South of the borders, down Mexico way

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THE URBANE INDIAN

Mexico City is a fascinating place. I'm told it's a city of more than 20 million people. That's two thirds of Canada in one little place. A lesser-known fact is that, like the city of Venice, it is sinking in places.

Many venerable old buildings have huge cracks in them, not because of the tempestuous earthquakes that frequently rock the country, but because different parts of the city are sinking at different rates. The city itself is built on the original remains of the Aztec capital, which those familiar with pan-Aboriginal history know, was a series of islands connected with causeways. Gradually parts of the lake and marsh were filled in so the Spanish could build more and more until the lake practically vanished in a sea of buildings. But as we all know, Mother Nature has a way of getting her revenge.

I was in Mexico City for a Pen International Congress on Indigenous languages, specifically for a section on disappearing languages. I, as an Ojibway writer who does not speak his mother tongue, was asked to speak about having to write in English. It's an area of concern in Mexico. Of the 62 acknowledged Indigenous languages in the country, 19 are currently threatened, and if they're like the ones here in Canada, more are likely to follow.

Fortunately for me, the culture shock when I got to Mexico City was limited. For instance, I was surprised that my hotel was only 45 minutes from the airport and right beside it was a Scotia Bank, across the road from a KFC and a Dunkin Donuts, and just down the street from a Sears. That's not so different from my house in Toronto.

A little later, though, many of the Canadian writers were invited to a reception at the Canadian Embassy. I was expecting to see the typical array of red and white wine, with maybe some Champagne thrown in. But I must admit it was my first high class wine and cheese function where they also served trays full of tequila shooters. More importantly, they encouraged you to try them. After all "it is Mexico's national drink." I don't remember anything like this when I was in Italy. In fact, after awhile, I didn't remember much in Mexico.

But I do remember having a detailed conversation with the Mexican government's chief negotiator with the Chiapas Zapatistas, still a powerful political force in Mexico after their uprising in the 1990s. I got the low-down on Subcommander Marcos and the gang.

Among some of the local Mexican delegates, there was genuine surprise and interest in the popularity of Native theatre in Canada. Evidently, Indigenous theatre was unthinkable down there. I was told by several people that it was highly unlikely that any domestic Native theatre of substance would get done in Mexico, other than some traditional legends or innocuous historical pieces. The possibility was considered too provocative and topics too politicized, especially in the wake of the Chiapas uprising. As an Aboriginal playwright, this story reminded me of that old sales promotion story. Two shoe salesmen go to an African country looking to sell shoes. One sends a telegram back saying "Bad news. Nobody here wears shoes." The other salesman sends a telegram saying "Good news. Nobody here has shoes."

That's as good a segue to describe what I saw on television. On all the commercials, the soap operas, the game shows, etc., practically anybody and everybody on Mexican television looked white, or more specifically, European. Fair skin, blondish. Yet everybody I met on the streets, in the restaurants, at that KFC, looked a lot darker... and dare I say it-more Mexican.

A friend of mine who is a frequent visitor to the country told me the images seen on television depict how most middle-class Mexicans would prefer to see themselves, and how they want the rest of the world to see them too. And since the middle-class has most of the buying power, it's translated directly onto the television.

At the other end of the economi spectrum, a particularly emphatic image that will stay with me was all the impoverished kids that rushed to the cars at stop lights trying to sell candy, flowers, and lottery tickets. They looked a lot worse off than our own squeegee kids. Additionally, some ragamuffins were begging on the streets, sometimes with what looked like their grandparents. I don't know if it was the children or the elderly that elicited the most sympathy from me.

The irony struck me hard one morning as I ate breakfast at the hotel. I was on the 24th floor, enjoying the sumptuous feast laid out for the delegates in a boardroom with a panoramic view of the city. I was on my way to help myself to a second helping at the buffet when I noticed a poster for a theatre show painted on the entire wall of a small, nearby building. It was for the musical "Los Miserables", and staring at me was the familiar hungry looking waif we are all acquainted with. I recognized the look. I decided against that second helping.