Journey to the dark tower

Well, I am back in Mexico after a spell in the USA. I've started a new job which unfortunately means registering a change in immigration status with the Mexican government. This is not a simple process. So far I have been to the Palacio Federal five times (traveling an hour and back each time to get there). This palacio is more of an unadorned concrete rectangle than say the Taj Mahal or Versailles, but that's how Guadalajara rolls. My trips there have resulted in two scenarios: waiting in line so long I just have to leave or else being given false information that will be used against me the next time I go back.

So yesterday, amid a number of other early morning emergencies, I rushed to get there before 9:00 am. (If you get there after they open, even by 5 or 10 minutes you are absolutely screwed--you probably won't talk to anyone before they close again at noon). But luckily I managed to get into the queue outside the locked doors at 8:45. There were some lost American senior citizens who had found their way from the retiree paradise of Lake Chapala to the big, bad city. Having experienced their confusion on similar visits, I told them what line to stand in, what floor the bathrooms were on, and so on. Boy was that a mistake. Unfortunately the line they needed to stand in was also mine, so I was now subject to their annoying banter for as long as it took to wait there.

"English teacher, huh? You teach Ebonics? You don't teach them to talk like blacks do you?"

"Umm, no."

"Well, good. They think they can talk that way and then they complain they can't get a job! Because they'd rather just chill in their crib. And another thing..."

It was a two hour wait. So I've pretty much sworn off the bond of common fellowship with my countrymen who come to Mexico to live out their golden years. If they come down here to die, from now on I say, let 'em die. Darwin and all that.

Finally my number was called, and I expected to at last pick up my new work visa. The guy looked over my papers, had me sign some other papers, and went into the back office. However, instead of a work visa, he returned with an official letter demanding that I pay $2,400 (pesos) within 10 days or else be deported! This is an unwelcome sum to pay on a Mexican salary. But the agonizing part is that it means going back across the hall to wait in line to get a payment form, leaving to pay at a bank, then bringing the bank receipt back to the Palacio Federal to wait in line to prove I've paid it, then waiting at his window with the notification that proof of payment was accepted.

I tried to argue with him that two separate immigration officials had independently assured me that this fee was no longer being charged. (Both the lady that had given me the wrong forms to fill out and the lady who refused to admit that she lost my passport told me of this). He shrugged, took a bite of his candy bar, and gave a bored explanation of how, due to 'mala suerte' I had come in after the new law was passed, but before it actually took effect, causing them to re-evaluate my application.

A new coworker of mine mentioned getting through immigration by pulling the ugly American--demanding to talk to a supervisor, yelling, etc. after which the problem was cleared up within a matter of minutes. But the thing is, I'm pretty sure he's also a native Spanish speaker. For me as second language learner, high-stress situations are very hard to communicate in. I could maybe achieve a primal scream as I gouged the bureaucrat's eye out with a pen, but that would be about it. I can barely express myself in English when I'm this angry. After I left I was able to compose a quite flowery and savage denunciation of the INM in Spanish as I walked down the street, and I'm sure this greatly impressed other pedestrians.

my random day

Today I've been rushing around trying to get things done before heading back to the U.S. for a month or so. This is almost never productive in Mexico. It certainly wasn't today. At the end of it all I found myself on a packed 633 bus during the hottest part of the day, cursing under my breath at all things Mexican. (In my mind the incompetent secretaries at the University of Guadalajara, the guy who was supposed to show up at 9:30 to connect our washing machine, the people I was packed up against, and the bank were somehow all working in concert against me). As is normal, the driver accelerated madly forward at every green light, never anticipating having to stop again. Each red light caught him totally off guard, and he would suddenly slam on the brakes each time. This lurching is pretty standard fare on city buses. Sometimes I close my eyes and picture myself on the bridge of the Enterprise when they get hit by photon torpedos, but today I was far too pissed off. The bus was so miserable that I decided to get off a stop early and walk. But the driver, who seemed to be in some kind of race with the the other buses, only saw fit to let off one passenger before slamming on the gas pedal again. I was still holding a metal bar but I hadn't really steadied myself, so my arm was almost jerked out of its socket when he accelerated. Ignoring the steady ringing of the buzzer and people shouting "¡Baja, baja!" the driver proceeded to speed past bus stop after bus stop. He seemed intent on getting to the front of a convoy of other buses, but they kept outmaneuvering him, so he was stuck in the outside lane. When he finally relented and pulled in behind the others at a bus stop, I had the option of backtracking a long ways or getting lost by trying to find a shortcut through a windy residential area. I chose the getting lost while trying to find a shortcut option.

Eventually I ended up somewhere I knew, a bus stop on the edge of a vacant lot overlooking some dumpsters at the mall. I waited there for a long, long time with a tattooed guy wearing a wife beater and a homemade sling for his broken arm. He was something of an expert on bus routes and would give advice to other would-be bus riders who wandered past. (Even Mexicans are fairly baffled by the bus system. Though perhaps system isn't the right word). After a really long time of standing silently next to each other we got on the same bus. Instead of paying, he whispered a word to the driver, positioned himself at the front, and began to deliver a long monologue. Despite the bus being nearly empty, he spoke with great self-importance, although very rapidly--I didn't understand a word. I assumed he was asking for money because of his broken arm. I fished around in my bag for a few pesos since I felt some camaraderie from our having waited so long together. But then, when I looked up again, he was driving a long metal nail up his left nostril. On a moving bus mind you. Then another nail up the right nostril, concluding his presentation. I felt bad that I only had 3 pesos left on me to give him.

Pronouncing English words in Spanish

Our internet provider, me-ga-CAH-bley (left)

One of the odd things about being an English speaker in Mexico is trying to figure out how to pronounce English words. For example, when we first bought coffee and asked for it to be ground we had to repeat the words "auto drip, AUTO drip, au-to DRIP!" over and over while pointing desperately at the at the machine. Finally the woman figured out we wanted "oww-toe-dreep."

Some words change and others do not. Muffin is moofeen, but pub is pronounced exactly the same as in English. Whenever I encounter a new appropriated word, I have no idea whether to try to fake a Spanish Mexican accent as I say it. Places like McDonald's and Burger King are minefields of linguistic bafflement. When I discovered cherry tomatoes at a tianguis (outdoor market) I tried to ask for "jitomates de cereza" which completely confused them. Which did I want tomatoes or cherries? I should have asked for jitomates "cheri." My favorite appropriation to date is colgate which is pronounced coal-GAH-tey. It really sounds like it might be derived from the indigenous nahuatl, especially when a street vendor calls out the word multiple times in rapid succession.

Here are some other ones off the top of my head. Cheetos are CHEY-toes, waffles are WA-fleys, hot cakes are OTE-cakes, hot dogs are OTE-doh-gs, cream cheese is feel-a-DEL-fia (as in Philadelphia), Sprite is ESprite, 7-up is ESevenup, and chips are cheeps.

The Protocols of the Elders of Zapopan

So we we passed through the Sunday antiques market today as part of a long meander. There are plenty of oddities to rifle through--faded votive paintings giving thanks to the Virgin of Zapopan, taxidermy, comics explaining Mexican history, old B movie posters, masks, hard bound tourist guidebooks from the 1960's, and various other curiosities.

One of the things I don't like about it though is the prevalence of creepy anti-semitic items on display. There are always Nazi helmets, Spanish language copies of the Protocols of the Elders of Zion, Henry Ford's "The International Jew", and even vendors selling framed photographs of Hitler. The strange thing is that although Guadalajara is known for having a lot of blonde and fair skinned Mexicans, these folks are just your average mestizos, which is to say the result of "race-mixing". If they're hoping to sign up with the white supremacists, oh boy are they in for a surprise. We normally do our best to avoid them, but today I just couldn't help myself from staring. I was at another booth, but this guy wearing army surplus fatigues hawking black and white Nazi prints caught my attention. He evidently mistook my look of stunned horror for one of extreme fascination with Nazi memorabilia. He winked at me as he motioned to a large photo of Der Führer issuing a Roman salute. It was only then that I noticed the writing on his camouflage hat. It said "ISRAEL ARMY" in big letters, with some writing in Hebrew underneath. It was so baffling, I really wish I brought a camera.

a quick guide to Mexican nicknames

Unlike David Brent, Mexicans love nicknames. I usually get called joven (young), profe (short for professor), or güero (fair, blonde, blue-eyed). The last one is odd because it's technically inaccurate, but I think it's because I'm from the U.S. I'm guessing its an especially tapatio (Guadalajaran) thing to say. Once I was at a party talking to someone (I think from Mexico City). She is clearly dark-haired and olive-skinned, but some workmen had called her güera as a weird sort of racist compliment. Mexicans are not nearly as PC as we norteamericanos. Gordo (fat!) is a very common nickname, as is flaco (skinny, as in scrawny). Anyone with an epicanthic fold can expect to be called chino, regardless of whether they are Korean, Japanese, etc. Oddly, people with curly hair also get the nickname chino for some reason. A Spanish teacher was telling me that physical disabilities are fair game for nicknames too: for example manco (one arm). Other nicknames given to strangers are kinder: older women may be called madre or reina (queen) on the street. Younger women, mi hija (my daughter). (Although actually I once heard one drunk guy calling his buddy mi hija as a diss). A couple of times I've been called gallo (rooster, which has a very macho connotation).

I briefly taught a student who went by Manson because of his prowess in soccer. He was rather deflated when I explained who Charles Manson actually was. (Wonder if that's why he dropped the class...?) Jenny's students demand to be called by all kinds of nicknames that keep changing throughout the year. My favorite was a student who insisted that he be referred to as "Buzzlebee". Sadly, she reports that he goes by another nickname now. Finally here are a few examples of the more garden variety nicknames:

First/Middle name combo

Maria Fernandez=Marifer

Maria José=MaJo

José María=Chema

María Ines=Marines (sounds different pronounced in Spanish!)

Juan José=JuanJo

María Eugenia=Maru

That's short for what...? (Seemingly every name can and is shortened, these are just some).

Jesús=Chuy (my favorite, pronounced just like Han Solo's co-pilot)

Ignacio=Nacho

Eduardo=Lalo or Edu

Santiago=Santi

Guillermo=Memo

Antonio=Toño

Tonatiuh (from Aztec sun god)=Tona

xóchitl (hispanisized Aztec word for flower)=xochi

Guillermina=Guille

Valeria or Valentina=Vale

Natalia=Nata

Fernanda (or Fernando)=Fer

Tatiana=Tatis

-ito/ita ("little", term of endearment in Mexican Spanish)

Marta=Martita

Rafael=Rafa=Rafita

et al...

Well, it's a devil riding on the back of a turtle. The turtle is covered in skulls. (part 2)

So I was doing some random reading today and came across a section all about the prevalence of turtles in mesoamerican funerary ceramics. I don't mean to say that this corresponds completely with the diabolito I bought, but I think there's some connection (see previous post about Ocumicho).

Apparently turtles were considered dimensional travelers who could move between earth, heaven, and the underworld. The shape of the turtle's shell was thought to resemble a cloud, and so it was associated with the heavens. Tombs in Oaxaca depict flying turtle-men, and likewise the sea turtle (which moves through the water as though flying) was capable of getting to the underworld via the sea. A post-conquest codex from Michoacán, the Lienzo de Jucutacato, depicts turtles helping people who emerge from a primordial cave to cross the ocean (and presumably settle Mexico). During periods of drought or cold turtles hibernate, as a corpse hibernates in a tomb awaiting another life. Likewise the tomb, as the home of the dead, was equivalent to a turtle's protective shell.

La vida pirata

Whatever exists in Mexico, it seems there is also a pirated version of it. Movies, CD's, video games, shoes, clothing brands, designer handbags, and more are sold openly on the streets. I even saw a newspaper headline about the continuing problem with "pirata" buses in Guadalajara. I didn't read the article carefully, but I would imagine that anyone who can get their hands on a bus-like vehicle could simply hand paint some numbers on the front and then drive around picking up passengers and collecting money (no insurance or license needed!)

While the police could care less, a series of highly ineffective anti-pirata advertisements are screened before most films. In the latest, a young job seeker has just purchased a pirated DVD before going to an interview, and when his prospective employer sees it poking out from under his resumé, the manager decides not to hire him. A dour narrator then warns the audience that "buying pirated DVD's says a lot about who you are." Well, I suppose it says you're someone who is in Mexico at any rate.

We resisted buying pirated DVD's for some time, but eventually we were pushed into it. By swarthy, mustachioed banditos? Dishonest street scum? No, by the very giant companies that are so worried that unauthorized viewing activity will eat into their profits. Firstly, if you live abroad, many videos & movies that Americans can watch online (such as through Amazon or Netflix) are blocked. Sadly, some time last year, we were also cut-off from The Daily Show and the Colbert Report on Comedy Central's website. Bloke-boost-air (aka Blockbuster) sucks as much as it does in the U.S., so we got an account with a local competitor. They have a slightly better selection but...most of the movies for rent are encoded for region 4, while the laptop we watch them on is region 1, so our options were cut by about 60%. Over a number of months we quickly depleted the number of watchable movies, and soon found ourselves at a booth selling piratas.

Our pirata man has no eyepatch. He does have a larger selection of cheaper, better movies, all multi-region. They all come with a money back guarantee, and if he doesn't have something you're looking for he can often get it for you within a week. He's also about twice as friendly as the video store clerks. Genuinely friendly, not Bloke-boost-air fake friendly.