Lucy Neville - Oh Mexico!. Love and Adventure in Mexico City

Lucy Neville was born in 1983 at Blackheath in the Blue Mountains west of Sydney where she spent most of her childhood. She changed schools six times and was a prefect at none of them, nor did she exhibit talent on the sporting field. She finished her schooling in the inner city, and travelled to Central America in her gap year. She did an Arts degree in Spanish and Politics at the University of NSW then went to live in Mexico City. She is now completing a Masters degree and lives at Bondi Beach, Australia.

OH

MEXICO!

Love and adventure in Mexico City

LUCY NEVILLE

First published in 2011

Copyright Lucy Neville 2011

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 percent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.

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ISBN 978 1 74237 035 4

Texcoco Netzahualcyotl poem from J.M.G Le Clzio, The Mexican Dream: Or, theInterrupted Thought of Amerindian Civilizations, translated by Teresa Lavender Fagan, reproduced with kind permission of The University of Chicago Press The University of Chicago 1993. All rights reserved.

Quotations from The Conquest of New Spain by Bernal Diaz, translated with an introduction by J.M. Cohen (Penguin Classics, 1963). Copyright J.M. Cohen, 1963. Reproduced by permission of Penguin Books Ltd.

Text design by Lisa White
Maps by Ian Faulkner
Set in 12.5/16.5 pt Adobe Garamond Pro by Bookhouse, Sydney
Printed and bound in Australia by Griffin Press

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

CONTENTS

To Nan

At six in the morning Im catching the subway at Barranca del Muerto Station, which translates as Cliff of the Dead. Wrapped in a black shawl I ride the steep escalators deep deep down into the tunnel. The hot air hits my cheeks as I get closer to the platform. As I wait for the train I buy the only paper thats on sale, El Grfico, a graphic tabloid newspaper. More pigs heads have been sewn onto the decapitated corpses of policemen.

On the train, a strong mix of chemicals hairsprays, perfumes and disinfectant envelops me. A tiny brown-skinned child tiptoes barefoot across the recently mopped grey floor and hands me a carefully lettered note on coloured paper. It reads: We are farmers from the mountains north of Puebla. The price of coffee is too cheap. We are hungry. Please help us. A blind woman is selling pocket-sized illustrations of the Virgin of Guadalupe.

At Mixcoac (pronounced Mixquack) Station, two dwarfs enter the train. They are lugging an amplifier, a bass and a rhythm guitar, and playing the Doors song, People Are Strange. A deep, pulsating voice resonates through the carriage. The old man next to me wakes up and begins singing along. The rest of the carriage remains asleep.

By Polanco Station, the number of bodies has multiplied and physical movement is challenging. I thrust my way out of the door here, using my elbows. As I exit the station, the sun is rising and golden light is shining through the oak trees. Walking through a leafy plaza, lined with circular pools of illuminated water and neatly cut rose bushes, I turn the corner into Calle Descartes. Its 6.45 am poodle-walking hour. Women with ancient faces, dressed in frilly uniforms, are accompanying freshly groomed dogs for their morning poo.

I greet the security guards outside my work building. They are standing to attention with their guns cocked. Buenos das, gerita. Buenos das, huesita, they say to me. Good morning, white girl. Good morning, little bone girl. In Mexico I am considered unusually skinny.

I buy a plastic-tasting cappuccino from the 7/Eleven at street level in our building, and then run up the stairs to my class on the second floor. Hi, Coco, I greet the receptionist. She is curling her eyelashes with the back of a teaspoon in front of the portable magnifying mirror on her desk. Shes having a pink day today: pink shirt, pink nails, pink eye shadow.

Hello, Lucy. Jour estudents are waiting for jou. (One of the hardest sounds for Mexicans to make is the y.) Two women and a man are sitting expectantly in the classroom: Elvira, Reina and Oswaldo. Elvira grabs my arm and guides me to my chair.

Look, I buy tamales! They are hot, eat them quick. Here, the red one is for you no have chilli. A little parcel wrapped in corn husks is waiting for me on the desk.

But I like chilli, I protest. They all laugh.

No! Gringos cant eat chilli. (For Mexicans, its a source of national pride to be the only country in the Americas that is brave enough to eat chilli.)

I am from Australia. You know, CROCODILE HUNTER! We are not wimps, like the gringo Americans are, I explain to them again.

Okay, next time I buy chilli for you. Elvira is forty-five. She works as a marketing assistant for Gatorade. She has long dark hair, which she gets curled at the beauty parlour every morning at 6 am. She is elegantly voluptuous, wearing tight, brightly-coloured low-cut tops to draw attention to the enormity of her breasts, and dark, baggy pants to hide the enormity of her behind. She moves around the room as if she is dancing the cumbia, swinging her hips and breasts rhythmically in every direction. I notice Oswaldo is having problems averting his eyes as she bends forward to get her notebook out of her bag.

So, Oswaldo, did you finish the exercises I gave you on reported speech? He snaps back to reality and gives me his full attention.

Ah, well, you know, actually no have time... I was three hours in de traffic de last night and I arrived to my house at two in de morning. (The sound th is another big problem for Mexicans.) Oswaldos excuse is probably true he works as a computer programmer for a large pharmaceutical company and he often does twelve-hour shifts. Hes plump and looks uncomfortable in his tight suit. He smiles cheekily, pleased with his excuse.