Time. I used to think it moved slower in Mexico -- especially, in the little fishing village where I live.
I was wrong. Time is simply irrelevant.
I am slowly learning that my northern European chronometer -- the one that has controlled every second of my sixty-some years -- is as useless in Melaque as a book to an American teenager.
I have felt it when we talk about wages being 100 years behind the United States. Of social structures being stuck in the Fifties. Of craftsmanship that is simultaneously ancient in its style and modern in its tendency to fall apart tomorrow.
Two examples from yesterday will suffice.
The first is a tradition almost two hundred years old: Independence Day.
If you are a poster child for post-modern anti-symbolism, you are going to hate Mexican Independence Day. Every Mexican turns into a thorough nationalist -- making the commander of the Des Moines VFW look like a goth hedonist.
This was my first chance in five months to take my time looking around the jardin in San Patricio. It was all decked out for the evening's fiesta.
On the north end, the tourist police had rigged up the balcony of their office to look like a set from an Evita road show. And for one purpose --for the local dignitaries to honor the heroes of Independence Day and to extol each Mexican's passion for his country.
And let me stop right here. I talked with a friend yesterday on the telephone. He was surprised to hear that I was going to an Independence Day celebration. I suspect anyone who has lived in or visited Mexico will get his response half right: "I thought that was Cinco de Mayo -- when Mexico got its freedom from the United States."
OK, class. Altogether now. Cinco de Mayo celebrates the Mexican victory at the Battle of Puebla over the French and their Mexican royalist allies. (I suspect that a Mexican royalist is now about as rare as a selfless politician.) But where he came up with the notion of independence from the United States, I have no idea.
As we discussed yesterday, Independence Day commemorates Miguel Hidalgo y Costilla's call to arms against the colonial overlords of Spain. Last night, all over Mexico, the president or governor or municipality president or local poobah of some sort stood on a balcony above a mass of flag-waving citizens -- all ages, men, women, children -- and, with Latin fervor, shouted out El Grito de Dolores -- the modern reconstruction of Hidalgo's call to arms. After each patriot's name, the crowd would yell: ¡Viva, Mexico! And yell, they did. Even the moody teenagers.
We do not know exactly what Hidalgo said 199 years ago, but we do know he ended his call to arms with: "Death to bad government and death to the Spaniards!"
Bad government and the Spaniards were given a pass last night. The former for the obvious reason that politicians (and not moralists) shout el Grito. The latter because Mexico cannot afford turning Spanish tourists into the centerpiece of an Mayan sacrifice.
I do not like political rallies. Something about people getting all worked up about national issues strikes me as just a bit too reminiscent of hammers and sickles and swastikas. But I will confess that I was shouting out ¡Viva Mexico! as loud as my neighbors.
But nationalism was just one stop on this time trip.
On the south side of the jardin, a large stage was waiting for the next act: a beauty pageant -- a natural mix for a political rally. (Do not discount the connection. This summer the party that purports to represent the values of the Catholic church sponsored a political rally in the same jardin. The main attraction was a troupe of belly dancers, clad in little more than gossamer and a promise of a better tomorrow -- simply by voting correctly.)
I know very little about beauty pageants. I worked with two women who had been contestants and organizers of pageants in The States. That experience taught me that a Byzantium courtier would be caught short of talent on one of those runways. The claws are sharp, and the tongues cut deep.
Last night's production was a bit dodgy. Cues were missed. The emcee was a little over the top. But, hey: it was a local production, and everybody was there to have a good time -- including the middle-aged woman in her red see-through evening gown, with a cigarette dangling from her lower lip and a can of beer in her right hand. I suspect she was reliving some long-lost glory.
Mexican beauty pageants are not a post-feminist phenomenon. There is no pretense that the girls are there to earn a scholarship. Like most events in Mexico, this one was raw. The girls were selling sensuality.
And they laid it on with a trowel. Most young Mexican women are quite attractive. The ten contestants were stunning, if a bit homogeneous. But most women can strike a pose with an expensive coif and gown. Not to mention that most of them were model thin.
The nationalist passion on display earlier in the evening gave way to a more ancient passion. There were no pastels. These young women came decked out in primary colors -- and most had the poise of a Mexico City socialite. There were exceptions. Two had a tendency to walk as if they were truck drivers. But that simply made the rest appear that much more exotic.
It was a long process -- with plenty of pauses. Not unlike the local rodeo. But the ten were winnowed to five, and from the five, came a winner. Dressed in a canary gown that made her look like an escapee from a Cirque de Soleil production, she accepted a crown tall enough to make any drag queen's heart flutter.
I must admit that I felt a bit sorry for the contestants. I could almost hear Mama Rose calling from back stage: "Take off a glove." But I had a great time. As did the audience.
Today the Independence Day celebrations continue. There will be horse races in Villa Obregon this afternoon (complete with drunken cowboys) and a huge fireworks display in San Patricio tonight. It is not a good time to be without a camera.
Even when I have become unstuck in time.
I was wrong. Time is simply irrelevant.
I am slowly learning that my northern European chronometer -- the one that has controlled every second of my sixty-some years -- is as useless in Melaque as a book to an American teenager.
I have felt it when we talk about wages being 100 years behind the United States. Of social structures being stuck in the Fifties. Of craftsmanship that is simultaneously ancient in its style and modern in its tendency to fall apart tomorrow.
Two examples from yesterday will suffice.
The first is a tradition almost two hundred years old: Independence Day.
If you are a poster child for post-modern anti-symbolism, you are going to hate Mexican Independence Day. Every Mexican turns into a thorough nationalist -- making the commander of the Des Moines VFW look like a goth hedonist.
This was my first chance in five months to take my time looking around the jardin in San Patricio. It was all decked out for the evening's fiesta.
On the north end, the tourist police had rigged up the balcony of their office to look like a set from an Evita road show. And for one purpose --for the local dignitaries to honor the heroes of Independence Day and to extol each Mexican's passion for his country.
And let me stop right here. I talked with a friend yesterday on the telephone. He was surprised to hear that I was going to an Independence Day celebration. I suspect anyone who has lived in or visited Mexico will get his response half right: "I thought that was Cinco de Mayo -- when Mexico got its freedom from the United States."
OK, class. Altogether now. Cinco de Mayo celebrates the Mexican victory at the Battle of Puebla over the French and their Mexican royalist allies. (I suspect that a Mexican royalist is now about as rare as a selfless politician.) But where he came up with the notion of independence from the United States, I have no idea.
As we discussed yesterday, Independence Day commemorates Miguel Hidalgo y Costilla's call to arms against the colonial overlords of Spain. Last night, all over Mexico, the president or governor or municipality president or local poobah of some sort stood on a balcony above a mass of flag-waving citizens -- all ages, men, women, children -- and, with Latin fervor, shouted out El Grito de Dolores -- the modern reconstruction of Hidalgo's call to arms. After each patriot's name, the crowd would yell: ¡Viva, Mexico! And yell, they did. Even the moody teenagers.
We do not know exactly what Hidalgo said 199 years ago, but we do know he ended his call to arms with: "Death to bad government and death to the Spaniards!"
Bad government and the Spaniards were given a pass last night. The former for the obvious reason that politicians (and not moralists) shout el Grito. The latter because Mexico cannot afford turning Spanish tourists into the centerpiece of an Mayan sacrifice.
I do not like political rallies. Something about people getting all worked up about national issues strikes me as just a bit too reminiscent of hammers and sickles and swastikas. But I will confess that I was shouting out ¡Viva Mexico! as loud as my neighbors.
But nationalism was just one stop on this time trip.
On the south side of the jardin, a large stage was waiting for the next act: a beauty pageant -- a natural mix for a political rally. (Do not discount the connection. This summer the party that purports to represent the values of the Catholic church sponsored a political rally in the same jardin. The main attraction was a troupe of belly dancers, clad in little more than gossamer and a promise of a better tomorrow -- simply by voting correctly.)
I know very little about beauty pageants. I worked with two women who had been contestants and organizers of pageants in The States. That experience taught me that a Byzantium courtier would be caught short of talent on one of those runways. The claws are sharp, and the tongues cut deep.
Last night's production was a bit dodgy. Cues were missed. The emcee was a little over the top. But, hey: it was a local production, and everybody was there to have a good time -- including the middle-aged woman in her red see-through evening gown, with a cigarette dangling from her lower lip and a can of beer in her right hand. I suspect she was reliving some long-lost glory.
Mexican beauty pageants are not a post-feminist phenomenon. There is no pretense that the girls are there to earn a scholarship. Like most events in Mexico, this one was raw. The girls were selling sensuality.
And they laid it on with a trowel. Most young Mexican women are quite attractive. The ten contestants were stunning, if a bit homogeneous. But most women can strike a pose with an expensive coif and gown. Not to mention that most of them were model thin.
The nationalist passion on display earlier in the evening gave way to a more ancient passion. There were no pastels. These young women came decked out in primary colors -- and most had the poise of a Mexico City socialite. There were exceptions. Two had a tendency to walk as if they were truck drivers. But that simply made the rest appear that much more exotic.
It was a long process -- with plenty of pauses. Not unlike the local rodeo. But the ten were winnowed to five, and from the five, came a winner. Dressed in a canary gown that made her look like an escapee from a Cirque de Soleil production, she accepted a crown tall enough to make any drag queen's heart flutter.
I must admit that I felt a bit sorry for the contestants. I could almost hear Mama Rose calling from back stage: "Take off a glove." But I had a great time. As did the audience.
Today the Independence Day celebrations continue. There will be horse races in Villa Obregon this afternoon (complete with drunken cowboys) and a huge fireworks display in San Patricio tonight. It is not a good time to be without a camera.
Even when I have become unstuck in time.
