I'm (Nearly) A Legal Alien

Over the past 3 days I've had the pleasure* of dealing with Mexico's migration bureaucracy. To start on a good note: to Mexico's great credit, New Zealanders and many other foreigners can enter sans visa for up to 180 days. But I - perhaps foolishly, in hindsight - decided I might quite like, and / or need, to work while here. I duly marched down to see the lovely Mexican Embassy back home and applied for a Working Holiday Scheme (WHS) visa.

I am a huge fan of the WHS, a reciprocal programme that allows young (sub-30 years old) folks to travel to recognised partner countries for up to a year, and to undertake short periods of work to help fund their travels. It is understandably popular with young internationals in New Zealand, so I thought it worth giving it a shot in Mexico. A quick and painless - though admittedly expensive - process in Wellington set me underway.

Of course the painlessness was not to last. The simple process of exchanging my visa letter for my visa, as explained in painstaking detail by both the embassy and the immigration officials at the border, was of course not all that was required.  Firstly, one must turn up sometime in the limited opening hours of 9am - 1pm. Which, for anyone interested in actually going to Spanish school, for example, is not doable. Then, it turns out, one must fill in a plethora of other forms, requiring such apparently crucial information as height, weight, religion, race and "physical characteristics". I actually don't know how to answer most of these questions in English, let alone in Spanish, but was tempted to answer “güerita” just for amusement’s (and accuracy) sake. After that, one must take oneself off for another round of passport photos, because why follow internationally recognised standards when you can instead apply your own random and only-ever-so-slightly-different standards? Then, if you’re lucky, you can return the following day to be given a whole different set of instructions, rinse, and repeat. Hopefully, when I return for my 6th visit next week, it will be resolved.

My favourite American, to whom I have yet to allocate a suitably enigmatic nickname, found this all just a little too amusing for my liking. And you kinda have to admit, the underlying humour is undeniable. I should be clear that of course I absolutely respect the right of all countries to determine who may visit, for how long, and under what conditions. But it is mildly amusing that my US visa took perhaps an hour in total in form-filling and interviewing, plus a couple of extra hours if you include travel. It was a delightfully straightforward process. In contrast, after ~12 hours of form filling, travel, waiting, photographing, waiting, more form filling, conflicting advice, waiting, debating the terms if my visa, and waiting, I came within 2 short days of breaching my immigration conditions in Mexico. It took 5 visits over 3 days just to get them to agree to process the thing, and in 10 short days I should have the pleasure** of collecting my legal ID. It would be stressful if it wasn't so deliciously, ironically hilarious.

Besides, there's a silver lining. Apart from a good way to put 'lo que pasa es que' into action, it produced another fun side effect. After my 5th very frustrating visit this morning I invoked The Metro Second Amendment, namely my right to bare arms on public transport. And clearly the look on my face was so foul that not a single soul dared mess with me. 

Baby steps indeed.

*apparently I still have my diplomat pants on; it was in no way pleasurable.

** ibid.

El Médico Feliz

This morning I had one of those moments where I swiftly and irrevocably fell in love with Mexico all over again.

Armed with newly acquired (read: “googled”) anatomical and medical vocabulary, I took myself off to what I like to call the Street Doctor. I’ve visited him before, and he is truly delightful. I'm not sure who pays him - it may be government provided, or affiliated with a pharmacy, but he's certainly not paid by his patients. So, if you're willing to line up in the street for an indeterminate period of time, you can score yourself a free consultation with the lovely Médico. I'm an unemployed backpacker, so obviously never too proud to sit in the street with Mums and babies and wait my free turn. 

This morning I only had to wait about an hour, giving me enough time to read the news and enjoy the oddities of the Mexican street where of course there is never a dull moment, and this morning the constant soundtrack was a combination of a Glee episode and 10-years-out-of-date pop songs; pretty standard fare for Mexico, and I assumed blasting from the various shops nearby.

Eventually I had my turn and the lovely Médico patiently listened as I explained my predicament in broken Spanish, before thoroughly prodding at my knee. And as he wrote his notes on my basic details - my name, DOB, and yes-apparently-it-is-possible-to-have-arthritis-at-28 - he began to sing. Along. With the Britney Spears that had been playing from his computer the whole time. Putting aside my amusement at the guy who was - i hoped - about to prescribe me heavy duty pharmaceuticals singing "Toxic" there was just something so endearingly lighthearted about this rather serious chap singing along with the quite incredibly high-pitched chorus as he worked.

The adorable earnestness went, however, to a new level when the next song shuffled onto his playlist. The Glee cast's cover of Bruno Mars' "Marry You" prompted not only a burst of serenading me (in English!) (now you tell me?! If I'd known that I wouldn't have struggled through "hay mucha hinchazón en mi rodilla, no puedo flexionarse"!!) but also an impromptu dance around the tiny clinic. 

I couldn't help but comment to him that he was one happy little doctor. His response: "it's the only way to be." And after having written my prescription (incorrectly)(twice)(I guess that's what happens when you're multi-tasking) and passed it over, my happy little Médico promptly told me I had beautiful eyes, and sent me on my merry way.

It may be hypocritical after my recent rant on my treatment in the streets in Mexico, but actually this was so heart-warming that I couldn't help but smile at it. I just think there's something to be said for the contagious, earnest joy of an all-singing, all-dancing Médico. 

RIP Neil Armstrong

One of these things just doesn't belong here, one of these things is not quite the same

It's taken me a week to write this post, and even then I have battled with myself over whether to publish it, because it is genuinely not my intention to use my blog to complain or to write long posts about things I don't particularly like about wherever I happen to be. I love Mexico and I'm here of my own choice and my own doing. But like all the things dearest to us, I occasionally lose patience with Mexico and my tolerance kind of expires. 

Earlier this week, before I left the house to go to school, I asked my friend if she thought the way I was dressed (a knee-length dress with short sleeves, and a modestly-cut neckline) was, and I quote, "asking for it." We concluded that the exposure of both calves and elbows, combined with the admittedly bright (green) colour of the dress was, indeed, asking for it. So I subsequently changed into jeans, a baggy shirt, and an oversized woolen jumper to wear into the sweltering, humid labyrinth that is Mexico City's metro.  

In my case, the "it" for which I am apparently asking is calls, wolf whistles, lingering hungry and shameless stares, and the occasional (and by "occasional" I mean usually fewer than 5 per day) sexually explicit request / comment. Indivually, these actions hardly seem earth-shattering. But cumulatively, they are corrosive, and illustrative of an assumed male control, which troubles me deeply. 

I am blonde. After flirtations with red, chocolate brown, and almost-black, I am comfortable that being blonde is part of who I am, and proudly so. Being blonde means I do not fit in in Mexico, and I understand and accept that. 

I barely fit in here:

with my beautiful Mexican friends

Let alone here:

typical Mexico City metro scene

I try hard to reconcile the two competing parts of my personality which on the one hand believes I am a stranger here and therefore I should accept the cultural conditions of the country I have chosen to live in by, for example, dressing more modestly than at home (which I do); and the feminist part of me which believes that in a sophisticated, cosmopolitan City of 20+ million people where literally anything goes, then showing my calf muscles should not be considered "asking for it". (For the record, and much as it pains my inner feminist, I generally fall on the side of knees-and-elbows covered in public, just because it makes life easier.)

But occasionally my patience runs out when assumptions are made about me because of the way I look. There are, I'm sure, many women who would love the attention, being wolf-whistled at, and having kisses blown. I am not one of them. It makes me feel filthy, and vulnerable. It is nothing more than a power play, carried out by men who feel entitled to comment publicly on the way I look. There is a sense of ownership, of their viewing pleasure being the most important element of the interaction, which angers me. But the thing that angers me the most is the implication that this is my fault; that I am in the wrong; that I am somehow inviting this. That my very existence is so provocative that I deserve to be objectified. This, of course, is what is is designed to do - it is designed to remind me that the sexual gratification of the objectifier is paramount, and that I am nothing more than an object to achieve that end. And that pisses me off, because along with being blonde, I've got a lot more going on as a human being. I am also really smart, and motivated, and fiercely independent. 

There are those who argue this kind of behaviour signifies an "appreciation of women". To those people I say: bullshit. That is nothing more than seeking to excuse the behaviour of men who feel they have the right to objectify. This is not about appreciation, it is about power and control and the primacy of these men's viewing pleasure over women's individual freedoms. And it pisses me off.   

I should be clear that I am in no way implying that all Mexican men behave this way - they certainly don't, and the vast majority of Mexicans I've had the pleasure of meeting have been respectful, honourable gentlemen. In this delightful, genial country where strangers never fail to tell you "salud" when you sneeze, and warmly wish you "provecho" before you eat, it is a tragedy that a tiny, vocal minority ruin it for the vast majority. 

Much of the bone I have to pick with this stems from advertising and the media. A friend explained to me that in large part it is because blondes are portrayed here as they appear in many US TV shows - the Pamela Andersons and the Playboy Bunnies and the connotations that - rightly or wrongly - go along with it. But I think it is bigger than that. I recently walked past an advertisement here in Mexico which enraged me. It was an advertisement featuring this girl, with the slogan - in English - "Be You." 

Be you. As long as "you" is a stupid ideal you can never reach.

 Where to begin with the things that enrage me about this? Firstly, I find the implication enraging that because this gorgeous woman has a gap in her teeth, she somehow needs to overcome this "flaw" and "be herself". The model is stunning, as are the other models used in the GAP "be you" campaign. But that's an aside the the cultural and racial problem I have with the campaign. GAP is opening a new store in Mexico - you'd think they might consider advertising to their target market in their own language, rather than English. But more importantly, and related to this point, is that no one in Mexico looks like this. Really honestly no one does. There are some incredibly beautiful Mexican women, and yet for some inexplicable reason, companies advertise in this market with an "ideal" that no Mexican can realistically aspire to. Mexican women look like this, and this and even this. But they do not look like this or this or this. WHY then do we insist on trying to sell products via an unattainable "ideal"? It offends me as a blonde white woman, I can't even begin to think how mad it would make me as a dark haired, darker skinned woman. I suppose I should just be grateful that for once it wasn't a blonde featured in a porn shot, as appeared on the back page of a daily newspaper last week.

The historian in me would like to think this is merely a question of 'otherness'. Blondes are interesting because they're different. To an extent I'm sure that's true, but that doesn't make it ok for men to use the way I look for their own gratification, and to make me feel filthy in the process. 

So, this is a rant that I intend to get off my chest once and once only. I didn't want to publish it, because I really, really love Mexico. But any time that an intelligent, feminist-identifying woman has to question whether or not she's "asking for it", we have ourselves a problem. I don't have a solution, except to get really good at layering up in public. 

SIGH.

Saturday morning

It's a Martha Wainwright kind of day. Love her.

Thursday

Can I Kick It?

I recently wrote a silly little list of things I love about Mexico City, and this morning I spent a very happy hour enjoying one of my other favourite things about this place. In a stunning piece of public policy - implemented by I'm not sure whom, I guess the City of Mexico - one of the main corridors of Mexico City, the Paseo de la Reforma is closed to vehicles on a Sunday morning leaving the major street available for, primarily, bikes. 

Mexico City is not generally what I would call a particularly bike-friendly city. The roading infrastructure is, on the whole, not great. Streets are scattered with potholes and cracks, and the traffic is manic; you buy your driver's license, and the only road rule seems to be that there are no rules. Oh yea, and that indicators are for fools. But on Sundays, the Reforma is a cyclist's dream, 8 lanes of wide open space, from the lovely Bosque de Chapultepec right through to the Zocalo. This morning I put A Tribe Called Quest on my iPod and spent a very happy hour riding a ~17km circuit. My love of the Reforma monuments is well-documented, and this is simply one of the happiest, and prettiest ways to grab a little exercise on a Sunday morning. 

Mexico, like a number of developed economies and economies in transition, faces an obesity epidemic. In fact, it has the second highest rate of obesity in the OECD, behind only the US, and according to the OECD, a shocking 69% of Mexicans over 15 years old is overweight or obese. Realistically, Mexico faces many other, more troublesome challenges, and has significantly bigger fish to fry. But, in addition to the safe, enjoyable cycling (and the environmental benefits), what I love about the weekly bike access to the Reforma is the health benefits it encourages. Volunteers (I assume) manage the cross streets, and hold STOP/GO signs adorned with public health messages like "STOP (eating excessive saturated fats)" and "GO (to exercise 3 times a week)". And, whether or not these messages are effective, it's for sure that people really do use and appreciate the opportunity to exercise on the Reforma on a Sunday. Riding alongside me this morning were endless cyclists from lycra-clad pros right down to tiny toddlers, roller-bladers, skate boarders, runners, and of course my endless four-legged friends. (Anyone who knows me will know I can't walk past a furry friend without a little pat and a "hola perro", so you can imagine my unadulterated glee at biking alongside endless puppies on a Sunday morning.) Aerobics classes are held on the side of the street, and various vendors set up booths to encourage various other activity - free bike rental, or, as was the case this morning, signing people up for the Mexico City marathon in a couple of weeks. 

In a city of 20+million people, space is not always easy to find. But what I love about Mexico is that people really love and use the public space made available to them. Chapultepec park on a weekend is jammed full of Mexican families enjoying a day out and claiming their little patch of green in the City; likewise, the closing of the Reforma on a Sunday is clearly something people really make the most of. I'm no expert in public spaces (that would be my brother) but there's something that really excites me about seeing a population really use the, often limited, public spaces they have available, and I think it's great that the City is doing what it can to encourage that. 

Where I go I just don't know

One of the things I'm trying to love is that things don't always go according to plan. That's what "lo que pasa es que" is meant to be all about - that which happens is that. It is what it is, que sera sera, however many other cliches you want to shake this particular stick at. Being unemployed as I am, I have all the time in the world, and so I'm trying to let whatever happens, happen. My nature is to plan, I like my color--coded travel agendas, and I like my carefully planned budget. My love of planning is why I was good at my job, but I do recognise in myself the need to just roll with the punches sometimes. 

This morning, I was doing my best to put this, and my other rules of engagement - slow down, and look up - into practise, by taking a long, leisurely stroll to school. I could hurry out the door and take the orange line 3 stops, efficiently switch to the pink line for 4 stops then walk the remainder of the way to school within the space of 42 - 47 minutes. But that, arguably, might be slightly over-planned, so a wander through the park was a good option.  

I was really excited for my walk. It was to be the highlight of my day. In the 6 months or so I've spent in this City I have, for various reasons, walked this route a lot, and I love it. The early morning walk through Bosque de Chapultepec before anyone else is around is a rare treat - in such a heavily populated City, having the park to yourself is quite a novelty. 

early morning in Bosque de Chapultepec

The quiet, undisturbed lakes of Chapultepec

The early morning walk down Reforma catches the beautiful monuments in a stunning morning light, and it brings back some very happy memories of walks home during my previous stint here. In both cases, I can liken the experience to walking (often home) across Charles Bridge in Prague in the small hours of the morning, before the people all turned up. There's a beauty about the quiet calm of this City in the morning. 

precious Diana catches the morning light

As I emerged from my leafy green suburb onto one of the main passageways of Mexico City this morning, two things happened. Firstly, Soul to Squeeze shuffled its way onto my iPod. Secondly, I was approached by a Mexican man. Neither phenomenon is particularly new or exciting, but I really, really wanted to just enjoy that song and my solitude and my delightful morning walk. It was not to be. After my new friend started talking to me, I was compelled to respond, and nek minit, I'm engaged in a conversation I didn't particularly foresee, a superb song going to waste on my unlistened to iPod. 

I recently read this amusing recollection by my terribly clever friend, currently working in Cambodia, about the point at which you terminate a conversation in the hope of regaining your solitude. Like my friend, I consider myself a polite person, and this dear old man meant me no harm. I also, to some extent, think we as foreigners have a certain obligation to our hosts; while it's sometimes frustrating for me to answer the same questions about my home country's economy / politics / culture / history, at the same time, isn't it wonderful that people are still interested in these things? Isn't it great that this kindly gentleman saw me, identified me as different, and wanted not only to welcome me to his country, but also to learn about mine?  

So after some minutes of frustration - and, I am slightly ashamed to admit, one attempt to turn off, at which point I was simply followed and the conversation continued - I realised that my Great Plan To Not Have A Plan was going to be disrupted, and I needed to just roll with it. In the eventuality, I spent 20 minutes keeping an aging man company as he walked his way to make an honest living, we had an interesting conversation about the differences between our respective countries, and as he politely farewelled me, I turned onto my very favourite section of the road, stared at my beloved Diana, and turned the Chilis up loud. Bliss. 

I might end up somewhere in Mexico