Burgers to burritos: from the US into Mexico

Mexico. What’s all the fuss about? Or rather should I say what is all the concern about?


One week in to our trip and we haven’t been mugged or kidnapped, robbed at gunpoint or fallen foul of the drug gangs.
Nor have we been smashed to smithereens in a bus crash, stranded at the bottom of a remote ravine or abandoned in the desert, left to the jackals.

We haven’t even been stricken by food poisoning, overcome by urban smog or ripped off by one of the millions of the mythical, duplicitous Mexicans who supposedly live here and prey on unsuspecting gringos.

Nothing. Nada. None of the terrible fates of which many of the folk back in the United States predicted for us once we‘d left the protective mantle of Uncle Sam‘s realm.

On the the contrary, it’s all gone quite well. Mexico, this land of supposed barbarous savages, is - whisper it - actually rather a nice place.

I’m almost disappointed. I’d half expected to be shooting it out with bandoliered bandits besieging our train or at least making an appearance on the news, a grainy image of the two of us entering some shadowy pickup, the last known whereabouts of the most recent gringos to go missing in this dangerous nation.

I’d anticipated perhaps even a reunion with my old mucker Michael Buerk on 999. I could imagine him relating our mishap, his voice full of tension, “It was a decision which proved near fatal…”

So what on earth were all those Americans we met talking about?

(I should stop and correct myself here: by ‘American’ I mean of course US citizens; Mexicans are rightly sensitive about this, as the graffiti on a wall in Mazatlan pointed out “From Canada to Argentina we are all Americans”).

It’s early days into our visit here but this country seems wonderful. It’s warm and sunny, colourful and lively, the locals are fun and friendly, the food new and tasty and a welcome change to the predictable, plastic fare north of the border.

There’s fantastic colonial architecture, squat men in cream plastic cowboy hats, strange-looking Tarahumara Indians and more bushy moustaches than a Handlebar Club convention.

Despite the worries which were stoked up in us by our American friends, this country seems far more relaxed and enjoyable. We have encountered few of the up-tight neuroses which we did in the US, the buttoned-up paranoia which seemed to pervade our week there.

Like a conversation with the folks back home much of the talk in the US seemed full of financial worries, forecasts laden with doom, people fearing for the future.

The golden grins and confident swagger I experienced during my previous visit there seven years ago have been replaced by furrowed brows and TV channels full of adverts and advice on how to cope with the credit ‘crisis’.

The unimpeachable confidence of the CEOs has been punctured, the car companies crawling to the Capitol with their begging bowls in their hands.

Some even now openly fret that the tides are changing and the US supertanker is sinking as other vessels hove into sight over the horizon.

Can a change of captain set them back on course? We’ll find out when we return in February.
By contrast the people of Mexico, not a country which has by any means escaped the ravages of the ‘global financial crisis’ seem happier than their neighbours to the north.

Is this due to the different social makeup, where life is more family-oriented and less atomistic? Is it something to do with the differences in the ethnic makeup, cold-blooded Anglo-Saxons as opposed to warm-blooded latinos? Or is it because they’ve got less (in terms of material possessions) to lose?

Whatever it is, it’s been fascinating to witness these contrasts as they emerge and watch the atmosphere change as we’ve headed south, approaching and finally hopping, over the Mexican border.

Back in Los Angeles, from the minute we stepped off the boat, we saw strong hints about what was to come, from the food and the language, to the buildings and the people.

We passed through former Mexican territories in the South-West of the US, from California, through Arizona and New Mexico to Texas, areas which were often so hispanic in character one could be forgiven for thinking one had already crossed the border.

Combined with the powerful US political and economic influence in Mexico itself, this makes for an interesting cultural mix.

Dodge Rams and decaying old buses, Madonna and Mariachi, burgers and burritos, desperate poverty and opulent affluence.

This is born from a fascinating history between the two countries, full of friction and fury, exploitation and expropriation, revulsion and revolution.

Mexico is the only country which has fought on US soil; the US-baiting exploits of legendary revolutionary Pancho Villa is lovingly documented in his old stomping ground of Chihuahua.

This tension continues to this day, the US irate at Mexico’s seeming inability to police its borders, powerless to prevent the drug barons and people smugglers slipping over into US territory, Mexico fuming at US ‘imperialism’ and bullying tactics.

Yet both countries need each other: the US provides jobs, Mexico the workforce.

Without Mexico states such as California and Arizona would struggle to operate, few of their citizens wishing to carry out the menial work undertaken by many impoverished Mexicans.

Without the US, the income of millions of Mexicans would take a massive dive.

We travelled with thousands of Mexicans heading home from the US for Christmas. Passing through the state of Michoacà n we learnt that half of the population had emigrated north, the emigrants sending home some $2bn every year.

Despite this awkward relationship, one in which we found citizens of both countries needed little encouragement to condemn the other, both countries are inextricably bound to each other, condemned to dance an uncomfortable tango towards greater equality.

And like many awkward relationships there is a third party here, one from a very different part of the world - Spain.

Though the colonists left a long time ago their legacy remains. I was surprised at how quite how strong this legacy is, the visible reminders of the old colonial ruler far greater than those in other former European colonies we’ve visited such as Hong Kong (formerly British) or Vietnam (formerly French).

This was apparent from our very first port of call in Mexico, Chihuahua, a dusty city up in the dry mountains of the far North.

We found it a stark contrast to the US: grand colonial edifices, carefully laid-out plazas, streets designed for walking, not driving.

Though the architecture is impressive it is perhaps something else that the Spanish introduced that sets our new location apart from our previous - religion.

As a deeply Catholic country Mexico is crazy for Jesus and Mary. Their images and icons are everywhere: in shops and restaurants, in homes and hostels, on buses and trains, placed in tiny roadside shrines and daubed on huge mountains.

At this time of the year these are accompanied by Christmas bling. Lots of it.

Massive Christmas trees dominate town centres, their boughs laden down with garish decorations and garish lights twinkle from every building; parents stagger along pavements, weaving past elaborate nativity scenes, their arms laden with mountains of presents.

The beautiful ornate churches we visit seem to be permanently in the middle of one service or another, the masses drawn to prayer in the build up to the big day.

Jesus’s birthday is clearly A VERY BIG THING. I’m looking forward to it and seeing how Mexicans celebrate Christmas.

That’s if we aren’t blown up by a cracker, or knocked out by a falling piñata, or poisoned by an undercooked turkey, or crushed by a falling Christmas tree or….

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Life is cheap

Crossing the border from Thailand into Cambodia it soon becomes apparent we’re in a different country.

Not everything changes of course: the tropical heat is still intense; the writing just as squiggly; the large paintings along the roadsides of their monarchs with medals similarly blinged-up.

The friendly demeanour, the enticing smiles may continue, but we soon find out that these two countries share more differences than just the ongoing border dispute, (a nasty little row which has recently spilled over into out-and-out, albeit small-scale fighting.

Unlike the saying this current conflict is most certainly not good for business, at least in Cambodia’s tourist epicentre, Siem Reap. Much-needed tourist dollars are down as visitors are scared off, leaving guesthouse owners and tuk tuk drivers like our own, the curiously-named Mr Pea, competing with too many others for too little business.

And how this country of 15 million need that business. Unlike Thailand, this is a country where crushing poverty is endemic and the recent past is very dark indeed.

This starts to become apparent the moment we cross the border: hassle from hawkers increases; begging becomes commonplace.

Any westerner is a potential meal ticket and the locals go to great lengths to prise the much-valued dollar out of your willing hands (in Cambodia, the mighty Greenback is King; the local Rial currency used only as small change).

At times it becomes just plain uncomfortable. Riddled with guilt from a day spent batting away beggars in rags and scrawny waifs we sat down for dinner at a café on the street. Within minutes they had zeroed in on us, trying to flog us their pitiful wares, surveying you with hungry eyes and making each mouthful feel unjustified.
The tuk tuk drivers are incorrigible, following you into your guesthouse in a bid to secure the next day’s business: “where to tomorrow sir? Killing fields? Market?”. They usually draw the worst of my ire, but whilst you can bat them away with steely eyes and caustic curses it’s hard to deny those in greater need.

Whilst all this hassle this is often distressing, leaving you feeling powerless at best, and more often than not a cruel, cold-hearted, exploitative Westerner, there are also moments of light relief.

Top marks have to go, in a very tough field, to the young lad who tried to sell us his wares whilst stood in a water up to his knees in Siem Reap’s bus station during one of the frequent torrential downpours.

The monsoonal conditions had turned the place into the shallow end of a massive swimming pool, leaving us to board our bus wading through the its mochachino waters, trousers rolled up and shoes in hand.

But there was no stopping this indomitable little chap. He had us in his sights and, in the pouring rain he bounded over, umbrella in one hand, fruit in the other. He danced up and down on the spot, every inch of him sodden wet yet still bearing a massive grin on his face, “pineapple sir? Banana?”

His was the face of today’s Cambodia, where an incredible 40% of the population are under 15 years old.

Many of them seem to be forced to foresake some of their childhood in order to support themselves and their families, working in the fields or walking city streets, selling whatever they can.

Kids here, seem to have got the rawest deal (we couldn’t tell about older people - there didn’t seem to be any). Infant mortality is high (59 per 1000 live births) and child abuse is still a major problem. Posters aimed at Westerners, warning them of the penalties for such crimes, are a common sight in the streets and in hotels.

One skinny little girl accosted me at a temple, with the usual collection of poor-quality, photocopied Lonely planet and books about the horrors of the Khmer Rouge. Her eyes were vacant as she robotically reeled off her patter “Where from Sir ? England? Lovelyjubbly”.

Later, another girl, no older than seven, tried to impress us with her knowledge of our home country, telling us the UK’s capital, its population, and even the name of its Prime Minister. Others didn’t even bother with this, simply tugging at our sleeves and begging ‘one dollar, one dollar’.

It’s desperate, it’s miserable and it’s heartbreaking. Life in Cambodia seems very cheap indeed.

All this made it rather hard to for me to sympathise with the obnoxious American girl in a Siem Reap shop who protested indignantly ‘I can’t believe they don’t sell coke zero’.

In Phnom Penh one night we sat down for a meal at a pavement cafe, amidst the noise and exhaust fumes of a million motorbikes.

After half an hour of sitting there our tally of hawkers stood at four kids and four amputees, one chap without any limbs pushed by a young boy on a rudimentary wheelchair.

The latter are all victims of landmines, in a country still littered with these deadly, inhumane devices. In Cambodia, hundreds of people are killed or maimed by these monstrous devices every year.

I don’t know how they survive, dragging their broken bodies around the filthy, rubbish-strewn streets of Phnom Penh.

One of the poor fellows who could at least propel himself around, wobbles up to our table on crutches, a heavy box of trinkets hanging from his neck. He nods at my delicious fish curry and smiles : “Cambodia is very good yes?”

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