There´s insectoid staples in the Mexican diet. I´ve not yet tried the ant eggs or a plate of whole maguey worms, but there were ground worms mixed with salt and chilli powder -- inoffensive -- at a mezcal tasting we did the other day, and there have certainly been a few worms found at the bottom of bottles in years past. And then there have been the grasshoppers. The last time that they were available was nearly a decade back on a hawker´s barrow in Patpong, Thailand, presented as part of an extensive selection of Things With Too Many Legs That Shall Not Pass My Lips. Still, if one eats and enjoy crustaceans -- and I do -- then the disquiet at the thought of eating something land-dwelling with fewer legs is really not quite rational. By the second handful of dried grasshoppers, any disquiet had more or less passed.
What is generally presented as Mexican cuisine back in Australia is more Mexican cuisine as filtered through a US interpretation -- Tex-Mex or Cal-Mex. The tacos here use a small and soft tortilla, covered in shaved grilled meats that give an effect not entirely different to what you might find in the average Turkish takeaway. There´s been quite a lot of soft white cheese over things: one slightly crumbly, perhaps like a gentle feta; another the queso Oaxaca, which is squeakier. And there´s mole, which is the generic term for regional varieties of complex spiced sauces. You might find a one containing ground pumpkin seeds -- the pipian -- or ground almonds -- the almendrado -- but the core moles so far appear to be rich and savoury chocolate sauces found poured over enchiladas or stewed with chicken. It´s been interesting, and the different varieties have been sufficiently different.
I also had some back-of-the-head idea that we might at certain times have been presented with mince that had been boiled to within an inch of its grey life together with an excessive quantity of Mexican Death Chillis, but nothing like that has yet eventuated, and the food has so far been less piquant than a proper Thai Green Curry, or a Beef Vindaloo, say. You can add some more heat with condiments, but even the red and green salsas or the whole pickled peppers tend to be more playful than punishing. And on reflection, this is something to be very grateful for when Montezuma´s Revenge takes hold.
So, I went to the doctor this morning, and he gave me a prescription for a couple of pills, and told me to avoid eggs, milk products, pork, spices, and chilli. That´s the setup for a bad joke, particularly in Mexico, where (if memory serves me correctly) I´ve yet to have a meal without one or more of those being involved.
*****
It´s struck me that the portrayals of Mexico I´ve seen have almost entirely filtered through the lens of US media, both fictional and non-fictional, and that filtering has almost universally portrayed The Mexican as a more-or-less pre-modern Other: the violent criminal; the illegal immigrant; the manual laborer; the waiter or barman.
There´s no doubt that there are serious problems with over 60000 killed in the drug “wars” in the north since 2006. 43 students have disappeared after apparently having been handed over by members of the police force to gang members. There´s significant income disparity, with a high GINI coefficient, and as in many places elsewhere there are aged beggars and children hawking souvenirs at midnight. A route change has been made owing to reports of armed robbery by those who claimed to be Zapatistas (but who may have been more Opportunistas). And then there have been the minor oddities such as road workers manually sweeping a stretch of highway with brooms, or bare-handed garbage workers picking through the rubbish in the back of their garbage truck for recyclables.
Yet it´s obvious, too, that there´s a significant prosperous middle class, with ubiquitous technology; much internal tourism; downtown areas large and modern and clean, and filled with late model cars with barely a motorbike to be seen; smooth intercity roads; a bunch of interesting architecture, and a public transport system in Mexico City that manages to move nearly double the population of Sydney each day. Sydney: please take note.
The official advice from our government is to reconsider the need to travel to a number of places in Mexico, and to exercise a high degree of caution elsewhere. I take the broad brush advice with a grain of salt. Of course there are going to be many places and times not to be, but travel routes and locations are filters in themselves. You see working class and poorer areas, but often at a distance. In many a heavily touristed central area with a high police presence, I´m probably slightly safer than when coming home late at night to my current place.
I was actually more nervous about actually getting both myself and luggage to Mexico City than getting safely from the airport to my hostel while there. For one, the flight from Sydney was with United, an airline about which a fair number of poor reviews have been written. For another, I had less than a 2.5 hour turnaround to get out through customs and immigration… and back in through customs and immigration. The occasional unpleasant report and news stories about the experiences of travellers at LAX has popped up. And then there was another UA flight to Mexico City. As it turned out, the flights were untraumatic, the stewards nice and professional enough, the transit process smooth, and the TSA staffers no different to any other customs and immigration folk.
And then there was the day of arrival: Easter Friday. I´d expected, given my perception of Mexico as a highly religious country, that things would be more or less shut down in the centre both on the Friday and the Sunday, as they are in Australia. Things were anything but. Many shops and stores were open. Crowds thronged the street (although apparently it was quieter than usual as many had left town for the holidays). Stalls displayed spanish-language novels. There were cos-players in the mall, available for photos for a fee. Various buskers performed, including one group covering translated Beatles songs. A couple of fortune teller plied their trade. As she passed a church in Centro Historico, a jogger in hot pink swerved, kissed the side of her crooked forefinger, and crossed herself. The rest of the crowd carried on.
