December 6, 2007 - Taxco continuing

Taxco has been a good place to get my bearings in Mexico. El Amigo has been a terrific host and an endless fount of information. I feel muy afortunada to have a friend who has not only said, “Mi casa es su casa” (and meant it), but has also taken the time and trouble to provide me with a practical orientation to the city where he lives. Rather than try to dissuade me from my adventures, El Amigo has given me lots of encouragement. Like me, he enjoys going out on his own journeys of discovery. He goes out to the surrounding pueblos just to spend a day chatting with the locals to learn a little about their lives. Often he’s the only gringo on a bus or plane. He does not find this intimidating. Nor do I. It sure beats piñata-making with Elderhostel.

El Amigo was away for almost a week, so I had lots of time to explore. With enough Spanish to muddle my way through most situations, and with a sense of the city that gives me confidence to meander up and down the cobblestone streets knowing I can find my way home (eventually), those days on my own were magical. I once saw a bumper sticker in Berkeley that read: “Not all who wander are lost.” That’s such a lovely way to explain this desire to investigate a place on its own terms without a plan and without a goal, just letting its particular wonders unfold.

First of all, Taxco, el Centro, is relatively safe. Because of the wealth concentrated here in the silver factories and shops (reliable estimates of the number of factories and shops run into the thousands), there are cops everywhere, dressed in black and carrying huge guns slung over their shoulders. Those guarding the larger shops are Guerrero State police. There are other police-types, also dressed in black from head to toe, but minus the weapons. I mentioned to one of the locals that they look like what I thought paramilitaries might look like. He said matter-of-factly, “They are paramilitaries,” and went on to say that these are local young men who aspire to be police, who hang out with the real police and learn police "procedure." They are extra eyes and ears on the street, alerting the real cops when they see anything that they feel might merit police attention.

However, recent history shows that it’s probably safer to be a tourist here than a cop. Last spring, five local cops were killed in Taxco. One was beheaded. Rumour has it that it is the local cops who control the drug business in Taxco, and that the killings were a part of a drug war with a rival group that wants to take over control. When I asked one of the locals about it, he said, “We don’t like to talk about that. It’s too easy for words to reach the wrong ears.” People also don’t seem to think that several people being killed up the hill, their bodies thrown down the hillside, a few months ago is a topic for conversation (or, perhaps, just not with a tourist). I only heard about it when El Amigo told me why I should not have walked up the hill alone at night. In fact, it was a lovely walk, and I didn’t sense any danger at all. (With Santa Prisca below and Jesus, with arms outstretched, at the top of the hill, what could possibly go wrong?) People were friendly; it’s much quieter there than El Centro; and I saw some places for rent that might interest me if I decide to live here for a while someday.

During this past week, Taxco has had both its annual its Feria de la Plata and the Feria del Libro. It has been one big, continuous party here. They started building the stage a few days ago. On the first day, I sat on the steps of Santa Prisca and watched the teenage dancers doing numbers from Grease (either practicing or, perhaps, performing for the daytime crowd) while workers were hammering nails and cutting boards with a table saw right beside them. I find it interesting that people do not get edgy with all the noise. Bands in the zócalo play into the small hours of the night. Given the proximity of El Amigo’s casa to the zócalo, I’m so thankful for the gift of sleep. Dogs bark all night. Firecrackers are set off all night. Church bells ring any old time. And yet, I haven’t noticed anyone complaining about "noise pollution" (well, maybe some of the gringos). With the constant, bumper-to-bumper parade of taxis and combis and SUVs and ATVs and motorcycles up and down the streets, I find it surprising that I haven’t seen any incidents of "road rage." "Noise pollution" and "road rage" seem to be terms reflective of the mindset in el norte. Another interesting note: Although there don’t seem to be many smokers here, most of the restaurants I’ve been in have an ashtray on every table. I haven’t seen anyone complain about people smoking at a table beside them while they’re eating. Mexicans seem to be, on the whole, rather tolerant people.

And yet … when I brought up the topic of the death penalty in the States and mentioned that the States is one of the only “developed” countries with the death penalty (which, given the length of time people spend on “death row,” often amounts to a sentence of "life in prison, plus death"), one of the locals I speak with in the zócalo - a very nice man - shrugged and said, “We have no death penalty here in Mexico.” When I said I thought that made Mexico more progressive than the United States, he said, “We don’t need a death penalty here. If someone does harm to me, I shoot him.” I presume, if it’s true that people were killed up the hill, they must have “harmed” someone, who killed them. End of story. If I seem to be taking it lightly, I am not. It’s just that cultural practices develop slowly (and change slowly), as a result of many shared experiences that are, themselves, situated in the unfolding of a very long history. Apparently, Mexican tolerance has its limits.

And yet … sitting with Señor Mota in his “office” on the steps of Santa Prisca, I watched women with women, men with men, holding hands or walking arm in arm. I saw grandfathers walking their grandchildren home from school. I saw teenage boys, looking like any hip teenage boys in el Norte, with spiked hair and an earring, walking and conversing with their ancient grandmothers, supporting them in their frailty over the uneven cobblestone streets as if there is nothing they would rather be doing at that moment. I saw a mother and daughter, both quite glamorous, walking with their arms around each other, having a lively conversation – as if they were girlfriends. I told Señor Mota that, except in some communities of recent immigrants, he would probably not see this kind of intergenerational closeness on a street in el norte. He was surprised. When I told him that children do not walk to school with their parents or grandparents for fear of being teased or bullied (and often, because divorce separates children from their grandparents) he found that very sad. As an old man, grandchildren are one of his chief joys in life.

Tomorrow (Friday, December 7), I will have been in Taxco for three weeks. As much as I’ve grown to love this place, it’s time to move on. I’ve had an inconvenient cold for the entire time I’ve been here, and the serious motor vehicle exhaust in el Centro hasn’t helped. I notice some people wearing surgical masks, which probably helps only a little. It’s hard to tell which are the effects of the cold and which are caused by the exhaust fumes. The burning eyes, scratchy throat, cough, runny nose and headache are starting to wear on me. I think that a couple of days by the sea will do me good before I move on to my next major destination. My next stop will be Acapulco.

feral@renegaderesearch.org