July 16–23, 1998

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Even as a stranger in a strange land,this gringa can feel at home.

by Remi Newman

Five months ago my partner, Martin, and I moved tothe city of Morelia in Central Mexico. Martin, a Chicano, wasborn in California, but has a large family in Mexico. Before webegan seeing each other he had already made plans to live therefor an indefinite period of time as a freelance writer. As ourrelationship became more serious it became apparent that eitherI was going with him or we were going to break up. I had neverbeen to Mexico. I didn't speak any Spanish and had very littleidea of what my life would be like, but I was in love and I, too,wanted the chance to attempt the life of a freelancer. In Mexico,I could live cheaply enough to do this with very little financialpressure. It was decided. I quit my newspaper job, put my stuffin storage and bought a one-way ticket on Mexicana Airlines.

We quickly settled on our favorite landmark, a statuewe named "Las Tetas" (The Tits). The dark green ironstatue is a monument to the region's indigenous Purépechaheritage, depicting three native Purépechan women displayinga huge fruit bowl over their heads. The women, wearing only skirts,are also proudly displaying their own personal fruits. When Iwent to purchase my first round of postcards, I was stunned tofind a photo of "Las Tetas" in vivid color. Not onlywere the pineapples actually yellow and the grapes purple butthe nipples were dark brown and lifelike. After asking around,we were informed by several people that the colorful original"Las Tetas" was allegedly stolen by a former state governorwho took the statue back to his retirement villa in Spain.

Many Mexicans believe that when a high-ranking politicianleaves office he also leaves the country with millions in governmentfunds. Yet, the disappearance of "Las Tetas" seems anunlikely heist. Martin and I suspect that perhaps the elite ofthe city viewed the colorful indigenous-looking original as lessthan high art and chose to replace it with something more European-looking.The conflict between Morelia's indigenous and European colonialheritage was established back in 1541 when the city was foundedby Spaniards as the capital of the Michoacán region. Atthat time, Michoacán was populated by PurépechaIndians, who were tough rivals of the Aztecs.

Today, over 55 percent of the people living in Moreliamake between six dollars and nothing a day. Yet, walking up anddown Avenida Madero (the main street) it is easy to forget this.There are cyber cafes, fancy hotels and a Diesel clothing store.And the streets are filled with people patronizing these businesses- Morelianos and tourists alike. The city has done a good jobof making the center of town a place where vacationers can forgetthat most Mexicans still live in a Third World country in economiccrisis. Ironically, it's due to the failing economy of Mexicothat we are able to live here as we do now, on only a bit of savings.With the dollar currently valued at 8.5 pesos, our money goesfar. We're renting a two-story house for 1,000 pesos a month (about$65 each).

Gradually, though, I'm starting to think in termsof pesos, as I wander around the mercados (open markets) lookingfor the best deal on mangos. When I think of moving back someday, I know that the thing I will miss most is the mercados -fresh fruit, vegetables, tortillas and lots of fresh meat. It'snot a pretty scene for a hardcore vegetarian or anyone uncomfortablearound large knives and fresh blood. There are insides and outsides,hooves and heads—many with eyeballs still intact, staring blankly.As a failed vegetarian, I've grown accustomed to seeing the butcherschop and slice and grind.

I especially enjoy watching the skillful women atthe chicken counters. I point to the pollo of my choice and observeas she grabs it by its legs and removes the head with one swiftblow. Just as quickly she chops off the tips of the nails andthen the feet. She then reaches in, pulls out the goop, and tossesit behind the counter where I imagine is a large pile of chickeninnards. She then cuts the headless, legless body in half andasks me how I'd like the rest. I answer in broken Spanish, yetshe understands, going back to her feverish chopping. I end upwith over two kilos of fat, free-range, preservative- and additive-free,still-dripping-with-blood chicken for 45 pesos (about five bucks).The head and feet make nice treats for our growing children -two kittens—and the rest stretches out to three meals for Martinand I.

Having the time to prepare meals is one of the luxurieswe're enjoying during our relaxed existence here. Aside from ourtime in the kitchen, we're writing, taking art classes and wanderingaround the city. There are buildings with centuries-old ornatefacades, well-kept gardens which are always in bloom, and shadycobblestone streets lined with stone benches. There are also outdoorcafes, museums, plazas, murals and a greenhouse full of orchidsfrom all over the world.

Our special treat out is a bi-monthly trip to themall to see a movie. Going from buying whole chickens at the mercadoto the eastern part of the city which houses the malls is a bitlike moving through a twilight zone. Suddenly I feel like I'veleft traditional Mexico and might be in New Jersey (minus theJersey accents). We watch as the Holiday Inn comes into view frominside our combi (mini bus) and when we see the sushi restaurantwe know we're in strange territory. "La parada," wesay, signaling to the driver that we want the next stop. As hepulls over to the curb to let us out we cringe just a bit—thesebuildings are no more than a few years old and even uglier thanwe remembered. It's strip mall central, where you can get everythingyou've ever seen on TV—from the latest in cosmetics to electronics.I think this is what U.S. and Mexican politicians are callingglobalization and I've yet to see how it is benefiting the majorityof the Mexican people.

From a completely selfish point of view, there'ssomething about this nauseating bit of U.S. culture that makesthis gringa feel right at home. But for most of the residentsof Morelia, who can't afford the fruits of strip mall central,these new buildings only serve to remind them of their third-worldrealities. Simultaneously, they remind me of the strange economicprivilege I hold, wherever I am, as a white, educated, U.S. citizen.