I was out of town for a while, so have missed my local walkabouts. The morning weather is perfect for hiking these days, so I’m anxious to get going.
This morning, I met a friend in Las Brisas; a local chap, born and raised in Manzanillo. He had loaned me a cousin about twelve years ago as a translator/driver to help me on a personal quest to satisfy a curiosity. The task was to explore the possibilities of coming up with anything close to accurate numbers regarding drug-related homicides. News agencies and field stringers weren’t able to do it because it’s no easy task.
In a country that does not trust cops, many crimes go unreported, including some homicides. When they’re reported, the number at the cop shops won’t be the same as they are at forensics.
The tourist industry wants the number to be small. In towns like Puerto Vallarta, most crime won’t even make the news. Stories that do slip by the editorial staff will be small stuff, like the occasional cruise ship bus tour that gets commandeered by highwaymen.
Anyway, today is about having a good time at small cafés and coffee joints near the port. I remembered a place from years ago and was curious if it still did exist. A lady who had brought in an espresso machine from Guadalajara ran it. These were the days when the only other espresso machine in town belonged to Starbucks.
Her patrons were mostly port facility office workers and government employees. We did find the coffee shop, but not the lady.
Maybe it was the presence of the old gringo, but soon the topic of conversation in the café turned to the notion of the expat community being a universo paralelo, or parallel universe. It was not the first time I’d heard this. It suggests a world hidden from the rest of the town by walled compounds, private villas, guarded golf courses, and razor-wired fences. Hmm, I’m thinkin’ there’s plenty of well-to-do Mexicans living the same life.
These guys are making analogies to 15th-century Florence. Like the Medicis and their Papal co-conspirators, sliming around in tunnels, covered bridges, and causeways to avoid comingling with the credulous and grubby masses.
But I didn’t agree. I thought it might appear that way, but they were reading much more into it. ‘Snowbirds’ aren’t flying down to Manzanillo for anything more than the warm resort stuff and to live on the cheap, so it’s no surprise they’d seek out that which is the least threatening and provides for some comforts.
Whether it’s Canadians or Mexicans from Colima or Guadalajara, they are all blissfully unaware that some locals might think of them as interlopers.
If there is a ‘parallel universe,’ it might reveal itself in the form of willful denial of uncomfortable truths. No one wants their vision of paradise to be clouded by the harsh reality that some sectors of Manzanillo, a city long referred to as Mexico’s biggest Laundromat for dirty Cartel money, are run by Felix Nunez (the Anthrax Monkey) and the Sinaloa Cartel.
Expats don’t want to know about money laundering, or rival Cartels struggling to dominate the town, or assassinations, or news of poverty levels double what they were ten years ago. I suggested, “If you don’t want the interlopers here, stop selling them condos.” But basic greed usually trumps idealism. My new associates were aware of the double standard and fell silent.
It was time to dumb down and play naïve, claiming the ‘whole mess’ was a world unknown to me. The only thing I was sure of was that all the tourists, expats, and snowbirds like their swimming pools, and unless you want a demonstration in the difference between rationalizing, and that, which is rational, do not bring up the topic of water conservation.
One of the chaps noticed me glance over at a cruise ship. It was a huge thing, but our café was east of where it was docked and not robbed of the morning sun.
“Bet that pier wasn’t here the last time you were in Manzanillo. It’s relatively new. Some of the small shops and restaurants in El Centro like ’em coming in, they can sell trinkets and tacos. And I hope they keep the valves closed on those holding tanks.” I assured him the ship needs all that sewage below the decks because that is the ballast. They are not going to drain the tanks intentionally.
And maybe this was another example of my friend’s notion of a parallel universe. A couple thousand clueless tourists disembarking a cruise ship to roam the town shopping for refrigerator magnets and sombreros, while not more than a few blocks away, customs house officials and employees work under a blanket of fear as competing crime bosses fight over control of the port.
The weather is absolutely perfect these days, and I recommend walking. My friend and I were close to El Centro, so off we went to comingle with the tourists. My advice is to park the car, put on some high-top shoes, and get out and meet your neighbors!
