaved up these mountains that once formed the bed of a lost sea, but the whole deal took a very, very long time. Even a young mountain, like the volcano Popocatepetl, dates back an estimated 730,000 years.

On a purely human level, this village is reported by archeologists to have been populated for 3,500 years. There are petroglyphs around in various places, and in the town nearby are some ruined walls that are seven centuries old, or older. An hour’s drive would bring me to a half-dozen places that date back anywhere from six centuries to two millennia.

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The cerros along the trail into town. The rise and fall of ancient seabeds is recorded in those rocks.

I wouldn’t say people spend a lot of time brooding on how ancient things are in this area, but it’s hard to be unconscious of how far back everything goes. Before I came here I’d spent four decades in Toronto, which only dates back a couple of centuries as a built-up town. And there are no nearby mountains or large, exposed rocks, with the exception of the Scarborough Bluffs. The oldest European settlements in Canada date to the mid-1500s, a short time after Cortes and the other Conquistadores began taking what we now call Latin America. The Spanish were dreadful at destroying the records of their predecessors on this continent, but enough information has survived to give us some idea of what those ancient people did, and what they believed. Archeology has excavated other civilisations that were old and gone before the Spanish booked their fateful ocean cruises.

This sense of always being surrounded in Mexico by old things has an effect on my perceptions. I might, as I did in my last post, lament the recent developments around me, but the age of the land, along with the length of human habitation –a habitation interwoven with an appreciation of that land – offers a counterpoint to all that. It underlines the change that’s happening, but geology also has a way of mocking human efforts to copy mountains with much smaller piles of stones. The inhabitants themselves still carry the look of indigenous people, reminding the eye that so much has come and gone, or come and not left.

Mexico can infuriate someone used to tidy streets and gardens. It can stun us at times with poverty, and it can seem hidebound by its rich yet hardly intellectual Catholicism.

But it always offers also the presence of things from times memorial and immemorial. In this way, it has an antidote to the frenetic, frantic pace of things around us: the divided politics, the rush to pave and exploit the land, and the recurrent fear that we might be losing everything.

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Hexagonal basalt rocks overhang a walkway at the Salto de San Anton waterfall in nearby Cuernavaca. At the bottom centre, you can see where a fall of these rocks in 2017 destroyed part of the balustrade.

And it reminds us, too, how no culture survives forever. No-one knows for sure who was here those three-and-a-half millennia back, but new peoples and empires washed over this land in that time, and were in turn replaced.

Compared to all that, electoral cycles, economic ups and downs, and the latest epidemic slot into a very different world-view to the mainstream perspectives. I don’t necessarily find the mountains friendly – they can be overwhelming – but they do teach a perpetually important lesson in frenzied times.

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Fleeing from Yourself

They’d come from San Miguel de Allende, they said, to check out Tepoztlan. Retired Americans, San Miguel had been their home for many years, but now it was starting to become overrun with chilangos.

The term ‘chilango‘ refers to someone from Mexico City, and implies a self-absorbed obliviousness to local people and local traditions. My friend and I tried to explain that Tepoztlan, too, is a chilango magnet on weekends, as well as becoming increasingly built up and expensive. We made some suggestions about outlying communities, but the mountains here and the slightly less expensive lifestyle than San Miguel were clearly drawing these two.

San Miguel is a combination of legend and tourist trap. Its artistic associations are rich, and it’s a refuge for many wealthier Americans and Canadians. My own solitary visit left me turned off by the degree of private wealth on display, since in Mexico you’re never far from people struggling to get by with little. Tourism does provide a substantial cashflow, though, and the outside presence offers a lot of poorer Mexicans an opportunity to build a better life. It was just a bit too much for me.

The discussion with the two people reminded me of an observation I’d made a few nights before, coming home just after sunset. There’s a point on the road into this village where the land drops away past a meadow, and you can see the lights all over the plain below. I remember it when I first came here, speckled with lamps; today by comparison, it’s ablaze with street lights and illumination from housing developments.

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The view down to the plains and their communities – though I couldn’t manage a deceent night shot.

Some months ago, I chatted with an architect working on a small construction project outside the village. He described his half-dozen homes as offering an alternative to city congestion, a notion that struck me as a little ridiculous: spreading urban sprawl into the countryside solves nothing. It’s like trying to flee from yourself – you’ll never get away.

But, Mexico’s population is growing, there’s more money than there used to be, and people want homes. Nice homes, if possible, with a garden and a garage. And in nice places.

Here, for instance.

There’s no point in my complaining that this area is getting built up. I end up sounding like a driver complaining that he can’t get somewhere because of all the traffic, when he’s part of the problem. There’s still land available round here, even if the price has doubled in the past four years, and lots of people – chilangos, expats, local people who’ve saved or borrowed enough ­– are going to buy it and build on it.

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Workers building a house in our village –  in this case, mine.

But the issue preoccupies me, since like the San Miguel refugees, at times I think of going somewhere less popular. And since I spend too much time reading news and news analysis, I’m very aware of the increasing environmental crunch that we’re all helping to bring on through our spread. There’s now even an emerging specialty of psychotherapy for people distressed by what’s happened and what’s coming environmentally.

Determining exactly what the breaking point is for any particular zone or region could only be possible after the infrastructure and community structures have failed. A lot of things will take many years or decades to hit that point, and I can’t see the entire planet collapsing. Maybe that’s just because I simply can’t imagine it doing so, but generally I have a good imagination for disasters. Disintegration is going to occur sporadically, as far as we can foresee it.

That leaves me watching the continuing influx of people who are doing just what I did a decade ago, and hoping that not everything disappears. We want homes, this corner of Mexico is still affordable for most gringos and for better-off Mexicans, and the houses will continue to go up.

But you can’t ignore the changes, or pretend their effect doesn’t count.

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Mountains Aren’t Necessarily Mountains

February 7, 2020

You can tell a mountain is a mountain, because it’s big, and high, and probably involves exposed rock. But when you spend time on a mountain, unless you’re really up high on a barren or icy area, you’re on ground. There’s probably grass plus some small plants, and many mountains, like those around my home, have lots of trees on them. In short, they tend to be just like regular countryside, only steeper. They’re less mountainy, the more mountain-sided I am as an observer.

My ambiguity about mountains stems partly from living right under one: familiarity breeds maybe not contempt, but a certain boredom. About sixty yards back of my house, there’s a cliff that rises and recedes in stages for several hundred feet. To the right, or north, there’s a jagged area of exposed rock where a bunch of the stuff came down a long time ago. I often wonder if there’s more of it waiting for a good quake in order to come down on the house, but no-one here remembers it falling in their lifetime.

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Mountains near my home. The ridge at the rear is to the north, and rises almost a thousand feet above our village.

But my favourite view from here isn’t of the bluffs curving round to the north and across the east, with the little valley that clefts them. Nor is it the more dramatic bluffs a few hundred yards to the east, which screen the rising Sun from the village, and ascend as much as 700 ft from the village streets, which are already at 4500 ft above sea level. Rather, it’s the view to the south, where the hills and mountains are five or six miles away, or further.

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The view from my home down to the hills around Yautepec, a short time before sunset.

There, they recede in a blue haze of uncertain detail, which means they can imply almost anything: wildness, inaccessible heights, or concealed caves with giants, heroes or dragons. I don’t mean that I believe in such things, having seen no dragons nor giants, and encountered few real heroes in this part of Mexico. But the effect of seeing them calls on such ideas from deep within.

It’s this ilusion of mountains that began to fascinate me after a year or so. They are, I decided, much more interesting as ideas than as concrete realities, which means they’re much more appealing from a mile or two away. And seen from a dozen times that distance, they conjure up all kinds of fantasies and mythic whisperings.

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On a day when it has no snow, but is giving off a faint halo of steam from the summit, the cone of Popocateteptl rises over a low point in the hills east of my village.

My point is that we’re programmed for mountains to inspire us. Up close, as I said, they’re just a lot of raised ground, often hard to ascend comfortably. The best they can offer (which can be very good indeed) is a vie down across lowlands towards other mountains.

This morning, wanting to go somewhere I’d not been recently, I headed to the town of Yautepec, a few miles south of here. It nestles in those hazy blue southern hills I mentioned above, with three or four lines of mountainous slopes marching off in the distance beyond it.

Looking for a long-lost restaurant, I began climbing a street running up a hillside, and kept going as a view to the east opened up. Between my village’s mountains and the hills of Yautepec, there’s a flat area that runs for a considerable distance eastwards, and sometimes you can see the volcano in that direction. And today, the top 5,000 ft. of the active Popocatepetl and its extinct neighbour, Ixtaccihautl, were both snow-covered, while the air was as clear as it can get in the 21st Century. Coming to the summit of the hillside street, I had an unobstructed view of both these mountains over someone’s roof, and spent twenty minutes absorbing the beauty of the vista, while lamenting that I didn’t have anything with me to take a photo.

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This range of hills, south of my village and closer to the town of Tepoztlan, have their own air of mystery.  There are trails up there, but you need a guide to find them.

The full range they form is around twenty miles long, and I don’t think I’d ever seen the pair as clearly as this before. I’ve been to their foot, at Amecameca, which is still, I believe, a starting point for people climbing Ixtaccihuatl. Popocatepetl, of course, is off limits to climbers, since even if some people don’t fear scorching hot ash descending on them, the rescue teams don’t want to risk getting killed themselves, recovering asphyxiated bodies.

Eventually, I came back down the street, and took the bus back home. Coming up from the plain, I admired the smaller mountains directly ahead of me. They looked suitably steep, green and dramatic, and very attractive, more so than up close – a perspective I know well, since I live amid them. Eventually the bus, which was old, lumbered and shuddered up the road into this scenery, and the drama faded away. Once again, I was in simple rising ground, slopes punctuated by trees and rocky outcroppings … but not ‘mountains.’

Illusion gone.

I’m glad Popocatepetl is off-limits, and I can never go on it. That means it will retain its mystique. It will stay a mountain.

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Screeching a Living

The first time I heard her, which was before I saw her, was about six years ago. There are often crippled beggars outside the cathedral in Cuernavaca, making for a very medieval scene. There are also musicians, mostly working the patios of the various cafes. They’re usually guitarists but a violinist is not unknown.

She, however, was a violinist only in the narrowest sense of the word. Simply put, she couldn’t hit a note, phrase a melody nor keep time. She was terrible. She was like an eight-year-old after her first lesson: keen to try, but not yet capable of varying the sounds the bow makes on the strings.

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The mystery violinist outside the cathedral wall in Cuernavaca.

Periodically, I’d encounter her again and think: Surely you’re learning a bit? I can’t play a violin, but if I played as much as you do, I’d have figured out how to make it sound more or less acceptable by now.

But she wasn’t learning, and I had no idea if she was even trying. In our market in Tepoztlan, there are often one or two ‘musicians’ whose sole aim is to annoy you so much that you give them a few pesos just to go away and let you eat your quesadilla in peace. Perhaps, I wondered, she’s like them.

But they wander around. She puts out a music stand, or props her sheet music on a bundle-buggy, and remains in one place for an hour or so, producing bits of (I think) Bach, Vivaldi or Mozart. Somebody taught her fingering, judging by how she holds the instrument, but she seems tone deaf to her own sounds. Maybe she’s wholly deaf, I sometimes speculate, but she does try to tune her instrument before starting, which a deaf person couldn’t manage.

She initially irritated me, then amused me, and finally intrigued me. But she’s very wary of human contact, never even muttering a quick “Gracias” if I drop a sympathetic five pesos in her violin case. The first time I tried to take a photo of her, she dodged behind a pillar, staring warily at me till I went away. I felt mean for trying, even though the street is a public place, and her chosen venue is a busy tourist destination.

I forgot about her for the three years I was back in Toronto, and I was surprised to find her still on the same street last year. She’s still somehow determined to eke out a borderline living from a complete lack of musical skill.

If anything, she might have become worse in the intervening years. One day I’d like to interview her, just to find out what she feels she’s doing, but as I noted, she avoids direct acknowledgement of other people. She’s an institution now, a living monument to artistic ineptitude.

She’s not yet out of middle age. But one day she’ll be gone, perhaps with her identity still a mystery. Some other street performer –– a mime, a singer, a mandolin player – will replace her, and squeezing the visitors for cash will continue as it probably has since before there was even a Christian house of worship here. But when she does go, something uniquely quirky will have disappeared from Cuernavaca. Few people, I figure, would ever dare make such a tuneless noise in a public place, and tacitly ask donations for doing so.

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Turtles and Ditches

February 1, 2020

Vendors in the market in town are trying to cut down on plastic bags. It’s causing some problems.

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A marketplace fruit stand in Tepoztlan market exhorting customers not to require plastic bags.

I always have mixed feelings on this topic, since I spent three decades of my life working for trade magazines covering packaging and plastics. Paper as a substitute for plastics uses more energy to produce, and we chop down a lot of trees to produce it, even when some recycled fibre is employed. There’s also a lot of toxic waste from paper production that you don’t get with plastics; paper usually ends up being more expensive because of the high energy demands it has.

On the other hand, you never see photos of turtles unable to eat because they’re trapped inside floating paper bags. Paper breaks down in weeks or months, where plastics can require decades. Polyethylene terephthalate (PET), the material used for most pop and water bottles, uses polymers of such a high molecular weight that there’s no known micro-organism that can break them down. Only UV light from the Sun, the salt in seawater, and the passage of time will do that.

I often used to wonder, writing about ever more efficient machinery for producing plastic film or PET bottles, what was to happen to the production after use. There was a lot of talk about recycling – I served on committees concerned with it, and wrote earnest editorials about biodegradable additives and similar approaches. But while the issue’s easy to preach about, it’s difficult to resolve in practice. A safe food supply requires reliable packaging, and people who preach about reusable plastic containers that you wash out at home usually have little idea what nasty bacterial colonies lurk in their tubs’ and bottles’ water-retaining micro-cracks. Glass breaks into dangerous fragments (my mother’s leg was scarred by a bottle that burst on her), and it needs far more energy to produce and to transport than plastics … and so it goes. Move from forthright slogans to nitty-gritty practicalities, and you’re into a swamp of aggravating fine detail. Municipal politicians, the people who usually have to implement the solutions, learn to hate the entire topic of waste disposal with a scornful despair.

The simplest action we can all perform is the one that many Mexicans apparently find hard to implement: don’t litter. Littering, though, is among the world’s most chronic pollution issues. I’ve mentioned here before people’s tendency to throw empty pop bottles and chip bags into a roadside ditch. When the rains come, these things find their way into streams, then rivers … and on to the turtles, or other sea creatures. But throwing something aside is a macho thing, a disdainful gesture, and it’s hard to eradicate from this society. There are slogans, lectures given in school, signs asking people not to do it – and little changes.

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Shredded bags, a foam cup, a milk container and other trash in the roadway near my home.

The bags they give out in the market when I buy vegetables or nuts are minor priorities, since they’re used and disposed of in the kitchen. It’s easy to capture a domestic waste-stream, far more so than the snack-food bags teenagers toss aside on the way home. And Mexican kids consume an enormous amount of chips. Even the ones who prefer a cup of fruit sticks on the way home still have a plastic cup to get rid of afterwards, and I see many of them in the ditches on my walks.

But the market vendors are visible dispensers of plastics, and so are a visible target. Also, some of them care enough to try to eliminate what they see as a problem. Most now charge me a peso or two for a plastic shopping bag when I forget to bring one, and work to cut down their small bag usage.

A couple of stalls now refuse to issue any kind of bag (which is impractical with larger quantities), while one family selling grains and dried fruit tried paper cones. These they were folding on their own, and anchoring with scotch tape. I imagine their packaging costs tripled (and they have a popular stall), and they ran into problems estimating the size of cone they needed. Last week, what would have been a small plastic bag of raisins – 200 grams – needed two of their cones. I noticed two days ago they’d switched back to small, clear bags.

Some of the plastic waste in the oceans is post-industrial, though not many manufacturers are daft enough to waste raw materials. Some is from sloppy recycling operations or regular garbage collection, which is a problem here: the Wednesday garbage truck is usually loaded past its capacity by the time it heads home, and some trash falls out.

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PET bottles and other trash in a ditch near where I live. The rains will wash them into the river.

But the littering is the worst thing, since there’s little desire to prevent the problem. My next door neighbours, generally friendly people, have a garbage system that their dogs get into, so that the front of their house is always strewn with old yogurt cups or water bottles. I could ask them to be more careful, but I doubt they’d take the request amiably. I’m not the lifelong resident here, after all.

The only thing to hope for is that educators find ways to penetrate the culture of tossing disposables beside the road. I’m told, in times past, the only waste was food waste, which animals would soon take, or things like ceramic bowls or flasks, which remained inert. Perhaps such old habits underlie the issue. Until they’re fixed, though – and in scores of places, not just Mexico – the seas will continue to receive far too much plastic garbage.

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The Equation

Sometimes when I make a post about my favourite volcano, or mentioning vicious dogs, people comment to say “Be careful,” or “Look after yourself.” And I confess, it irritates me.

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Scaffolding supports the main gate of the Tepoztlan cemetery after the 2017 quake.

I’m a grown-up, with no dependents other than the small pack of mutts I care for. My kids are adults, I have no significant other (the position is vacant), and I’ve hit seventy. Preserving myself ad infinitum isn’t my game-plan, and the idea of it all ending in an eruption (totally unlikely), an earthquake (possible but unlikely) or as a result of a gang shoot-out or an extortion attempt (possible, but also unlikely) doesn’t faze me. I’d rather go that way if/when it’s time, than be hooked up to tubes in a hospital bed.

So, when I make these posts, I tend to avoid things that shock people. Consider this your trigger-warning, because I’m writing about stuff that might shock you.

The church here sounds a death-knell when somebody dies. There are eight or ten strokes on one bell, following by two descending notes using both bells. In the past 48 hours, it’s sounded three times, perhaps more; though I’m not certain it’s because more than a couple of people have passed on. But I can hear the band playing now as the coffin goes down to the cemetery for its farewell. A Mexican funeral entails lively music as a send-off.

After I’d been here a few months, back in 2010, we had a shooting at a store I still visit twice a week, one night as the owner was about to pack up. His wife had just gone home to fix a late meal, and (so the tale goes), people connected to someone he’d helped kidnap years before showed up and gunned him down.

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The funeral procession of Sofia’s husband pauses at the store they owned.

So, I came to appreciate quickly that life here can end violently, separate from any activity directly connected to the gangs that news media call ‘cartels.’ The widow summoned her son back from the States, and he now manages the store, making bilingual quips to customers like me, and trying to expand the business.

Then today, I learned Victor had died. Victor was, perhaps, forty, and often drunk.

A strikingly handsome man, though sometimes disfigured by cuts on his face after he’d fallen down while wasted, he purportedly had skill as an artist, and lived with a patient girlfriend just outside our village. Some drunks are mean, but he was an amiable one.

That was his problem, since many people (me, for instance), don’t want to be pals with a person who can barely stand. He would often call a greeting to me when I tried to sneak past him in town, or want to talk with me on the combi (microbus). Sometimes, combi drivers refused to let him on in that condition.

Whoever he accosted last week didn’t appreciate the attention, either. He’s now gone.

My actual current concern isn’t with him or whoever’s being buried today, but with a lady I’ll call A. She’s cleaned house for me at times, and lives in a small house a few hundred yards from here. She has a couple of sons, and the eldest and his wife think he should have the place, not her. On New Year’s Eve, he got drunk and attacked her, putting her in hospital. After she got home again, she was afraid to step outside in case she ran into him. Worse, her uncle and brothers think that as a single woman, she should go to live with another son, and not hang onto the old family home for herself.

If I tried to interfere, I’d get nothing for my pains but a minor version of what happened to Victor. Women in rural Mexico still face not just the annoyances of simple sexism, but the threat of actual violence. Things change slowly, year by year, but … slow is slow. A’s daughter-in-law is egging on her husband to brutalise and evict her, so it isn’t just the men who bear responsibility. Since social atitudes shift so gradually, if a woman wants a house for herself, she can be willing to harm her own sex to get what she can.

Understanding all this through a conventional North American lens doesn’t work. For example, taking out drug-gang leaders (“We got El Chapo! Now he’s in jail for life!”) is popular elsewhere, but completely counter-productive in combating the gangs. President Lopez-Obrador is widely mocked for his “hugs not bullets” slogan, but it contains germs of truth. You can’t stamp out systemic violence with systemic violence, however much you’d like to. In the case of the gangs, when they’ve lost leaders they’ve simply found new bosses or split into rival factions; if left alone, they might well have come to a point of self-regulation, like the New York mafia did decades ago.

Now, that’s not possible. Only ‘Mexicanidad,’ Mexican-ness, works on Mexico.

Why, then, do I live here? How do I balance the equation? Well, for one thing, I appreciate the society.

Yes, I did just write that. People are warm, they like to like you, and provided you don’t provoke them, bearing in mind this is a conservative, ostensibly Catholic society, they’ll help you if you need help. The woman that sold two female friends and I the land where I live promptly regretted doing so, and now resents us. This happens a lot, since if you trade part of your patrimony for cash, it’s lost for good. But when the younger of the friends drove her vehicle off the roadway into a rut a couple of months ago, the middle-aged son of the angry matriarch came out to help her push it back onto the roadway. Because in a small Mexican village, you do that.

Another friend lives in an area of Mexico City where one neighbour constantly steals hubcaps, mirrors and other car-parts. He seems himself, I’m told, as a radical recycler, not a thief. But when the 2017 earthquake hit, and people were buried under rubble, he was right there with his largest crowbar, spending hours digging out the homes of people he usually steals from.

To me, in my last years living in Toronto, the city was increasingly losing its sense of human complexity. Here, the people who smile at me when I say good morning might equally be killers if provoked the wrong way, yet somehow the paradox is understood and accepted. I quickly figured out how to dress, act and conduct myself so as not to push the wrong buttons, so I’m apparently looked on as an aging gringo eccentric who poses little threat to the community.

The honesty of human emotion here is challenging for an introverted English-Canadian like me, but nourishing. Add to that the lush beauty of the green mountains around me and the sunshine on 340 days a year, not to mention the lower cost of living, and the advantages are clear.

Living here, I’m close to nature, which is about being on close terms with life and death, both human and animal.

I miss many urban advantages, and at times long for things I can’t have here. But in my final Toronto year, I was nearly struck three times by people texting as they drove. My sense of control and safety of how I live is much stronger here than in Canada, not less.

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Slogans on Shirts

January 18, 2020

She was, I guessed, around 60, which meant she might have been a Ramones fan during their heyday. But somehow I doubted that a village woman in central Mexico would have even known they existed. The t-shirt she was wearing with their name on it, therefore, was a hand-me-down, and like so many people here, she had no idea what her clothing said.

A couple of years ago, every third shirt around here seemed to say “Fly Emirates.” Until someone explained to me how used and second-quality clothing is shipped to Mexico and sold in small stores, I kept trying to figure out how all these people had found the money or inclination to use a Middle Eastern airline. As a marketing campaign, it might have been a brilliant move, except the people seeing the company logo everywhere had neither the cash for overseas travel, nor any real conception of the Emirates or their airline.

Other oddities include things like unsold shirts from school reunions, and concerts by half-forgotten bands. (“The Bangles – 2000 Reunion Tour“). One man I saw recently had an unspotted shirt from a 1996 college event in Ohio, which had probably sat in storage until someone had the sense to re-purpose it and some related leftovers. Mostly, though, it tends to be the Abercrombie & Fitch logo ad nauseam.

I wanted to take some photos to illustrate this post, but I immediately hit up against some practical issues. Foremost was having to respond to that famous opener for the start of a male bonding session, “Dude, why are you taking photos of my girlfriend’s chest?” Explaining that my blog is a form of light-hearted anthropological research could have been hard to do in my so-so Spanish, so I’ve decided to use only some stock art. You’ll have to take my word for it on the rest of this.

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Probably not my neighbours’ 17-year-old daughter. She’s dark-haired.

Apart from the Emirates shirts, what often strikes me is the number of f-bombs appearing on the streets in town. A matronly woman in her forties with a t-shirt tell people to “F– Off” was, I realised, blissfully unaware that her latest bargain was not something to wear to a family gathering.

Some people, of course, are aware of what they’ve chosen to wear. At least a third of the men in my village, maybe more, have at some point come to Canada to pick tomatoes or other fruit in the summer, so they know a few basic phrases in English. Their English often mirrors my halting Spanish, which I sometimes think is deteriorating rather than advancing. But I could figure out a scatological message, so probably they can, too. On a worksite, it’s not important how you’re dressed, while the slogan might relieve some of the frustration of having to do hard work for poor wages.

The kids are taught English in school, though only a few seem to master simple conversation. However, I’m sure most know the meaning of the racier messages.

The latest trend I’ve noticed is shirts with ‘Honey‘ across the front.  Was this last summer’s vogue elsewhere? I don’t recall it. My neighbour’s 17-year-old daughter no doubt knows what her t-shirt with this on it means, but I’m not sure her strict Catholic (and unilingual) parents do. So, English can become a code between teenagers, who can, if challenged, claim not to have understood that the neat lettering they liked was provocative. I still remember translating a message being passed among eleven-year-old schoolgirls for a mother who lived next to me, and her expression when I explained it said “CPR training – only cute guys need apply.”

I still sometimes wish I’d said it merely meant “I love fluffy kittens,” but I didn’t think of that at the time. But yes, Juanita, these days they do grow up early.

Obviously, in a poorer society, it’s easy to mock people’s clothing choices when they must buy what they can afford. A family of five can live here on income that wouldn’t support a single adult in Toronto, but that does require constant attention to bargain-hunting, whether it’s buying your vegetables in the Sunday market in nearby Ixcatepec, or previously rejected t-shirts that might need a stitch or two on the seams.

It is, though, hard not to be amused when someone’s unconscious fashion statement crosses a particular cultural line, or configuration of lines.  I noticed a man trying to sell ice-cream from a cart last weekend, whose shirt slogan was “Who Needs This Shit?” I still think he might have achieved more commercial success with a different selection.