Leaving the city

Am I becoming paranoid? Returning from the supermarket yesterday, a girl with a yellow and pink baby blanket brushed past me. I didn’t think anything of it until later that evening, when reading one of the numerous press reports that are being churned out every minute, of every hour, of every day, I saw a photograph of two young women waiting in line to be treated at one of the public hospitals. Not only did one of them look familiar, she was clutching the same coloured blanket.

I am writing this from Cuernavaca.

As most of Mexico prepares for a five-day shutdown those that are able to (and have somewhere to go) are heading out of Mexico City. Many will end up in Cuernavaca as it is relatively near to the capital but with enough distance (50 miles) for us all to breathe a collective sigh of relief.

Today, the Mexican news suggested that the spread of the virus is slowing, although many remain distrustful of any claims made by the authorities. In fact, there are rumours that this whole crisis has been fabricated by the government in order to generate panic and funds. From what I understand, the arguments go something like this: Just before President Obama’s feted visit to Mexico, President Calderón had a meeting with some of Mexico’s top businessmen. When Obama arrived there was no sign of influenza. But the following Friday, after his departure, the country was alerted to the flu epidemic. The government’s strategy, according to these rumour-mongers, is to milk the Americans of as many Aid dollars as possible. The imagination necessary to believe these conspiracy theories is breath-taking!

Meanwhile, eight cases are confirmed in the UK and globally, twelve countries, across three continents, have reported that they are suffering from the H1N1 flu, which is hugely worrying. Yesterday, the WHO raised its pandemic alert level to five, but today, thank God, the EU refrained from suspending flights to and from Mexico – a relief for me.

We joined the exodus out of Mexico City. Jaime has accompanied me. For the journey here, he gave me the most uncomfortable fabric mask (washable) that I have ever had the misfortune to wear. I know I shouldn’t complain (there is a shortage, after all!) but it was impossible to talk whilst wearing one – the more you spoke, the more it tightened around your face – like a noose around a condemned woman’s neck… Now, I suspect, that this may have been his intention all along. But on top of the curtailment of speech, the elastic seemed to cut off all blood supply to parts of my face – it’s taken me all evening to FEEL my nose again. I fear that some of us are going to be swapping these kinds of scary mask stories all too soon in the future.

Actually, the proposed shut-down in Mexico coincides with two public holidays: Friday through Monday. Residents have been urged to stay at home for the full duration in an attempt to beat the spread of the virus once and for all. This is a tall order to ask of anyone. I was suffering from cabin fever after just one day spent indoors and I was busy writing. It is the being told  that you should not/cannot do something that is so painful. But much more importantly, for many Mexicans there are critical economic considerations. Of course there is the ever increasing concern, amongst business circles, of the effect the virus will have on the country’s already-struggling economy. But let’s not forget those for whom continuing to work is an absolute necessity. Some companies are in a position to pay their workers for enforced time off during the crisis, but for the majority this is not the case. If they don’t work they don’t get paid, and if they have no money for the week, they will not have enough to eat. I really hope some thought will be given to this and how to compensate the average worker for any working days lost during the crisis. The bottom line is that there is no social security here comparable to that available in the UK.

Finally, thumbs up to the WHO, for saying it will now call the virus influenza (H1N1) rather than swine flu. I’m a vegetarian so no fan of pork meat, but agree that it is misleading to suggest that pigs are the real villains in this ever-evolving tragedy (and I was appalled by Egypt’s proposed slaughter of the country’s entire swineherds).  That’s not to suggest, however, that I think the human-run factory farms are blame free. But I prefer to wait for the investigations to conclude before joining the conspiracy theorists.

Panic! And Respite

As the panic about swine flu sweeps around the world it appears, in some respects, to be decreasing in Mexico City. Today, there was more traffic on the roads and plenty of people on the streets, both masked and unmasked. When I got to my local tennis courts – it was business as usual. It is one of the only sports that is still considered safe to play.

I scanned the English papers, BBC website, and listened to the News at One and the growing fear in the UK is really palpable, even from here – the pandemic’s epicentre.

Despite reports of a shortage of surgical masks, from what I sense (and have experienced myself), the earlier panic seems to have been replaced by the exhaustive after-effects of shock – hard, relentless depression. It’s like a gargantuan hangover. Both Jaime and I have felt washed out and increasingly tearful throughout the day. Later, the dispiriting news about the spread of the flu added to our sense of despair. I may risk missing the last flight out of Mexico for some time, but have decided to stay and am retreating to Jaime’s parents in Cuernavaca* this weekend.

Unfortunately, Jaime is needed in the industrial town of Monterrey which, as far as I can make out, is one big shopping mall. I was feebly excited when I learned that the first international professional women’s tennis tournament, the Monterrey Open, was held there in March, 2009 and that the city has the some of the best hospitals, second only to those in Mexico City. I was less enthusiastic when I learned of the escalating violence there, involving bloody gun battles between the drug cartels and the Mexican army; the frequent kidnappings and car-jackings of ordinary citizens; and the targeting of foreigners.

Hmmmn. My choice: Stay alone in the pandemic capital or spend a weekend confined to an anonymous hotel in Monterrey.

Jaime’s parents live in Cuarnavaca, a town known as ‘the eternal spring’ for its temperate climate all the year round. Although our language barrier (my fault) means that we can only get by through an extensive use of mime and wind-milling arms, I am confident that I will be loved and cared for and that this time I will learn the art of (chocolate) mole as well as reading, writing and regaining some emotional strength. The eerily deserted streets of Mexico DF, the surreal masked faces, the phantom people on the buses, have all taken their toll.

* Cuarnavaca, some 50 miles south of Mexico city and the capital of Morelos state, can claim to be – partly- the inspiration for Malcom Lowry’s classic Under the Volcano.

The kindness of strangers

I thought doomsday had arrived when I awoke to the sound of a bell tolling today, but it was only the dustmen on their rounds. In fact, I think it is the media that has set this apocalyptic tone and I must shake it off. A quick looks at figures: Mexico city alone has 20 million inhabitants, and even if, as I suspect, the death count is higher than official reports and, let’s say, ten times more than 1000 people are infected nationwide, one has to remember that Mexico is vast – at least nine times the size of the UK. The fatalities are shocking, but the percentage in the city is miniscule, given the capital’s density. It is admirable how quickly the authorities have managed to get the message across to people about the measures to take; how to exercise caution etc. and the distribution of surgical masks by the army has been extraordinary. The closure of public buildings and spaces has happened at colossal speed, which is scary, but also the safest option.

The news this morning is that the Foreign Office has advice against further non-essential travel to Mexico. I phoned my travel insurance company, but was informed that I am covered for 3 months, so up to the time I am due to leave later in May. I was assured that this is not affected by the travel advisory. I have still not decided what to do and will take stock after tonight’s update.

After a phone interview with Anglia TV News this morning, which proved an adventure in itself – trying to find a telephone that worked – I ventured out. The mayor had announced that they are closing all the sports facilities as of tomorrow, so I went for a final session of Pilates with Fabiola. The streets and buses were half empty and a lot of cafes and restaurants are shuttered (they now are officially closed and apparently even the food stalls of Mexico are to be banned). At the metrobus stations they are diligently handing out leaflets about the epidemic – again, the speed and orderliness of the distribution of information in this way (and via the television, airwaves and the army) would be considered extraordinary for a country half the size, let alone one with the patronising appellation of ‘developing’!

Afterwards, I was on my way home, when a young girl ran after me. Now I am forced to admit to an embarrassing weekly treatment that I have here to iron-out the orange-peel dimples that are the bane of many women’s lives. The Body Center was closed – as I thought it would be – but they had not been able to get hold of me by phone – and so Erica had been driven in by her brother, complete with surgical mask, to give me my 40 minute treatment. I was flabbergasted. The kindness of strangers! All this effort, so that I would not make a wasted trip for what is considered a luxury even by English standards – and a ridiculous indulgence given the circumstances. What dedication! I include a picture of Erica, with her evil looking machine, as a token of my admiration.

Finally, colourful masks are starting to appear — worn by the fashionable! Jaime spotted a nurse sporting a Walt Disney surgical mask. It could only happen in Mexico, I thought. Apparently not. The same occurred in Taiwan and Hong Kong during the SARS outbreak. I guess it eases the strain of wearing these damn masks all day – they are not pleasant at any time, but especially in a hot country. And on that note I must end, but not before this serious question: How long should one wear the surgical masks before discarding? IE For how long do they provide an effective barrier against infection? An hour, a morning, a day? If there are any doctors/medial specialists/nurses reading, answers in comments below please.

Plagued by pestilence and earthquakes

It feels rather as though my private terrors have rained down on me all at once. A brush with a scorpion, followed by a flu epidemic and now an earthquake! I was convinced that today would be quiet. I would not venture out, I would not play tennis – I presumed that the courts, as everything else, would be closed. I would just sit quietly, so nothing could go wrong. I had enough food, tea and coffee to last the day. One book review to finish, another to start, and frequent updates on the flu epidemic to watch – of course.

But as the Mexican minister of health briefed the press this afternoon, an earthquake registering 5.8 on the Richter scale ricocheted from the southern city of Chilpancingo through the south of Mexico’s capital and beyond. There was I, holed-up, in what I thought was my safe haven in the south of the city. Fortunately, it seems in hindsight, I was so paranoid about the epidemic that when I felt a little nauseous I wondered if it was the onset of the dreaded flu… Then I experienced a sliding sensation in my chair, but still it did not register. I saw the light-shades swaying as if in a light breeze and sat gazing, open-mouthed, at this strange phenomenon, before rushing to the window. Two neighbours were outside, but I thought they were gardening. By the time I realised that this was an earthquake, my first, it was all over and too late for me to evacuate. The lines were down, or engaged so no way and no one to call.

Thankfully, there were no casualites reported.

Today brought the news that the flu has spread. The deaths in Mexico are a tragedy. But internationally everyone seems prepared and it seems to be a weaker strain wreaking its havoc outside Mexico. Things aren’t all bad. Today a friend in Australia offered me refuge – should they close the borders to the UK…

Mexico – city of ghosts

Mexicans love the phantasmic, watch horror films in their droves and even celebrate the day of the dead, but this weekend reality is holding a mirror up to the fantastical. Today, Mexico’s capital is like a ghost town. There is virtually no traffic, few people on the streets and many shops are closed. Those brave enough to venture outside their homes are wearing the obligatory surgical mask which, frankly, looks surreal.  Cheap version hastily manufactured to meet overwhelming demand, were supplied to us at the western toll gate to the city, as they must have been distributed from all four points. The fear that is swiftly spreading across the region was brought into sharp relief when our cab driver pulled over to fit the mask – despite the fact that the only Chilangos (Mexican city inhabitants) he would be coming into contact with were us, and we had already travelled together, in close proximity, for the past hour.

Schools have been shut down, cinema is now out of bounds and many dvd rental stores have run out of stock as people hole up at home and await further instructions. Yesterday, football matches were played to empty auditoriums and theatres went dark. But I knew things were really serious when today the authorities closed the churches.

On Friday, there was not much evidence to suggest that we were in the middle of a pandemic alert. The early news suggested that a flu outbreak in Mexico City had killed a few people – as the human seasonal form of influenza inevitably does every year around the world. Normally, though, the victims are the elderly or the very young. It only became clear much later in the day, that this particular strain was affecting the young and normally most robust age-group – those between 20 and 50 years old.

We went away for the weekend and have watched the news unfold from a location two hours outside the city. But now we are back home and I am reminded of José Saramago’s horror tale about a catastrophic outbreak of blindness that afflicts an unnamed city and comes from nowhere. An air of indeterminate menace has descended on the city.

Now, it is being reported that supermarkets are beginning to empty as people start to panic-shop, stocking up on tins and fresh food. Although they seem to be more stoical in my area – it was very definitely business as usual today, accompanied by the dulcet tones of Olivia Newton-John – and the only bare shelves were those usually crammed with dvds. Less than half of the valiant few riding the peseros (microbuses) are wearing masks.

However, there are still too many questions about Mexico’s swine flu that remain unanswered. How long has it been infecting humans – conflicting reports suggest anything from a week to more than a month? How many people really are infected, and how many have died? Why is the strain more deadly in Mexico than anywhere else? Do the antivirals oseltamavir (Tamiflu) and zanamivir (Relenza) really work and is there enough to go around? And how much is the Mexican government actually telling us? It is this uncertainty that is so frightening.

It is rumoured that public transport is to cease on Tuesday. How people are to get to work after tomorrow is anyone’s guess. But for working mums it is impossible even now as there is nowhere for their kids to go – like the schools, childcare facilities are suspended until 6 May. Whether there will be enough food in the shops by this time next week is also a very real fear.

In the meantime, every time that I feel short of breath (which is not unusual given Mexico city notorious pollution and high altitude), sneeze, or clear my throat the inevitable worry is at the back of my mind and the same must go for anyone standing close-by. Some people are leaving the city, but Jaime’s job is here and as a crisis expert and risk manager he will have his work cut out for him in the coming weeks. So for now, I am staying put; hoping and praying that the Mexican authorities are up to the mammoth task of containing the spread of this deadly flu and of dealing with the inevitable fallout.

Employment rights

My biggest expense in Mexico and an indulgence here is playing tennis. One hour’s ‘coaching’ with Umberto is $200 pesos (about £10). This is expensive by Mexican standards, but about the cost of hiring a court in London today. Umberto does not coach me, as such; he feeds me balls for around twenty minutes, shouts arriba a few times – to remind me to finish a shot with my racket ‘up’ – and then we play a set or two. However it is not Umberto, nor any of the other young lads who coach on the asphalt courts in Villa Olimpica,* but Rubens who pockets the money. Rubens is about 50, grey-haired with a small pot-belly and always attired in a shell-suit; he hires three courts every morning and then watches, eagle-eyed, from the side-lines as the young team he employs teach, roll or hose-down the courts.

After he tried to sell me a knackered old racket for $800 pesos (around £40) I decided that Rubens was a shark; the sort of man who’d sell his grandma if someone offered enough. Umberto, I discovered, has never been formally taught to play tennis – he picked it up by hanging round the courts – and watching television, one presumes…. Today, Umberto told me that money was pocito (little), and that he hadn’t been paid since Monday. I asked whether I should speak to Rubens about this, but he shrugged his shoulders resignedly. I dare not ask what he is paid. Instead, I have resolved to buy a racket and balls so that we can play outside Ruben’s hours and jurisdiction and I will pay Umberto direct.

Earlier in the week, I saw a young boy washing dishes at my favourite restaurant – nothing fancy; a cheap and cheerful ‘Italian-Mexican fusion’ with plastic table and chairs. He looked about eight years old, but when I asked, I was told that he was twelve; although noone would meet my eye. ‘How much is he paid’? I asked. ‘Oh, 700 pesos’ was the reply. From 12 to 7pm? I presumed correctly, knowing full well the time some Mexicans like to take over lunch. I calculated this in my head – about £35; not so bad, for a day’s washing up. But then it clicked. ‘Por una semana?’ I asked. They nodded. ‘And how many days in the week?’. ‘Seis’. For working 8 hours a day, six hours a week, this boy, rather than being given an education and playing with kids his own age, was being paid £35.00. The cost of a three course meal for two, with drinks, in that particular restaurant. And who pockets his money, I wonder.

*The Olympic Games were held in Mexico DF in 1968 and this is the Olympic village that was built for the contestants. After the Games, it became a residential area but now the tennis courts and running track are enjoying a new lease of life.

8 March 2009

To mark International Women’s Day (http://www.internationalwomensday.com/), PEN centres around the world are focussing on the cases of four female writers who have been persecuted for their work. (http://www.internationalpen.org.uk/go/freedom-of-expression/campaigns)

One of these is award-winning writer and investigative journalist Lydia Cacho who runs a refuge for abused women and children. Cacho has written numerous articles on the prostitution of Cuban and Argentine girls in Mexico and the sexual abuse of minors. In 2005 she published a book (Demons of Eden: the power behind pornography), exposing a Mexican child pornography ring. A textile businessman, José Kamel Nacif Borge, brought charges of libel against Cacho. He is cited in the book as having ties with another Mexican businessman, Jean Succar Kuri, who owns a hotel in the popular Mexican resort, Cancún, in Quintana Roo (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Quintana_Roo). Succar Kuri is an accused paedophile and head of the child pornography and prostitution network, who was already detained at the time. Kamel Nacif did not deny knowing him but claimed that his reputation had suffered as a result of Cacho’s book.

On 16 December 2005, Cacho was arrested at gunpoint by Puebla state officials, and endured a twenty-hour car journey from her home in Cancún to Puebla, where she was physically threatened. On her arrival she was charged with ‘defamation’ and calumny and faced up to four years in jail if found guilty. During the spell in police custody, the writer was reportedly ill-treated and held incommunicado in an attempt to intimidate her into abandoning her work to combat child abuse and people-trafficking. In February 2006 a recorded telephone conversation alleged to be between Kamel Nacif and the governor of Puebla, Mario Marín, was released to the local media. The businessman reportedly thanked the governor for his part in Cacho’s arrest and offered Marín ‘two beautiful bottles of Cognac’ as a token of his appreciation. He also voiced his desire that the writer be raped whilst in detention.

Cacho filed a countersuit for corruption and violation of her human rights. After fighting a year-long battle, and enduring repeated death threats, the defamation charges were dismissed. However, her acquittal was only the result of her case being transferred to another state where defamation is no longer a criminal offence.

Despite the Mexico’s Supreme Court’s ruling that there had been ‘no serious violation’ of Cacho’s rights when she was arrested on Marín’s orders (http://www.guardian.co.uk/media/greenslade/2007/dec/04/mexicocourtrulesagainstjou) , last April the special office set up to investigate crimes against journalists in Mexico ordered the arrest of five public employees for the illegal detention of Cacho. These reportedly included the former attorney general, a minister, a police commander and various criminal justice system officials, who allegedly falsified paperwork in order to facilitate her arrest. Disappointingly, in June the court in Cacho’s home state of Quintana Roo ruled that although there was evidence of arbitrary detention and torture it could not accept her case for jurisdictional reasons and recommended that she take the case to Puebla. Her appeal was rejected in January 2009. Cacho claims that it impossible to get justice in Puebla, particularly given the role of the state authorities in her ordeal, and so she will submit her case to the Inter-American Commission on Human Rights. She continues to receive threats to her life for her writing.

Lydia Cacho will be in London talking about her work at Shakespeare’s Globe on 18 April, as part of International PEN’s festival of world literature, Free the Word! http://www.internationalpen.org.uk/go/literary-events/free-the-word

You may like to write to the Mexican President expressing concern at the continuing harassment of writer Lydia Cacho for writing about sexual exploitation in Mexico to:

Lic. Felipe De Jesús Calderón Hinojosa
Presidente de los Estados Unidos Mexicanos
Fax: 00 52 55 5093 4901/ 5277 2376
Email: felipe.calderon@presidencia.gob.mx

Scorpions and plastic bags

Discovering that I shared a bathroom with a scorpion reminded me of the flipside to living in a hot country. When it migrated to the hall, I placed two bowls – one on top of the other – and waited for Jaime to return and deal with it. Cowardly, I know, but then scorpions aren’t my thing. I had got used to thinking that the flat was scorpion-free but realise that now I will have to start being a bit more careful – no longer can I walk barefoot with abandon and rummage in all sorts of dark places. I will have to start checking my shoes before wearing them, the bathroom mat has to be hung to dry after every shower and no more stock-piling.

This afternoon, I was accosted by security at our local supermarket for using a rucksack instead of plastic bags (which i abhor) to carry my groceries. Admittedly, you are supposed to leave your bags in the lockers provided at the entrance, but Jaime told me that a law had been passed that day that is supposed to deter people from using plastic bags so I thought it would not matter. I saw no sign of it. They make it impossible to be ecologically minded if you can’t carry in your own bags. I was annoyed because the girl on the till waited until I had paid and watched me carefully pack everything before calling security. With my (still) limited Spanish I was only able to shout ‘Cuál es el pinche problema? ‘ (what’s the bloody problem) and ‘cabras locos’ (crazy goats).  This didn’t go down too well, and a crowd formed, but I was eventually released with no further incident.

Again, my limited Spanish had let me down. I know the word ‘bolsa’ for bag but they had used ‘mochila’ which flummoxed me. Jaime says I must let them pack my groceries and tip them. I don’t mind the tipping, but I am sorry to say that I have not found one person yet who has turned grocery packing into an art form! Generally, they stuff all the heaviest provisions together in one bag, reinforce it with more plastic and then use a completely new bag for the one remaining item that inevitably is ridiculously light. It seems to be an exercise in how to use as many plastic bags as possible. I have resolved to tip them, but in future I will pack myself. I will then empty the plastic bags at my locker and refill my rucksack, before returning the bags to the till.

Holy Mole!

Holy Mole!

My love affair with Mexico began in 1991, when I first read Laura Esquivel’s homage to home cooking Like Water For Chocolate. After her mother forbids her from marrying the man she loves Tita transfers her passion into cooking delectable dishes and finds that she has the ability to infect those that enjoy her food with the same emotions she experienced when preparing it. I was a meat eater at the time and the book, aptly subtitled A Novel in Monthly Installments, with Recipes, Romances and Home Remedies not only set my mouth watering but consolidated my desire to visit that part of the world and sample some of its culinary delights. Ok, to be honest, up til then I had thought Mexico’s main staples were burritos and beans and cheesy enchiladas.

Little was I to know that by the time I finally got here I would be vegetarian. But although I don’t eat meat or fish I still love good and imaginatively prepared food. Sadly, my first experiences proved hugely disappointing. Vegetarianism in Mexico is evidently a novel concept and although I discovered restaurants that offered the chance to fill-up on lunchtime buffets most of them were, frankly, inedible: bread like bricks, dried out rice, and overcooked vegetables. Another time, experimenting with a meagre knowledge of Spanish, I ordered a sandwich served with “mermelada de fresa y papas” little thinking that it would be a strawberry jam bread roll served with (cold) chips. I also visited a vegan cafe that proudly advertised the use of soya but evidently suffered from a failure of imagination when they served huge chunks of the stuff, resembling giant meat balls that tasted of rubber. But Mexicans are nothing if not entrepreneurial and things have slowly improved. Now, it seems, each month there is a new restaurant attempting to serve tasty vegetarian options with a modern twist.

Mexican cuisine is perhaps most famous for its mole – a thick sauce made up of ground chilli peppers, various herbs and spices and a dash of chocolate that adds another layer of complexity. I am yet to try this national dish because invariably it is served with meat. However this is all set to change.

When I read Like Water For Chocolate almost twenty years ago I had no idea that I would end up with a Mexican partner and living in his capital city. The upside is that I can enjoy the benefits of home cooking. But my ability to COOK good Mexican food remains untested. This year, his mother and grandmother have promised to reveal to me some of the secrets of Mexico’s finer cuisine that is suitable for vegetarians. I want to learn how to make the chocolate mole, which I will serve with setas – Mexico’s pungent oyster mushrooms. A good accompaniment is rajas – a particular green chilli, de-seeded, soaked in water to remove its heat and cooked in cream; while for a prefect starter I would like to be able to make tamales – corn dough stuffed with beans and chillis wrapped in banana leaves and steamed; Chilaquiles, fried tortilla chips with a green tomato salsa, fresh cream and smothered in melted cheese, are a divine breakfast and perfect hangover cure, if you have indulged in too much tequila the night before: Whilst empanadas, a smaller, more delicate version of the Cornish pasty which I would fill with courgette flower and goat’s cheese, make the perfect snack. And here you eat with the seasons, so from month to month different dishes grace your table.

Easter in Mexico

It may sound like a surreal dream, but on Sunday morning I was woken up by the sound of a man’s voice, amplified through a loud speaker, calling for the apostles to gather and meet by the church. It was real. I was in a pretty market town, one hour south of Mexico City, and for the 90% of the population who are Catholics, Palm Sunday kicks off the country’s most important holiday of the year. Now, I’m not religious, but Holy Week (Semana Santa) in Mexico is a cultural extravaganza and not to be missed.

Mexicans are renowned for their love of fiesta and the passion and creativity employed in marking the crucifixion and resurrection of Christ is truly awesome. Palm Sunday commemorates the arrival of Jesus in Jerusalem astride a donkey. In 2009 AD, in the rural idyll of Tepoztlán, every street corner has someone weaving palm leaves into crosses. The idea is that you carry them into church where they are blessed, before you hang them on the inside of your door until they naturally disintegrate.

As the week progresses the national celebrations become more elaborate; On Maundy Thursday, in villages and towns across the country, the washing of the apostles’ feet, the Last Supper and Jesus’ arrest in Gethsemane are recreated. But the climax comes on Good Friday with various passion plays and solemn processions marking Christ’s long walk to Calvary and the enactment of his crucifixion. The largest of these takes place in Iztapalapa, south of Mexico City.

Here, a procession, stretching over eight miles, is repeated on each of the four most important days of Holy Week. This is a culmination of three months of rehearsals involving some 2,000 amateur actors. There are strict rules: You are only allowed to take part if you were born in one of the eight neighbourhoods (barrios) of Iztapalapa, or if you are the child of someone born there. A community association is in charge of auditions for the most important roles: Jesus, Mary and Judas. For those playing Jesus and Mary the particulars are very specific – they are banned from drinking alcohol; piercings are prohibited anywhere on the face or body; and Mary, is not allowed a boyfriend throughout the rehearsal period and week-long performance. The minimum height for the actor playing Jesus is set at 6-foot-3 so that he stands out in the crowd of participants and spectators.

Iztapalapa’s particular tradition is over a century old and is rooted in the cholera epidemic of 1833. The local community prayed to their local saint to save them and gradually the deaths dwindled. They dedicated an annual Mass to their saint and over time this became an elaborate representation of the life, passion and death of Jesus.

Rather more alarming is the custom of self-flagellation that takes place in Taxaco – an attractive colonial town famed for its silver – that lies between Mexico City and Acapulco. But at this time of year it is transformed by a procession of willing penitents – men and women who demonstrate their faith by inflicting pain on themselves (a medieval custom that Spain introduced to Mexico nearly 500 years ago). The penitents remain anonymous – their faces concealed by a hood. The men are bare-backed and carry a large wooden cross, a rosary and a whip with metal points affixed to the end. Ever so often, at set points, they stop to whip themselves on their backs until they are bloody and raw.

Needless to say I will be giving that Easter Parade a miss. But Good Friday in Iztapalapa promises to be a supremely spectacular and theatrical occasion and I will be heading there for the day.