Down Mexico way
Aidan Hartley Nogales, Mexico fter the purgatory of Arizona, I was so happy to cross the Mexico frontier I could have French-kissed the filthy streets. It was just like home in Africa. Meat tasted like meat and meals were eaten to a joyous soundtrack of buzzing bluebottles. Stray dogs basked in sunshine among wrecked cars as music cascaded down streets. Maidens had nice, healthy bottoms and men were encouraged to whistle their appreciation.
We drank beers in Sonora's desert air and Our Lady of Guadalupe stared down kindly on all her Catholic sinners. Oh happy, happy Mexico!
Arizona, by contrast, was beyond dreadful. 'We're the skin-cancer capital of the world,' they said to me proudly. I asked, can boredom or American TV give you cancer? Or hormone-injected chicken? Or does American food let you off with just a pair of bitch tits and an involuntary sex change?
Phoenix and Tucson are prefab cityscapes devoid of human life. Aliens haven't abducted the people. They haven't been mercifully put out of their misery by an asteroid strike. No, they are all in therapy — or in air-conditioned malls. Or they are in their cars. Walking is a felony in Arizona. People are too obese. Instead the law says they must trundle around in giant trucks to drivein pharmacies and load up on cholesterol pills. I have never seen such an unhappy, rich, bored population. I'm not exaggerating. Don't go there. People will approach you and say things like, 'Can I bag that up for you?'
I went to Arizona with a Kenyan producer called Julie to make a film about the Mexico–USA frontier. As assignments go, it was harder than Congo. I would cry myself to sleep at night. Only the poor Mexicans themselves cheered me up, though they told me odysseys of unparalleled sadness. A million of them cross the border illegally each year. They run the gauntlet of the 'Devil's Highway' — Arizona's waterless desert, with 50 degrees centigrade heat, narcotics gangs and predatory Apache smugglers. Hundreds of migrants die annually in the desert. All they hope for when they set out is jobs to clean Americans' toilets, to mow their lawns and to flip their burgers. In response, Washington is spending billions on the deployment of armies of agents, soldiers, helicopters and big trucks. None of this is even stemming the flow of migrants. The US is building a 14-foot iron fence along its 2,000-mile border. But the Mongols breached the Great Wall of China. The Picts overran Hadrian's Wall. The Berlin Wall failed to stop freedom-lovers escaping communism.
Somehow, since 9/11 the army of Mexican busboys and babysitters have become conflated with terrorists. (Of course, terrorists would be more likely to come in from Canada since there are better connections via Toronto.) In a law-enforcement agent's car I asked, 'Have you actually captured any terrorists?' No,' he said. 'But out in the desert we have found that jihadi book, the whadyacallit — Qu'ran. So we know they're out there.'
Oh, dear.
At various times we found ourselves out in the desert accompanying Americans. Briefly, they were forced to disembark from their trucks and walk. The most astonishing sight in Arizona is the amount of rubbish strewn across the mesquite and cactus landscape, the detritus of countless Mexicans walking northwards. This is the largest, fastest migration in history. More people have entered the US from the desert than ever came through Staten Island.
One day we stood among piles of discarded clothes, water jugs, Red Bull cans, shoes and food-wrappers. A very fat man next to me shook his head and said, 'They're eroding our culture and our way of life.' Culture? Arizona? You must be kidding. And this in a country where most people are already called Rodriguez — or Slobodan, or Vermicelli, or O'Reilly. And eat chicken dinners while listening to talk radio. I tried to look serious and nod. But suddenly I pictured a bright and happy future of good food, dancing, Catholicism, girls with decent bottoms and pimped-up motors with spinning chrome rims.
And I would finish there — except first I want to share with you the finest drink invented in human history. The michelada. Millions of people consume this in the Americas. Call me a white African peasant, but I had never encountered it until now. My undying gratitude goes to Mexican consular officials Jorge and Miguel, who bought me my first michelada on the Mexican frontera. Open one light lager; Corona will do. Add shots of lime juice, clam juice, tomato juice, and a slurp of Tabasco sauce. Mix it all in a large beer glass filled with ice and rimmed with salt. 'Enjoy,' as they say in Phoenix.
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