¡Cabrones oaxacaños!

Geeze, some people think I’m a little harsh on “clueless gringos (and Canadians) in Mexico.  I’m Mother Theresa next to “Speed” and the “Doctor”:

I live in Mexico (I think we’ve covered that but, review is always good, right?), and I would say that the reverse of this scenario is true. In my experience, there aren’t ENOUGH arrests of gringos: the fucking honkies have the run of the place. Let me elaborate:

Walking around the centro here on a given day you might come across any one (or all) of the following scenarios:

1. An Italian woman, who, it seems, is so broke that she made her own pants out of things she found in her hostel’s garbage, is selling ugly jewelry in the andador.

2. A young American man is busking Nirvana songs to the disinterested in the zócalo. Just ten pesos away from his lithium prescription. “I feel stupid, and contagious” indeed.

3. And, my personal favourite, an Argentine is holding up traffic at a streetlight to ask drivers for money for his juggling. (The Italian chick made his pants)

What do these three hippies have in common (other than the smell)? All three are working illegally in Mexico. Police are not hassling them. No one “corrupt” is giving them a hard time whatsoever. Because, you see, Mexican authorities don’t want to fuck with tourists unless they absolutely have to. Tourism is this country’s #2 industry. (Western Union money from relatives working in the US is #1, Corona tank-top sales a distant #3). In my personal “Dream Mexico”, all three of these case studies would be locked up with Peter Kimber until Mom and Dad sent plane tickets home but, of course, who listens to me?

The two güeys who write “Sur Real Oaxaca” are a couple of jaundiced (or maybe it was the mushrooms) gringos along the Oaxaca Coast, somewhat in the same spirit as the always readable Fred Reed, who comes across as Oliver North channelling the spirit of Hunter S. Thompson in the relaxed atmosphere of Lake Chapala.