The Cure: My nose vs. Shackleton

Laying down on the operation table, I could see the colorful fishes painted on the ceiling, swimming gaily. Why fishes? Are they the most relaxing thing you can see before surgery? What about threes, or the moon and the starts? I blinked.

When I opened my eyes, I was already in the recovery room. Crap! I was hoping to experience a gradual transition from conscious to unconscious and back, maybe some light at the end of the tunnel. But no, I just blinked and two hours went by, I was in a different room… ah! And there was this pain on my throat and nose.

This was hopefully the last battle on my long war against laryngitis and all throat related diseases. They have been like land mines on my path that too often have ruined my plans. I had already tried everything you can think of: homeopathy, allergy shots, hypnosis, and an amount of drugs that could keep a hip-hop group happy for a year.

So this septoplasty & turbinate reduction was the only thing left, short of voodoo rituals or ceremonial sacrifices in an Aztec pyramid. But there again… have you tried to push needles into a voodoo doll the size and shape of a flu virus? Or for that matter, using an obsidian knife to open my archenemies the dust mite just to find that, like bankers, they don’t have a hearth to offer? So septoplasty it was.

Experiencing hunger and poverty help you understand other people’s actions and motivations. But septoplasty is an experience that had rendered me utterly incapable of understanding why on earth would anyone go through this just for cosmetic reasons! I can’t breathe (like in Mexico city); I can’t talk (like in a nightclub), and I feel just half alive (like when you work and live in Mississauga).

In my particular case most of the pain doesn’t come from the nose, funny enough. It comes from the throat, the very muscle I’m doing this for. Seemingly during the operation they ram a plastic tube down your throat so you can breathe. They were not too gentle.

But there again, hours after the surgery I was watching the documentary “Endurance” about Shackleton’s 1916 expedition to Antarctica. Things started bad when their ship got trapped and then crushed by the ice, and they just got worst: Two years trapped in that white desert, uncommunicated, surviving on seals and penguins, drifting on ice planks, then sailing in precarious lifeboats through violent storms, waves 10 meter high pounding on the small boats. Their clothes soaking in frozen water for days on a row, hungry, tired.

And their final adventure, when the group parted ways on an empty, bare rock island: Shackleton and five others went out to look for help, leaving the rest behind. With barely any food or water, they sailed once more through violent storms for days. Miraculously, they reached the wale hunting island they were looking for, But to get to the wale post they still needed to cross the island, through frozen, bare, rocky mountains. No food, tired, drenched, they started the climb. They could not stop one minute, or they would die right there. Finally, after climbing all night, they found themselves at the peak of a mountain, with a cliff ahead of them. Too late to go back, impossible to move forward. Yet, they knew that if they give up and die, no one would ever know about their friends waiting to be rescued somewhere on a bare rock in the Antarctic. They had no choice but to go on. They peaked into the darkness and jumped, totally blind to what it may lie down below.

At dawn, in the wale hunting post, there was some loud knock at the door. Three semi-human figures stood there, their clothes were just rags from tumbling and sliding down all the way down the mountain. They were asking for a ship to rescue their chums.

I reached out for the remote and paused the documentary, rearranged 3 or 4 of my pillows and pulled the blanket closer to my chin, then I sipped my cup of broth. Yes, quite admirable for Shackleton and company. Still, my throat is in pain. So where is that Tylenol 3, again?

Historical revisionism

Have you ever wanted to travel back in time and change a key event? I have, quite a few times… I mean: I have wanted to do it, quite a few times.

When Hollywood travels back in time (see "Back to the Future") they undo 'evil' by rebuilding the self esteem of a bourgeois suburbanite who still resents not getting the girl in high school, or something along those lines. Utopia can be at hand's reach if your world is narrow enough!

Of course, I can think of a few selfish fantasies for me: maybe go back to the early sixties, create a band and "write" all the hits by the Stones, Beatles, U2, Nirvana, et al.

But that’s not really my cup of tea. Actually, my time travel fantasies are much more megalomaniac. Or I should say my fantasy, since is mainly one, recurring, almost haunting. I've had it since elementary school, when we learned about the demise of the Aztec empire and the eventual genocide of our nation by the Spanish invaders.

“If I could have been be there to warn Emperor Moctezuma! I would have told him that the comet was not an omen. I would have explained that Cortez was a greedy assassin, a religious fanatic, not the fulfillment of the ancient prophesies! Even give some military advice!” And the idea never went away.

How could I help think about it 15 years latter when I stood in the citadel of Monte Alban, that magical complex of stone on the top of a mountain? When I saw see the altered bone fragments in the museum and the guide mentioned that the way they healed proves they were skilled surgeons, including brain surgery. "Alas" he said "we can't really know much more than that, because the extensive libraries of this city were burned by the Spanish after the conquest, claiming that all native writings were diabolic".

The first time I visited Mexico city’s National Museum of Anthropology, an American tourist asked me: “We’ve seen a lot of ceramics, but… where is all the gold?” I uttered bitterly: “In Spain, madam, in Spain”.

A couple of months ago I was watching a documentary about the book "Guns, Germs and Steel", which provides an anthropological explanation for Caucasian race's monopoly on world's power. An explanation that makes a lot of sense: showing the circumstances that enabled white man's colonization of the Americas, South Asia, and Africa.

Very logical, but not less painful.

The documentary dramatized the assassination of Inca's emperor, the brutal butchering of the very same people who created Machu Picchu. I was twisting on my seat, thinking that even if the destruction of Inca and Aztec cultures was logical, it was not inevitable. I watched the actors re-enact play by play, word by word the brief encounters between Atahualpa and the Spanish before the monstrous killing spree started, something inside me was hurting like an echo of an old wound. Like an adult that recalls their parent’s fights and the memory hurts the little kid inside the adult.

My fantasy, thus, was to walk into Atahualpa’s court, tell him about the cruelty, the diseases. But also the science, the science at the other side of the ocean. I could have steer all the continent’s cultures into a powerful league: Incas, Aztec, Maya, Tolteca, Olmeca and Tlaxcatlecas. I would have illustrated the doom awaiting those who took the side of the Spanish: they would suffer slavery for centuries, perhaps millennia. Because of the color of their skin, the shape of their nose, rewarded only with a handful of presents from their soon to be slave drivers. The conquerors gave the ‘new’ world a taste, not just a metaphor, of the apocalypse they brought along with their Bible.

I could have helped their states grow and adopt the science of the west, promote literacy, ecological sustainability, foster an alternative culture, an option to the monolithic power of European countries in the world. A world with a strong, rich culture, unique roots, completely different, totally American.

And then, a few weeks ago I was walking on the Avenue of the Dead in Teotihuacan, just north of Mexico City, I was mentally editing my master plan for XV century Tenochtitlan, polishing subtle points such as intercontinental trade, state vs. private owned industries, and foreign investment. Lord Tonatiuh was shinning bright in the middle of the sky as I walked by his pyramid, leaving behind me the temple of the Moon… it was right then, right there, with such witnesses that I realized that my utopia was race based.

The conquerors were brutal and diabolical not because they were Spanish, but because they were ignorant and powerful. The state I was dreaming of would be utopian not because it would be formed by the likes of Moctezuma and Atahualpa, but because the ideas that would shape them (ideas with the benefit of five centuries experience). The massacre and slavery of the American cultures was a catastrophe because it was an extreme case of abuse of the powerful over the powerless, an extreme case of cultural devastation, not because victim’s blood was my own.

So, what exactly would it change if I could travel back in time, one step ahead of the genocide?

Perhaps today we would see the same universal difference between haves and not haves. Same story, different characters. Perhaps time and power would have made the Aztecs as corrupt as the Spanish were. If such was the case: what would have been gained? What difference does it make if the richest person on the world is the white geek Bill Gates or the complex Mexican with Syrian background Carlos Slim? Does it make a difference to the millions condemned to poor education and poor health care due to the corruption and inefficiency of their statesman? When hundreds of millions are systemically doomed to misery generation after generation, it doesn’t really matter if they are white, maya or black.

If the point is to be in a time and place where you can help avoiding great suffering, then there is no need to go back in time. Construction of utopia can start from so many places when ‘we’ becomes a vastly populated word.

So maybe I could use my ticket to the world than once was to visit the sixties, after all. How would you like to hear Strawberry Fields Forever with a Mexican accent? Oh, well… in some other page I may discuss a couple of characters from the past that I would love to meet. One is Jesus Christ, influential guy to say the least. But more than him, I would give anything to be able to look into the eyes of the man or woman who, dozens of thousands years ago, was the first person to realize that there is such a thing called “time”. The very first one to think about Chronos.

Toronto November 2007

Democracia apiaira, o ‘Voto por voto, colmena por colmena’

Democracia apiaira, o ‘Voto por voto, colmena por colmena’

Ésta va para mi hermano Fausto, por una conversación que dejamos a medias. Un comentario sobre poder y democracia en el mundo de las abejas. Del libro “Animal Minds” (2001) de Donald Griffin, capítulo 10:

Digamos que eres una abejita trabajadora, inspiradora de sellos para recompensar a los alumnos de kindergarten laboriosos. Pero la crisis está dura, por más que vuelas a diestra y siniestra, llevas horas sin encontrar buen polen y las otras trabajadoras, las que se encargan de procesar la comida que traes al panal, te están mirando malencaradas, con las patas delanteras cruzadas y pateando el piso con rítmica impaciencia.

En eso, otra de tus compañeras exploradoras se para en el techo del panal, y comienza a hacer un complicado paso de conga con mucha enjundia. Tú y todas las otras abejas tienen que prestar mucha atención a la coreografía. Porque la danza apiara es su medio de comunicación, con tanta riqueza semántica como un mapa del metro.

Básicamente, la longitud de la coreografía indica la distancia del panal a la comida; el ángulo de la trayectoria descrita al bailar indica la posición de la fuente alimenticia, siendo el mismo ángulo que el ángulo entre la posición actual del sol y el objetivo descrito (es decir, no ‘apuntan’ a una dirección, sino la codifican de acuerdo a un referente de orientación). Finalmente, la energía del baile indica qué tan prometedor es el alimento de acuerdo a qué materia prima es más necesaria para el panal en ése momento.

¿Y qué tiene que ver esto con el poder y la democracia?

Pues bien, cuando un panal está saturado. La Reina decide que es momento de establecer una nueva colonia. Aquí suceden dos cosas interesantes. Una: las obreras comienzan a alimentar a ciertas larvas con un tipo de comida distinto. Y como resultado, algunas de ésas larvas no se desarrollan como obreras, sino como Reinas. La misma larva, que en cualquier otra circunstancia hubiera crecido para ser obrera, ésta vez es nutrida para convertirse, fisiológica y funcionalmente en un ser distinto: La Reina. No voluntad propia ni sed de gloria, sino porque eso es lo que la sociedad necesita.

Más de una larva se empieza a desarrollar como Reina, el viejo panal no puede arriesgarse a quedarse sin reina cuando la vieja parta a establecer una nueva colonia. Por ello requieren varias candidatas. Pero una vez que la primera Reina se ha desarrollado, su primera función es irrumpir en las cámaras de las otras reinas en desarrollo y asesinarlas. El panal no puede tener más de una Reina.

Y aquí es cuando el ejercicio de la democracia comienza:

La vieja reina y una parte significativa del enjambre salen del panal. Y comienza la búsqueda por un nuevo hogar. Mientras el grueso del enjambre se queda esperando, varias exploradoras van y buscan una cavidad suficientemente limpia, seca, segura y sin insectos, como para establecerse.

Al regresar, comienzan una danza similar a la que hacen para indicar comida, pero ahora claramente hablan sobre posibles refugios. Las distintas exploradoras bailan con distintos grados de excitación de acuerdo a la calidad del lugar encontrado. Varias exploradoras van a visitar los otros sitios descritos por sus colegas y al regresar “bailan” su reporte. Progresivamente, muchas cambian su baile para indicar la locación más idónea, aunque no sea la que ellas encontraron. Y en muchos casos, las abejas que se unen al baile del sitio ganador nunca lo han visitado. Se rigen por la información proveída por sus colegas. Finalmente, cuando la mayoría está bailando al mismo son durante un rato, La Reina y el enjambre se dirigen a la locación indicada a construir su nuevo hogar.

Los pacientes (demasiado quizá) investigadores, notaron que nunca una abeja que haya empezado a bailar sobre la localidad más deseable (y eventualmente ganadora) cambia a indicar otra menos deseable. Y las abejas que bailaban por un sitio menos deseable, o cambiaron su baile al que se refería al sitio más deseable, o simplemente dejaron de bailar.

Creo que en sus decisiones, la premisa de que lo que es bueno para la colmena es bueno para el individuo nunca entra en consideración. El individuo jamás es elemento en la ecuación. Cada abeja busca solamente lo que es mejor para la colmena.

Faltaría saber cómo logró la evolución producir un comportamiento tan complejo, cuáles fueron sus pasos intermedios. ¿Hubo algún Pericles de la democracia apiara hace veinte millones de años? ¿Dónde está su estatua de cera?

Los mismos barrios, nuevas experiencias

Prácticamente se nos acabó el verano, pero el fin de semana pasada alcancé a robarle un par de momentos a la ciudad.

Primero, recogí de la sala de hospital (Duke’s bike) a my precious, mi Cinder Kona, ya rehabilitada con ruedas nuevas que reponen las que unos “#$% le birlaron. Pasear en bicicleta me reconcilia con el género humano y con las distintas encarnaciones de mis tres décadas y media. ¿Qué ruta seguir?, ¿por donde empezar? Las opciones eran la orilla del lago, azul agua, azul cielo; las rutas de montaña, sudor, adrenalina y vegetación cerrada; o alguna de las múltiples rutas urbanas.

Al final me decidí por una nueva ruta urbana, que en el mapa ciclista de Toronto es la 33/35: Old Forrest Hill. Atravesar la ciudad a través de uno de los barrios más caros, pasando por cuadra tras cuadra de casas descaradamente señoriales, tiene varios efectos en mi. Primero que nada, me llena de una inexplicable y tremenda energía; también me da envidia, mezclada con un ligero desconsuelo de darme cuenta que no estoy encarrilado hacia, ni tengo un plan para llegar millonario; por otro lado me tranquiliza saber que aunque me gustaría tener la posibilidad, en realidad no me sentiría a gusto vivir en un caserón así, en un barrio así. Pero sobre todo, me recuerda mis paseos ciclistas en Guadalajara, que tanto me hicieron reflexionar sobre la ciudad, sobre las clases sociales, sobre el infinito número de diferentes estilos de vida, ambientes, elecciones que una sola ciudad ofrece, y me hacían sentir abrumado al no saber cuál era mi ruta óptima. Cada que se elige algo, se rechazan mil alternativas.

Luego el domingo nos aventuramos a un parque acuático donde casi hago mi primer strip-tease cuando la velocidad de la caída por un tobogán cardiaquísimo redujo mi traje de baño a jirones.

Más tarde, a recomendación de una de mis múltiples amigas argentinas, la Paradiso y yo nos apersonamos (en bicicleta) en Cherry Beach, a disfrutar de una batucada brasileña que marcaba el cierre de de los espontáneos happenings que al parecer suceden todo el verano en dicha playa. Había tanto hippie, tanto brasileño, tanta mariguana, tanto baile y tanta buena vibra que parecíamos estar en una recóndita playa caribeña, no a tiro de piedras del centro financiero de Canadá.

Ya en la casa, a eso de las dos de la mañana empiezo a escuchar ruido como de banda militar y fuegos artificiales. ¿A esta hora? ¿En Toronto? Traté de ver por la ventana para ver si había algún festival en Queen’s Park, pero sería imposible, jamás hubieran tenido permiso para quedarse a ésa hora. Intuyendo lo que pasaba, y muerto de curiosidad, rápidamente me vestí con lo primero que encontré a la mano y bajé corriendo a recorrer el laberinto de edificios del campus de la Universidad de Toronto. Escuchando un tambor aquí y una trompeta allá, comprobé que el ruido no venía de un solo lugar: con la cara y el cuerpo pintados de morado, con sus distintivos cascos y overles, los alumnos de ingeniería (SKUL) iban de edificio en edificio a dar serenata con su ruidosa banda, interpretando clásicos como “Can you show me the way to sesame Street?” y provocando que todas las ventanas de la residencia estudiantil en turno se encendieran y curiosos rostros se asomaran a ver que sucedía. Algunos, a mitad de su propia fiesta, bajaban a hacer alboroto un rato. Bienvenidos al ciclo escolar 2007-2008,

Seguí a la banda un rato, pero luego me sentí sin vela en el entierro. Era una celebración de estudiantes. Me senté en una banca en un área abierta entre una capilla y varios de mis edificios favoritos de la universidad. La noche era cálida en todos los aspectos. Las estrellas estaban tranquilas. En un homenaje a la seguridad de la ciudad, estudiantes de ambos sexos pasaban tranquilamente junto a mí, a ésa hora, sin sentirse amenazados en lo más mínimo por un tipo sentado en una banca.

Me puse a disfrutar realmente la arquitectura del lugar, los árboles, el cielo. La Universidad a las 3 de la mañana. Todo esto a mi alcance tan seguido, como la ruta 33/35, como el parque acuático, como cherry beach… ¡Y tan pocas veces que los visito! Hay que poner mayor empeño en vencer a la rutina.

Mi encuentro con Juan Salvador Gaviota

Las reglas de los parques son simples: si hay una parvada de palomas, habrá también un niño que se lance corriendo tras ellas, y las palomas responderán levantando el vuelo. ¿Estamos todos de acuerdo? Al parecer no.

Ayer fui a un recorrido ciclista con un amigo: 56 kilómetros en total. Pasamos por el área de “Las Playas”, que realmente hacían a uno pensar que estaba de vacaciones en destino tropical: centenares de jóvenes disfrutando del sol, vendedores de helado, el agua inconspicuamente azul. Claro que la arena es demasiado pedregosa y el lago demasiado contaminado para nadar. Pero igual la imagen es una postal de verano en la playa, gaviotas incluidas.

Cuando vi la multitud de gaviotas peleándose por un pedazo de comida en el camino, me imaginé pasando entre ellas en mi bicicleta como Moisés en el mar rojo, un ejército de aves levantándose a mi paso. No reduje la velocidad ni un ápice. De pronto, me veo envuelto en una confusión de plumas, graznidos, y todo sucedió en una fracción de segundo: descubro a la gaviota gandalla, que llevaba la comida en su pico, demasiado ocupada en defender su botín para darse cuenta que yo ya estaba a menos de un metro. Extendió sus alas para levantar el vuelo y ¡CRACK! Con un tronido estentóreo mi llanta delantera le pasó por el ala y rompió sus huesos. O quizá yo iba girando hacia ella para esquivar otro pájaro. No sé. El sonido llegó a mis oídos amplificado, sonó como si se hubiera partido un yate a la mitad. Se hizo un silencio sepulcral: todas las demás gaviotas se quedaron quietas y calladas. Mi víctima soltó un par de graznidos débiles y, demasiado tarde, dio un par de saltitos para quitarse del camino. Ni una gaviota parecía recordar la comida que instantes antes peleaban con tanto entusiasmo.

Mi amigo comentó “¡De que manera tan espantosa le quedo doblada el ala! ¡Nunca más podrá volar! Esa gaviota va a morir.” Y yo con mi cara de “yo no fui”. ¿Qué hacer ahora? Ni modo de pararme a leerle pasajes de “Juan Salvador Gaviota” y recordarle que el único límite está en la mente y gritarle “¡sé libre, vuela!” con la música de la película de fondo. Me alejé de ahí aturdido y culpable.

¿Cómo se hace la oda a una víctima de tu propio descuido?

Soccer World Cup ticket. It was 21 years ago today!

My friend Jelena gave us a couple of tickets for the opening game in Toronto of the Soccer World Cup for players under 20. I absolutely loved to be there… the green field, the lights, the crowd.

It was Canada day, and it was a Canadian experience. It wasn’t the typical soccer crowd, yelling imaginative description of the sex life of the player’s mothers, throwing bottles filled with piss to the pit, and trying to beat the crap out of whoever sports a shirt of the visiting team. Nothing of that sort.

Instead, in the Canadian world cup, there are kids all over the place, seats are comfy and even have a cup folder for your beer. Parents explain to the kids that the Canadian team may loose “but that’s not what matters”. As the crowd chanted inanely: “go team”, “good job” and “wakey, wakey”, I started thinking about my other world cup experience.

It was 21 years, and 2 weeks ago. Brazil, the mighty, unreal and legendary Brazil was playing in Guadalajara and I was at home about to watch the transmission. I must have uttered something about the irony of having the stadium so close and having to watch the game on tv. On the spot, my mom offered to buy a ticket for me.

I froze. We weren’t too tight on money, but… But it was 1986, I was about to turn 14, I had already developed a deep urge for independence. Despise a bunch of odd jobs, my savings were meager to non-existent, and the idea of getting money from my mother for luxury items (anything except food, clothes and school) triggered strong feelings of guilt and embarrassment. Yet… it was Brazil playing!

“At least let’s go and find out if we still can get one” she insisted. So we took the bus to the stadium, instantly a scalper spotted us. I don’t recall the price, but I remember my mom opening her purse and buying a single ticket. I couldn’t feel guiltier if she would have been handing me the only piece of meat at Christmas dinner. At the game I had an amazing time. Brazil nailed the polish 4-0, there was a rooster running in the court and the whole security guards chased it as the crowd chanted “ole! ole!” more interested on the rooster’s dribbling than that of the players on the other side of the field.

I don’t remember the goals. My clearest recollection of that day is climbing up the long, long stairs to the top of the stadium (it was a nose bleeder seat), and just before getting through the gate, I looked down and out: my mom was still standing there, and she waved at me.

I waved back.

Un par de esquís

Tengo pendiente hacer una lista de las cosas que me hacen sentirme orgulloso de mi mismo. Todos debemos sacar el argentino que llevamos dentro en algún momento, es justo y necesario. Como ejercicio de memoria, de autoconcepto, y por puritito gusto.

Ya cerrando Junio, acercándome a mis 35, encontré otro momento que seguro va a la lista. En un lago al norte de Toronto, sentado en el muelle estuve viendo a mis amigos intentar aprender a hacer esquí acuático, repitiendo varias veces la misma secuencia: ponerse en posición, la lancha arrancaba, y el amateur en turno se volvía un garabato en el agua durante un momento antes de dejar ir la cuerda con frustración.

Para sorpresa propia y ajena, en mi primer intento logré poner los esquís paralelos, la lancha arrancó, y obedeciendo puntualmente las leyes de Newton, la fricción me sacó del agua y me mantuvo en la superficie. Ya luego le dimos toda la vuelta triunfal al lago. Un pequeño paso para el hombre, pero un buen levantón para el ego.

La vida es un carnaval

"Quise hallar el olvido, al estilo Jalisco

pero aquellos mariachis y aquel tequila

me hicieron llorar"

Jose Alfredo Jiménez

El primer fin de semana de Junio hubo un festival llamado “carnivalísima”, con varios conciertos gratis en el Harbourfront, al aire libre ala orilla del lago. Estaban representados todos los países carnavaleros. Y por supuesto, el domingo había representantes mexicanos. El concierto se anunciaba así:

"Tambora Sinaloense ‘La Mazatleca’

The Tambora Sinaloense mixes festive spirit with a feeling of melancholy. Over the years, tubas, clarinets, saxophones, trumpets and other musical instruments were incorporated into their musical signature. They were integrated with a set of percussion instruments, including cymbals, a small snare drum with a vibrating sound known as a ‘tarola’ and the ‘tambora’, and a big bass drum that kept the rhythm of the melody. Actually, this drum gave the band its name. The music of the Tambora is a fundamental part of Carnival. The classic songs are: El Sauce y la Palma, El Niño Perdido, El Sinaloense, El Toro Mambo, and others. All of them are cheerful and rhythmical and, of course, the people of the Mexican north-west Pacific coast dance in a very unique style"

Definitivamente, cualquiera que haya estado en una fiesta donde la raza se pone a hacer “la quebradita” y a bailar de caballito al ritmo de “ay chiquitita linda pechocha, ve con tu mama, como te quiere tu papa ve”, estará de acuerdo con que el baile sinaloense es “a very unique style”.

No le iba yo a hacer el feo al representante mexicano, así que le llamé a mi chiquitita linda pechocha y raudos llegamos a tiempo para ganar lugar. ¡Si pudiera volver el tiempo atrás y en lugar de ir al funesto concierto nos hubiéramos puesto a hacer crucigramas parados en un hormiguero!

Y es que fue una mancha al orgullo patrio. ¿Por donde empezó la tragedia?

El primer problema, es que ya habían tocado bandas muy buenas el viernes y sábado, chilenos, neoyorkinos, brasileños. Todos prendidísimos, excelentes músicos y con presencia escénica. Las expectativas eran altas.

El segundo problema fue el cónsul mexicano, que es de Mazatlán por cierto, y sin tener que pitos tocar en ésa orquesta, se trepó al escenario a presentar la banda y a dar un discurso a-bu-rri-dí-si-mo. Para cuando terminó de leer, porque además el angelito estaba leyendo como si estuviera en el congreso, tuvo que salir la maestra de ceremonias a despertar a la gente.

El tercer problema fue la ausencia de mexicanos, y específicamente sinaloenses. Cuando la banda preguntó si había mexicanos en el auditorio, creo que mi mano fue la única que se levantó. Aunque luego vi a una morra baile y baile con el más puro estilo sinaloense.

El cuarto problema fue: el show mismo. Todavía traía fresco en mi memoria el megadesmadre que armó la banda brasileña la noche anterior… y veo salir a la tambora sinaloense, con cara de empleado aduanal, simplemente tocando chunta-chunta-chunta-chunta. La raza no se prendió, sino que varios se empezaron a ir.

Pero si tan solo se hubieran contentado con eso… ¡pero no! Obedeciendo no sé qué malévolo plan, se trajeron hasta Toronto a la reina de la primavera y la reina del carnaval. Dos chicas muy guapas, si. Pero... vestidas de princecitas medievales con terciopelo barato de almacén “La naftalina”. Las tipas salieron al escenario y se pusieron al frente a hacer nada excepto sonreír y ser apreciadas... TODO EL PINCHE CONCIERTO, nomás saludando como reinas de belleza: corto corto, laaargo laaargo… Muy triste, muy decadente. Mi novia argentina las veía y se doblaba de risa y yo no sabía donde esconder la cara. Creo que eso de las reinas ahí paradas refleja mucho del machismo nacional: la mujer simplemente es objeto, así que estar ahí parada como idiota sin hacer nada no es anormal, no le parece raro a nadie. Y se veía más que raro, se veía bizarro.

Entonces salen al escenario varios bufones, o arlequines, no sé que chingados eran, pero les hacía falta no se si varias chelas, o de plano Prozac. Apagados, inhibidos, con unos brinquitos ridículos y un bailecito repitero. Eso, cuando se les pegaba su regalada gana bailar. Yo nunca he ido al carnaval de Mazatlán pero estoy seguro que debe haber ALGUIEN que baile mejor, que tenga un mínimo de presencia escénica, ganas de pasarselo bien estando sobrio, al menos que no enlode tan gacho el nombre patrio. Inspirado por Ibargüengoitia, me daban ganas de empezar a correr el rumor de que el programa estaba mal y que ése no era un grupo mexicano sino ecuatoriano, libanés o noruego.

El público ni siquiera seguía el ritmo con la cabeza, muchos se empezaron a salir. Yo me hundía en mi asiento y meneaba la cabeza acordándome de que la noche anterior los brasileños tenían a la gente abarrotada dentro y fuera del auditorio, desde el escenario hasta el lago, no cabía un alfiler, toda la gente saltando y bailando como si el mundo se acabara al día siguiente. ¡Y qué decir de los chilenos, o la banda de salsa neoyorkina!

Mi patriotismo me decía que tenía que poner mi granito de arena, sacar a mi novia a bailar en los pasillos, algo que despertara al público, alguna señal de vida en semejante velorio... y en eso salen a escena unas gentiles damiselas en disfraces de... piñas tricolores, piñas verde, blanco y rojo. Hágame usted el fabrón cavor. Lo peor del asunto, es que con su bailecito simplón y desganado... ¡eran la gente más prendida del escenario! Las reinas del carnaval seguían saludando con su sonrisa de bolsa de sabritas. Los arlequines parece que esperaban nomás el momento de regresar al Centro de Depresivos Crónicos. No lo pude aguantar más y nos escapamos del lugar, mi novia miraba hacia atrás y lloraba de la risa.

Cuando un par de horas más tarde, pasamos por ahí y vimos a una banda de Trinidad tomando el escenario, poniendo a la raza a brincar y agitando pañuelos, al que le daban ganas de llorar era a mí.

PD: Para rematar, un par de días después, una amiga argentina me dice mirándome con toda la naturalidad y buena voluntad de sus profundos ojos azules: "El domingo pase por harbourfront vi tocar a un mariachi mexicano".
- No era mariachiiiiii!!!!!! - contesté indignado.
- Si, vaya. Yo escuché que la gente decía que era un mariachi mexicano.
Nunca, desde la caida de los muros de Jericó, un conjunto de trompetas había causado tanto daño.

Todo está bien si termina bien

El viernes parecía que sería un fin de semana aciago. Repentinamente mi carro se murió, al parecer de un corto circuito. Al tratar de encenderlo, como única respuesta algunas luces en el tablero se encendían erráticas y desconcertantes, como la política interior mexicana.

Mi presión arterial subió exponencialmente en las siguientes horas, diagnósticos incorrectos, negligencias propias y ajenas (las propias son las que dan más coraje), terminando con un gran fínale de Mr. Yo Mismo tratando de instalar una batería nueva en el auto, con llaves que nunca eran de la medida, tornillos con vocación de Houdini, un calor asfixiante y ganas de asfixiar con las manos a todos los mecánicos del mundo.

Pero en eso, un empleado del taller, notando que me comenzaba a poner verde y a romper la camisa al más puro estilo Hulk, se acercó, a pesar de estar en su hora de descanso. El tipo, un hindú joven con la pupila izquierda habitada por un fantasma blanquecino – transparente, con quince minutos de samaritanismo fue un antídoto contundente contra la dosis de bilis que acechaba el fin de semana.

Y el sábado, respondiendo a la invitación de VP, me encontré con ella (ambos en nuestras ropas domingueras) en un restaurante marroquí al sur de la ciudad: “La tienda del Sultán”. Ahí corroboré que no me vendría nada mal un califato. Cortinas, velos, cojines, lámparas...

De la comida, ni hablar, fue comida a cuatro tiempos, que más bien debieran haber sido anunciados como cuatro eras geológicas, dada la cantidad de platillos que trajeron, destacando las “costillas de res” que más bien parecía un cuarto de mamut, y estaban, ¡oh, hermanos!, para chuparse los dedos. Y a propósito, luego apareció una exponente de la danza del vientre, espectáculo muy edificante para observar mientras se lleva uno a la boca cuadritos de hojaldre rebosantes de miel y pistacho.

Se le agradece enormemente a VP el regalo y la larga caminata de sobremesa.

Toronto, Mayo 2007.

Bad acid trip

At the climax of “Contact” Jodie Foster goes into a space trip in an alien designed vessel, to have the very first contact with an extraterrestrial species in the documented history of mankind. The alien, turns out, looks and sounds exactly like his father. The surroundings resemble a Florida beach at night.

The alien tells her that they searched in her brain for familiar images and decided to introduce themselves using those icons in order to avoid shocking and scaring the hell out of her. That was Carl Sagan’s extra clever way of getting away with portraying a conversation with an alien species without elucidating about their looks.

Now, I recalled this scene because a very smart friend of mine told me the other night, as we were dipping in a delicious plate of Ethiopian food, a story about a bad acid trip. After dropping the acid, she immediately noticed something wrong and proceeded to lock herself in the washroom. Probably it was bad acid. There, she started to get scared, thinking only “please stop this, please stop this”. She would have gone into panic, but then she started to trip about going to the hospital (let me clarify this, she never left the washroom, going to the hospital was part of the acid trip) and telling a doctor how she felt. The doctor calmly reassured her: “It’s only a bad acid trip, there is nothing you can do, just let it flow, it will go away with time”.

The icons are obvious: the hospital and the doctor represent authority, someone who is in control and takes care of you when you feel bad. But what’s more interesting is that She, and only She, choose those symbols. And She did that because She new that it would calm Her, because Herself would have gone into panic otherwise.

Freud and others have made good guesses about the existence of multiple layers of personality: conscious, subconscious, ego, super ego, etc… Each and all of them are “the real” yourself. But which one is “the main” yourself. In this case, was “the main” herself the one about going into panic, that needed reassurance, the one that needed protection? Or was the “main” herself the one that came into the rescue with a soothing image of a doctor in a hospital?

Perhaps I will never know for sure… or should I use We to refer to me?

It's not hat I hate sports, but

35 seconds left of the game; one single point makes the difference between glory and defeat. Everyone is glued to the screens at the bars, holding the breath as the play starts, the player dribbles, he shoots! The ball goes in the air and…

Wait. Not everyone is glued to the screen. I found out about the finals only because I saw the crowd on the sidewalk outside a sports bar. For the last 15 years, I’ve missed every single World Series, Stanley cup, Super Bowl, The Great Enchilada and the likes. Actually, with the exception of the soccer world cup, I have only watched a handful of sports matches in TV since I finished university in the mid 90’s.

It's not that I hate sports, but the idea of sitting there watching grown up men chasing, hitting and tossing a ball bores me out of my skull. And let’s not even go into “sports” such as golf and curling. Those make dish washing exciting by comparison.

I do appreciate watching clips of great plays: Jordan flying with the ball high on his hand, Ronaldinho dribbling and scoring, Tyson brutally beating his opponent into pulp. I love those displays of skill, athletics and passion. I often stop by a park or a playground to watch either adults or kids playing some sport, it seems to me a postcard of enjoyment, freedom, engaged and active peace. But I can’t bear the idea of cheering for Manchester United, or Toronto Raptors, or caring if Nadal and Tiger Woods moved up the ranking. Not even my local teams Chivas and Atlas. Who cares? And why?

There are of course, rewards to the sports fan. Being one of them the orgasmic climax of victory. The catharsis of feeling triumphant in a reality so immediate, concrete and simple as a ball hitting the net. Pure and raw emotion.

But to enjoy that orgasm you must be in a relationship with your team. And most sports fans would say the joy is the relationship itself, and climax (victory) is an extremely welcomed, but peripheral aspect of the relationship. The main joy is to be a fan, to be immersed in a dimension easily available, where you can experience disappointment, but never rejection. The fan has all the power in this relationship, he can reject, loath and abuse his team whenever he wants. The sense of intimacy is easily achievable via the collective memory of special plays or games. So happy together!

And then there are the sports commentators. Doing their tv show, one hour a day, dressed in suits, with a straight face and an expression of deep thought as they weight the chances of South Carolina to get to the finals given Johnson’s recent injury. I really can not make up my mind if they are blessed or terminally idiotic. And the reason is, some part of me wonders if I don’t get sports right: Maybe sports fanaticism is a diluted version of nationalism, regionalism, xenophobia, racism and similar, more aggressive versions of belonging and bonding.

If that’s the case, sports may be to war and violent raids like methadone to heroin. Channeling those sadly familiar emotions in a controlled environment, where by and large the worst consequences are the humiliation of green team, the waving of flags and verbal abuse of other fans. And of course I know about the hooligans, I know about all the deaths and fights that sports trigger. I did read “Among the thugs”, and have hear the racist chanting in soccer stadiums all around the world. I have been banned from bars in central Europe because my friend was wearing a “Brasil” shirt. But my point is: likely those people were aggressive by nature, with or without professional sports. And that violence could be released in more damaging circumstances. So yes, even if many times sports exacerbates that natural violence, perhaps in most cases it just harnesses it, controls it.

And maybe sports commentators are not the ultimate pointless, ridiculous pathetic human beings, but winged nurses who help deliver the methadone dose right on time to their itching audience.

I recall a few years back watching a bull fight on tv with my mom, the matador doing a pass to the right, to the left, the bull nearly missing him every time as he stood up with incredible grace and bravery, and finally going for the kill, with a stroke of his sword so perfect, so precise. He threw his cape to the sand, standing in front of the bull, just a couple of steps from the horns, exposed, vulnerable and completely confident. The bull tried to charge, his whole heavy body moved, but it didn’t go forward an inch and just dropped dead in the sand, like an imploding building. At this point I realized I had stood from the sofa, and I was two inches from the tv screen, my hearth beating fast, the blood rushing… I’m not addicted, but boy do I know the rush!

Dos botes

Mi vida en Toronto ha sido plagada de presencias argentinas, a quienes tal vez describiré en otra ocasión. Pero esta semana, hojeando una antología de poesía que me regaló mi hermana en Navidad, di con una nueva presencia, una voz aliada que dio con la metáfora justa para un evento tan sin tiempo, tan con drama y tan con sueño, tan valioso y odioso, tan recurrente y efímero. He aquí el poema completo.


Despertarte a

Despertarte a mitad de la noche
y ver en el otro lado de tu cama
a tu mujer llorando
es una experiencia importante.
Quiero decir, entre otras cosas,
que mientras paseabas por los cuartos
iluminados de tu cerebro
algo se estaba gestando cerca tuyo.
Un error en el cual mantenés
una particular relación de intimidad
Pero aunque no firmemos nada,
ni corramos apurados bajo la lluvia de arroz
pensamos que es para toda la vida
y así seguimos.
Botes, que durante la noche,
quedan amarrados al muelle,
golpeándose entre sí,
según el viento.

Fabián Casas

Finanzas personales e impersonales

Los estados de cuenta y demás papeleo de la finanzas personales me producen una flojera enooooorme. A lo que más llego es a revisar cada tres meses la taza de interés de mis magras inversiones. Por eso el último mes ha sido tan atípico:

Después de semanas sacarle la vuelta al montón de sobres que se habían acumulado en mi buzón durante mis vacaciones, le eché un ojo a mi cuenta de ahorro para el retiro. Y pegué un brinco al ver que desde Julio estaban invertidos en una cuenta que yo no había elegido, y que estaba perdiendo dinero. Raudo me apersono en el banco para reclamarle al banquero que lleva mi cuenta, solo para enterarme que ya no trabaja ahí. En su lugar me recibe un gordito risueño y me explica que el otro tipo no dejó archivos de sus transacciones.

- Y por lo tanto -dijo- si usted declara que pidió que los fondos se inviertieran en otra cuenta, tiene que proporcionar evidencia, un record escrito. De otra manera no podemos rembolsarle el dinero que usted dice que le debemos. Lo siento realmente, no hay nada que podamos hacer.

Por un instante me sentí pequeño frente al Goliat bancario, que no daría su brazo a torcer, el banquero de fría mirada clavando los codos en el escritorio. Pero en mi consciencia yo sabía que me debían dinero y contraataqué:

- El hecho es -argüí- mis fondos fueron transferidos a ésa cuenta en ésa fecha. Y si ustedes, Banco Perenganito, no pueden producir evidencia, un record escrito, de que yo solicité ese movimiento, entonces ustedes hicieron una transacción no autorizada. Una transacción ilegal. ¿Entiendes a donde voy?

Cambio de 180 grados. Me llevaron con la Gerente de la sucursal, que me preguntó por mi vida, mi familia, me contó de la suya, me asignaron a un consejero de inversión de los que atienden solo a grandes cuentas, carpeta roja, “Mr. Ramírez” por acá, “Mr. Ramírez” por allá. Me reembolsaron la cantidad que yo había calculado que me debían, y 250 dólares extras “por las molestias”. Lo que los argentinos denominan ‘chupar los calcetines’. Y de que manera.

Luego, este viernes, raqueta en mano toco en la puerta de mi vecino con quien iba a jugar squash.

- Dáme 10 minutos -dice abriendo la puerta- la bolsa no ha cerrado.

Entro a la sala de su casa y observo los últimos 10 minutos de su día de trabajo: detrás de un escritorio con 4 enormes pantallas, llenas de gráficos, números y demás información de la Bolsa de Valores de Toronto. John, además de un gran amigo, es un corredor de bolsa. Mientras hace las transacciones, y con el ruido de fondo de un comentarista transmitiendo en vivo desde el piso de la Bolsa, me explica rápidamente los sube y bajas del día, las tendencias de tal o cual grupo de acciones, un par de transacciones muy afortunadas que hizo en el día, los rumores de política y economía que afectaron el mercado, etc.

Yo consideraba que si algún talento tengo es la capacidad de digerir información, particularmente numérica, pero me sorprendió, casi me abrumó el volumen de información que el maneja, a la velocidad que lo hace... y el hecho que lo haga ininterrumpidamente 8 horas al día, 5 días a la semana. Pantallas, radio, mensajes de texto, llamadas, correos electrónicos. Si hay un nuevo impuesto, si hay fricciones militares en el sureste asiático, si un modelo de celular no se está vendiendo como se imaginaba, si una compañía minera descubrió una veta... todo lo que sucede en el mundo puede tener un efecto en la Bolsa. Me pregunto si yo podría hacer ése trabajo, si sería bueno, si lo disfrutaría. Me pregunto qué se siente saber que el mundo entero es tu ambiente de trabajo, que cada decisión de comprar o vender tiene a los cinco continentes girando alrededor.

En cuanto al squash, el día fue todo mío.

Todo estaba bien hasta que agarré el vaso

Pasé el domingo con mi amiga Daniela, pizza y cerveza, muriéndonos de risa, mirando la peli “Koyaanisqatsi” (Life Out of Balance) que es un alucine. Luego pasamos largo rato en mi estudio, sin platicar, simplemente mirando la calle, los skatos, los peatones... Estábamos escuchando Asian Dub Foundation y luego pasamos a los Beatles. “A day in the life”, la he escuchado minuciosamente centenares de ocasiones, pero éste vez, justo cuando Paul McCartney empieza a cantar “woke up, fell out of bed...” llegué a una súbita conclusión: ése fragmento, que al parecer no tiene nada que ver con el resto de la canción, es la historia contada desde la perspectiva del tipo que muere al inicio de la canción. No se porqué me di cuenta tan claramente, pero de pronto la idea se hizo contundente en mi cabeza: “ése fragmento lo canta el muerto”

Supongo que podré agregarle una más a el montón de pistas que proponen los que dicen que Paul murió en el 66.

Ha sido una semana movida, la fiesta de cumpleaños de Copycat el Sabado (estoy aprendiendo que a los blogeros se les llama por su blognombre), Rocky Horror Picture Show en el Hummingbird Center el Martes, Carmina Burana en el Hart House hoy jueves. Además de que sigo teniendo unos sueños larguisísmos, rarísimos, super detallados y más editados y producidos que si Coppola y Spielberg los produjeran. Todos mis sueños suceden en México, en todos sale al menos algún miembro de mi familia, en casi todos sale el mar o la playa. Y son las cosas más monumentalmente raras e imaginativas, que hacen parecer a David Lynch y Fellini aburridos y predecibles.

Pero el evento de la semana fue la conferencia que di ayer miércoles. Ahi va la descripción:
(www.projectworldcanada.com)

Two Steps Risk Management: How to Avoid the Cassandra Complex
Alejandro Ramirez, PMP, Motorola Canada
As Troy was burning down in flames, their citizens butchered by the sword, Cassandra looked at the scene and had a déjà vu. She had not only foreseen the risk, but also communicated it accurately to all the relevant stakeholders. Why then did no one do anything to avoid it?
• Identify the difference between a risk statement and a failure prediction
• Formulate risk that lead to action
• Taking the second step: full risk management

Durante las últimas dos semanas me había estado preocupando de que mi material no era suficientemente profesional, o que no sería suficiente para sobrellevar una hora, que los nervios me fueran a traicionar en el escenario... Porque pese a los años de trabajar en inglés, ésta era mi primera conferencia en un evento así, con desconocidos.

La cosa empezó bien, calculo que llegaron unas 120 o 140 personas, un lleno total, gente parada y todo eso. Empecé a hablar con firmeza y claridad (creo yo), mi plática estaba llena de referencias a la mitología e historia griega, historia canadiense, etc. Y saturada de mi muy particular idea de lo que es el sentido del humor. La gente, afortunadamente se estaba riendo de mis bromas, se sentía el ambiente muy receptivo. Todo iba bien hasta que se me ocurrió agarrar el vaso de agua. Mi mano estaba temblando tanto que el agua se derramaba, y encima al darle un sorbito, me eché un hielo a la boca y lo mastiqué frente a toda la gente, inmediatamente hice un comentario al respecto, dejé el vaso y recuperé lo poco que quedaba de compostura y seguí adelante. Eso fue más o menos al inicio. Obvio es que no volvía tocar el vaso. La gente siguió interesada, siguió riendo, de no haber sido por el maldito vaso nunca nadie se hubiera ni siquiera imaginado que estaba nervioso.

De hecho, ignorando ésos 20 segundos, creo que la conferencia estuvo muy bien. Que es como decir que, exceptuando el flechazo en el talón, Aquiles se la pasó bien en la guerra de Troya.

Between Carnival and a snowstorm

Walking in the blizzard, my boots sinking deeply into the snow, the nasty wind was pounding me with waves of snow from every direction. But knowing that I was just 5 blocks away from home, the discomfort had the same thrill that you get in a roller coaster: you’re glad that you’re in for the ride, and you know you’ll be even happier when it’s over.

I finally made it back into my apartment and I tuned in the news: Highway closures, gridlocks everywhere. Not a good day to be in the road. My phone rang, it was my friend Shawn. He needed a place to stay for the night in Toronto.

- Aren’t you in Ottawa?
- Yes, but my flight to [undisclosed location in Africa] leaves from Toronto tomorrow morning.
- How do you plan to get here?
- Driving
- In the middle of the snowstorm?? Are you insane!? (Rhetorical question, he IS insane).
- The airports is closed.
- Why don’t you take the train?
- I tried to, the tracks are blocked somewhere.

So he rented a car and drove through the snowstorm. He arrived almost at midnight, I had friends over, and he entertained us with his adventures as journalist disguised as diamond smuggler in [undisclosed location in Africa]. Or at least I found it entertaining.

I’ve seen Shawn more than 24 hours in the last couple of years, so there was plenty of catch up to do. About the family, his house in Rio de Janeiro, his new dog, living conditions in Brazil, diamond smuggling in the amazons, and the sort.

Then the next day, I realized he forgot to mention something. He came out of the shower, wearing no shirt, and I realized a couple of nasty wounds in the back, just an inch below the armpit. They were pretty recent, they still had the stitches on.

Turns out, the week before, after a full day of dancing and drinking in the carnival in Rio de Janeiro, where he lives since year 2004, he was taking a lonely alley back home when two guys tried to take his wallet. He decided it was a good idea to fight with them. In retrospective, he admits it wasn’t the wisest idea. He could not understand why one of the guys insisted in punching him mildly in the shoulder. “What a harmless fighting technique” he remembers thinking. It wasn’t until he saw the blood, and then a shine in the guýs hand that he realized that he wasn’t being punched. He was being stabbed.

Luckily, the blade didn’t touch the lungs, so he’ll be alright... well, at least as related to this incident. Last I heard from him, in an e-mail from his wife Alex, is that he was stranded in an obscure region of Africa because the plane landed abruptly due to technical problems.

As I write this, the weather is getting mild, but one major highway is closed, as the half melted ice stalactites are staring to fall from big buildings, such as the CN tower.

Which one is a better way to die? By a pointy piece of pointed ice, the size of an adult person, falling 500 metres from the sky? Or having your lung punctured by a knife after dancing the day away in Rio’s carnival? Which one is a better way to live?

Toronto, March 12, 2007

Dead to the ugly!

“Dead to the ugly,
to every single one who is ugly”
Cumbia by Wilfredo Vargas

On the stage of Barcelona’s auditorium Albert Pla sings, cries, dances... but mainly he laughs. At his country, at the powerful, at himself, at the universe in general and God in particular. “Up his ass!” He yells (‘por el culo!’), the crowd cheers and chants with him “fuck his heaven, his angels, up his ass with his divine graaaaaaaaaace!” He once was the enfant terrible of Catalan music. Now in his early forties (or so he looks) he doesńt seem to be mellowing down the slightest bit. Still sharp, still acid.

In a weird way, he makes me think of the friend I met in Puerto Vallarta a couple of weeks ago. We drove together to Guadalajara, his conversation centred largely on plastic surgery: his own and his friends’. Nose jobs, enhanced pectorals, nicer ass, tighter abdominal area. We’re talking about guys. Lots of them. After a couple of hours of mental pictures it started to crawl upon me the feeling that I’m living in a wold where everyone is getting fitter, faster, better. I recalled the numerous adds for men’s plastic surgery, the stories in magazines about Chinese getting operations to be taller, or corporate ladder climbers getting throat interventions to have a deeper voice (deeper throat?) and thus be more successful. I started to get the feeling of being left behind. I looked at myself in the rear view mirror, questioning which part of my face or body desperately calls for an intervention. After those hours of conversation in the highway, it sounded so innocuous, so innocent, so trendy.

But in the back of my head I knew that while I totally approve surgery on everyone else, on myself I would see it as a sign of insecurity. A better nose would be the permanent reminder of a low self-esteem. But maybe its precisely the plantation of my head the part of me that requires surgery, that corner of my brain where I keep so many questionable taboos.

But there again, tonight in Barcelona’s auditorium, Albert Pla keeps on singing. With his skinny figure, his grotesquely large and crooked nose... and his sharp, sharp tongue. He reminds me that no doctor can’t lend wit to someone who was born without one, no plastic surgeon can give balls to a man that doesn’t have. Sorry, it can’t happen. So I laugh along with Albert Pla, I laugh at the world, at beauty, at imperfection... por el culo a ambas! (fuck them both!)

Barcelona, 19 January 2007

Old traditions, new ring tones - in english

In between Guadalajara and Tequila there is a small town called Ameca. To get there, coming from Guadalajara, you take the same road that goes to Puerto Vallarta, but then you take the exit to Tequila. After an hour and a half the blue fields of agave give way to sugar cane plantations, we are on harvest time, so the air is full of ashes as the farmers simply burn the fields to get rid of the leaves and diminutive thorns, and then simply cut the cane, protected from the fire by it’s strong skin.

There isn’t much to see in Ameca. For most of you. For me, there is my sister Lili and her family (and a dog, that clean or not, always smells wet). They take me to a tour of the local college, where Paola my niece is taking tourism. The campus is outside the city, in the open field quite precisely (‘el campus está en el campo’ we would say in Spanish), with an impressive view of the hills. Later we all go to play video games to the central square and that’s where I hear first hear about ‘La Tehuacana’. A local personality.

Many years ago, ‘La Tehuacana’ used to have a very old profession. Or, to use old mexican terminology, she was “the one who wakes up late in the day”. But years have gone by and she is no longer up to that business, now she has a new occupation: she walks around the street selling the local newspaper “El Regional”. Let me correct that, she walks around the streets talking to everyone, finding out what’s new in their lives, giving them advise on relationships, decisions, job, school. And in between conversations she yells in her very peculiar voice “El regionaaaaaaaaaaaaal”.

Paola tells me that some kids went to her and recorded her announcement and started passing it around from phone to phone. Now that’s a very popular ring tone in Ameca. You’ll hear a few kids’s phone ringing here and there “El regionaaaaaaaaaaal... El regionaaaaaal...”

Ameca, Jalisco. January 13, 2007

The Fight Club

This is not my idea of volleyball. The beach is crowded, way too crowded, and mainly families, not a single attractive bikini in sight to make time bearable. I sip my tequila while waiting for my turn to play when my friends start to pick on one of the players they call ‘vampire’. Its hard not to notice his fangs. Naively, I thought it was a genetic defect. But soon I learn he got those implanted a few months ago. What the hell? The guy is almost 40, sounds a little too old to be playing vampire. He says he’ll take them out soon, and casually mentions “a couple of days ago, I was in a fight and I bit this pendejo in the arm, you should have seen him”.

That triggers something in my head, in the last couple of days I’ve heard a few of my new acquaintances mentioning getting in fights as a side comment. I have never, in my adult life, got in a fight. Not even a the pushing and yelling kind. Of course I’ve kicked some ass (and got mine kicked too) in a Tae Kwon Do or a Kun Tao dojo. But never out there in the real world.

And this guys, including Mr. Mexican vampire here, seem to do it routinely, with no noticeable negative effects in their life. I start to wonder if I don’t have it wrong. I wonder if this zero violence lifestyle is so abnormal, unbalanced and awkward as let’s say continuos sexual abstinence. Maybe our mammal instincts would be very satisfied if once in a while we got on casual fist fights with our peers. Nothing tragic, a bleeding nose, a black eye, the sound of your knuckles on someone’s cheekbone, the pain of a blow on the ribs. Once a month, perhaps, to release some steam and define more clearly your ranking on the pack... although in a city, these days is a virtual pack, but we still have one, we still compete and we still have alpha males. What if I’m missing out on one of the most important macho rituals?

Rather than just spit out my theory, I wonder if my friends had their own conclusions. So, I say, continuing Mr. Vampire’s story about biting someone’s arm:

- Funny, I don’t think I’d been in a real fight in my whole adult life.

The biggest response I get is one of my friends looking at me for a second and nodding politely. Everyone keeps on drinking their tequilas, watching the game and duly ignoring my comment. I persist.

- What about you? How long since you’ve been in a fight?

“I don’t know. 6 months” said one. “Two years” said another, proceeding to relate the story of the time he got ambushed by a jealous boyfriend and a couple of guys that beat the crap out of him... and then someone else started telling the story about using his belt buckle to whack the head of an opponent “it sounded like a bell! Ding, ding, ding!” I laugh, everyone laughs and I start to think if sometimes I think too much. My turn to play.

Puerto Vallarta. January 2, 2007.

It was only a kiss - in english

“How did it end up like this?

it was only a kiss, it was only a kiss!”
The Killers

I have been craving for this moment for god knows how long. Basking around in Puerto Vallarta, in my hand a bowl (chabela) of large, fresh and juicy shrimps on a hot and spicy soup with cucumber, tomato, avocado and onion. I’m eating my shrimps as if there is no tomorrow when something my friend says catches my attention:

- ...last evening, this woman kiss me right on the lips

I look at him, spoon in the air, quite puzzled. Since when a kiss has become such a big deal for him? In the last ten years I practically had no contact with these guys, since then there have been marriages, children, divorces, bankrupts, good fortune... Could these years have changed him so much? From careless womanizer into a hopeless romantic who has rediscovered the joy of little things of life? Could life experience turned this guy 180 degrees around into a someone who is moved by a single kiss on the lips?

- When exactly did this happen? - I ask

- Last evening, when we were in bed.

My theory about the new born romantic started to show cracks.

- Where you having sex with her?

- Of course!

- ...and you didn’t expect a kiss?

- Well -he says shrugging- I like her enough to fuck her, but not enough to kiss her.

I took a long sip from my beer, while in my head my short lived theory about rediscovering the simple things of life crumbled to dust.

Right then, as if invoked, his cell phone biped announcing a text message.

- ..And speaking of her- he says as he turns the phone to me so I can read the message.

It reads:

“I want to ask you a favour: could you at least fuck me with a little bit of tenderness? ...But anyway... today I’ll spend the afternoon shopping with my cousin. Bye”

Sex is not something Vallartenses get shy about. My friends seem to know everyone in the city, from the mayor to the whores, and for some reason every person we talk to manages to make a sexually explicit comment in the first minute of conversation.

Let’s say we stop to greet the owner of a burger joint. We do the Vallarta handshake, spill out our names and then we move to give way to a couple of black girls walking by the same sidewalk. He says, looking reflectively as they walk away: “what I don’t like about black girls is when you go down on them, the inside of their pussy is purple, really purple”.

Or my favourite one: we are having drinks at a karaoke bar called “the shower” (where I massacred Charly García’s “nos siguen pegando abajo”, the crowd cheered me out of pity), when a young guy with a carefully crafted regetton singer’s look joins us at the table. In the precise moment when he is sitting down I’m trying to recognise a woman’s perfume and I look around saying aloud:

- What’s that smell?

The newcomer looks at me for a moment, then he smells his hands and says

- That’s probably me, sorry about that, I was just fingering some girl.

Then he pours a bit of his vodka on his fingers, rubs them against his jeans and the conversation moves on without a pause.

While I ponder on the relativity of politically correctness, the speakers blast the latest Puerto Rico’s big hit, a dementedly upbeat song that says something like “your body is so hot that you are about to blow up like a Palestinian”.

Puerto Vallarta. Dec 30 2006.