Altar to the dead at the Sheraton Isabel Maria hotel

As a Brit in Mexico, I am often painfully aware of my ‘difference’ and this is often accompanied by a strong sense of isolation. However, in embracing the clamour and chaos of the City, one of the biggest lessons I’ve learned is that its tumult can actually combat loneliness.

I only have to open the window and there is the man selling water / gas / tamales / balloons / firecrackers and (on Sundays) ice cream outside our front gate. Every day I can enjoy the sight of Mexicans strolling, playing, trading, studying and courting in their numerous public squares which are used as an extension of their homes. In our local plaza, I am greeted by the old woman on the corner weaving baskets; the young girl in the newspaper kiosk is enjoying a brisk business in lottery tickets (she sells stacks of them, never as many papers – they’re old news whilst the national raffle offers tantalising hope for the future); the old men, wailing their wares, are sheltering from the sun under the colourful portales; the organ grinder has taken up his position outside the church, next to the child selling wooden rosaries; the middle-aged woman with dyed red hair and her over-weight daughter are dipping their boiled corn cobs into chilli and lime for a queue of customers. A tiny boy, he can’t be more than six, wends his way round the customers in a café, using his beautiful dark eyes to sell his miniature packs of chiclets.

Except for the cars, I wonder how much has changed in these plazas over the decades. Anything in one hundred years? Two hundred?

The main reason that solitude no longer frightens me is because Mexico City thrusts you into the here and now. The  past feels unimportant, the future no longer tangible. Sometimes I go for days without hearing from anyone back home. At times, I feel as though I live in a bubble, although much of what goes on around me is gradually becoming more comprehensible. Even in November, the sun can be scorching by midday causing the film of time to slow down. Instead of rushing from pillar to post, I linger over meals, stroll rather than stride through the leafy plazas, pausing to admire a pretty pair of earrings, an unusual clay pot or hand-woven shawl. Mexicans are always happy to talk to me; they want to find out where I are from, where I are headed, or just to laugh playfully at my Spanish.

Death: Dolores Olmedo museum

Another powerful weapon against loneliness is an appreciation and understanding of the Mexican response to death. The writer who has come closest to explaining this is Octavio Paz. In his seminal book of essays, The Labyrinth of Solitude, he declared “Ritual death promotes a Rebirth.” To the ancient Mexicans, “Life, death and resurrection were stages of a cosmic process which repeated itself continuously.” Today, an innate love of ritual encourages Mexicans to continue in their celebration of death and, for many, it still “defines” “reflects” and “illuminates” their existence.

Whilst we celebrate Halloween, all over Mexico altars are erected in the name of the dead. Mexicans love the opportunity to dress up or to decorate something, but the preparation of altars for El Día de Muertos is phenomenal. The Day of the Dead actually lasts two days (on the first, the souls of children are honoured). On the nights of 1 and 2 November a family’s loved ones are tempted back to the land of the living.

Day of the Dead altar: UNAM

Like the very best theatre, all the senses are assailed.  A table of ofrendas (offerings) is prepared, aromatic copal is burned, candles are lit, and the vibrant marigold flowers, known here as cempasúchil, decorate and brighten their way.

Altar to Jose Vasconcelos: UNAM CEPE

On the table itself are set various objects, sweets, and drinks that were enjoyed by the departed souls when alive. Their favourite food is lovingly prepared and laid out each night. Religious images are placed alongside tequila and sugared skulls. A poem or hymn may be composed and left for their perusal. Even a particular pan de muerto (sweet bread) is baked to commemorate the departed. It is best described as a sugary bun adorned with a cross, representing skeletal fingers seeking earthly sustenance.

Altar to Edgar Allen Poe: UNAM

Some of the best examples of altars are to be found in the grounds of Mexico City’s National University. This year, the various departments competed with one another to prepare the most imaginative ofrendas to American author Edgar Allan Poe, born two hundred years ago. The field resembled nothing so much as a Victorian fair-ground. As well as ritual and religiosity, there is a sense of fun. Many of the altars are the height of kitsch.

Giant dolls: UNAM

The fact that many of these miniature temples to the dead are works of art is recognised by the Dolores Olmedo museum, in the south of the City, renowned for its annual exhibition celebrating El Día de Muertos. This year it includes a stunning retrospective of ofrendas that have been displayed since it opened its doors in 1994. These include alters dedicated to muralist Diego Rivera, artist Frida Kahlo and engraver Jose Guadalupe Posada.

In Mexico, death is seen merely an extension of life and part of its immutable cycle. The lightheartedness of this annual ritual hits home. Surrounded by all the colour and vitality of the occasion, there is nothing left to fear. Laughing in the face of death proves a valuable lesson. When fear is absent, so too is loneliness.

Gravestones: UNAM

Candles Dolores Olmedo museum

Marimba Dolores Olmedo museum

This weekend, it was surreal to witness a parade of giant papier mache monsters, looking like a spin-off from the psychedelic 1960s, rolling towards us along one of Mexico City’s busiest streets.  These wonderful sculptures are known as alebrijes and have been made in Mexico since the 1930s.

When I return home I usually have packed some alebrijes as gifts. These are smaller versions of the paper monsters, but are just as imaginative. Brightly coloured animal figurines, carved out of wood, they are most often found in Oaxaca, which has some of the richest folk-art in Mexico. The tiny village of Arrazola produces many of these animals, made from the soft wood of the copal tree; a few years ago we visited the artisans in their homes and bought from them direct.

The term alebrijes originates from the grand papier mache creations of Pedro Linares, a craftsman from Mexico City. Alebrije translates as “imaginary” or “fantasy” and is a fitting description for these bizarre creatures.

The story goes that Linares used to make traditional papier mache figures and carnival masks, for all the local festivals, including piñatas at Christmas, and life-size Judas dolls at Easter. After falling gravely ill, he encountered weird, grotesque animals in his fevered hallucinations. Upon recovery he decided to paint the animals of his dreams, little realising how popular these ugly monsters would become. As a result of the renewed creativity following his near-death experience, Linares and his family passed over the thin line separating craftsman from artists; a local legend was born and a novel form of art was brought into existence.

Renowned muralist, Rivera Diego bought several huge figures for his studio and European and US enthusiasts started collecting the Linares family creations as artistic treasures. What was one man’s terrifying vision of death has become celebrated art.

In the 1960s, inspired by the success of Linares, a Oaxacan woodcarver, Manuel Jiménez, transferred the style to the miniature figurines he carved. Many followed suit and these brightly-painted wooden animals and monsters remain hugely popular and portable examples of this vernacular art.

The Alebrije procession took place in one of Mexico City’s main boulevards, Paseo Reforma. The giant creations then came to rest overnight on the wide pavements. How apt that they should appear the week before the Day of the Dead is celebrated in Mexico, reminding us of the skill with which Mexicans circumvent horror and terror. They confont, make fun of and celebrate death. In their hands, the stuff of nightmares becomes colourful, hand-painted toys for the delight of adults and children alike.

Santuario de la Virgen de los Remedios

The tourist poster says it all: Ancient pyramid, surmounted by a colourful church, blue skies and a gigantic snow-capped volcano dominating the horizon. This is the picture of Cholula, in central Mexico, that is used to sell the country to British tourists and adorns the cover of the latest Edition of the Eyewitness travel guide.

Near the colonial city of Puebla, and just 2 hours outside Mexico City, this sleepy town claims the largest pyramid in the world in total volume (it’s squat but with a base of 450×450m) and the longest portales (row of arches) in Latin America. Founded in 500 BC, the local guide also claims that it is “the oldest living city in America”.

Astonishingly, the pyramid is not listed as a world heritage site, but this may contribute to the site’s charm and the fact that it is not overrun by tourists – despite the poster! What they don’t tell you in the local guides to Cholula is that a trip to the pyramid involves around fifteen minutes in a narrow tunnel that is only six feet tall and scarcely wide enough for one person; so if you are tall or obese, this is definitely a health and safety hazard. Apparently, since the 1930s around five miles (8 km) of tunnels have been excavated beneath the pyramid by archaeologists in order to ascertain the various stages of building (it’s believed that the pyramid’s construction was undertaken in four stages beginning around 200 BC).

God knows, how many kilometres we traversed – it felt like forever. I couldn’t help but think of those poor unfortunate souls forced to work in the depths of the pyramids. But my compassionate thoughts were soon forgotten when claustrophobia took a firm hold. We were stuck behind a small tour group who stopped every couple of minutes to gaze at a dusty alcove whilst the guide whittered on and the rest of us sweated it out; I resisted the impulse to throw myself writhing to the ground — there probably wasn’t enough space to squirm. When daylight finally greeted us I ran towards the opening. It really was as though we were being met by divine light at the end of the tunnel.

Emerging from night into day, the first sight of the pyramid – through which we had been travelling – comes as a shock. It resembles nothing more than a grassy hillock; its incline carpeted with wild flowers, with a pretty church, basking in sunlight at the top. At this moment, the suggestion that this might be a pre-Columbian sacred site seems preposterous. The domed church, painted sunset orange, is known as the Santuario de la Virgen de los Remedios (Sanctuary of the Virgin of the Remedies) and was built by the Spanish following a swift takeover of the city. Unnerved by the fervour of the Aztec rituals, involving cannibalism, the dismemberment of sacrificial victims, and the proffering of human hearts as tribute to their gods, the Spanish wasted no time in tearing down whatever they could. As quickly as they tore down the sacred sites and temple, they erected churches on top of the remains. The people of Cholula were evidently keen on sacrificial ritual as the town is famous for the sheer number of churches in use today. Apparently it once boasted 350!

Cholula was one of Mexico’s largest cities, but following the terrible massacre by the conquistadores never regained its former splendour. Interestingly, by the time the Spanish arrived, this particular temple had fallen into ruin and was already overgrown.

When we begin the climb, the remains of the final pyramid finally take shape. Steps once covered all four sides allowing the summit to be approached from any direction, but we decided to follow the natural curve rather than attempting an aggressive incline. Unfortunately we don’t get the poster’s stunning view from the top; clouds obscure the legendary El Popocatépetl volcano that separates the valley from Mexico City.

Voladores de la Papantla

On the way down, next to a small crafts market, a strange sight awaits us. Four men in colourful costumes are swinging upside down, round and round a tall pole. It looks like some strange inversion of maypole dancing. But this, Jaime informs me grandly, is Voladores de Papantla. I watch with my mouth agape. What on earth possesses these men to indulge in an apparently nonsensical and uncomfortable ritual. Jaime shrugs, “what’s the point of any sport!” He’s right. It’s not so different from our own Maypole dancing. I think back to my English childhood spent at country fairs watching brightly attired figures with bells on their shoes, holding onto a coloured ribbon, and skipping around a pole.

This rather more daring ritualistic dance from Veracruz, east of Cholula, is believed to be the last vestige of a pre-Hispanic volador ritual common in western Mexico. Later, I read-up and find out that the five dancers (one sits atop the pole) are meant to represent the five elements of the indigenous world. It looks unearthly and proves strangely mesmerising to watch.

Cholula town reminds me of something out of a Spaghetti Western. Maybe it is the impressive row of arches (portales) in the main square (Zocalo) protecting the various cafés and restaurants. I expect saloon doors to swing open at any moment (there were none) and reveal a raucous cantina full of drunken Mexicans in sombreros (I saw none). The cafes are all busy, and after our hike to the church, it is relaxing to sit back and enjoy a coffee before it is time to return to Puebla.

La Puebla de los Angeles (Town of the Angels) also has many claims to fame; its colonial architecture; handpainted tiles and Talavera pottery; the Mole Poblano which is a spicy Mexican sauce cooked with chocolate to give it a bitter-sweet flavour; and the Cinco de Mayo (5 May) festivity commemorating the 1862 defeat of the French army. We stayed near the Zocalo, its historic heart. Browsing the local stores we met Giovanni Rangel, a local silversmith. He showed us the silver smelting process from rock to precious metal.

A real artisan, he fashions silver into stunningly creative designs. He also makes earrings, pendants, cufflinks and necklaces using tiny slivers of Talavera pottery. I bought an exquisite pendant made from fossilised rock which he had polished and set in silver.

I also manage to sample a vegetarian version of the infamous Mole Poblan0 during an unexpected brunch – they substituted scrambled egg for the meat. The sauce is extraordinarily complex; a good Mole will include a variety of chillies, (roasted and then ground with other spices) and is slow cooked – as long as it takes. It is usually served with turkey or chicken and now makes an appearance at most Mexican holidays or weddings. Chicken or Turkey mole is traditionally cooked to tempt the dead to join the living during the long nights of 1 and 2 November. It has the consistency and kick of a Satay sauce with the same spicy sweetness that I love in Malaysian and Thai cooking.

Despite its many pleasures, Puebla has a darker side that I cannot ignore. I have written many times about the writer Lydia Cacho. In 2005 she published a book (Demons of Eden: the power behind pornography), exposing a Mexican child pornography ring in the popular resort of Cancún. A businessman, José Kamel Nacif Borge, known as the King of Denim, because of his jeans factories in Puebla, accused Cacho of libel. He is cited in the book as having ties with Jean Succar Kuri, the owner of a hotel in Cancún. Kuri was already detained at the time, charged with heading the child pornography and prostitution network. 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. She endured a twenty-hour car journey from her home in Cancún to Puebla, where she was physically threatened. Upon arrival she was charged with ‘defamation’ and calumny and faced up to four years in prison if found guilty. The governor who ordered her arrest was one Mario Marín.

In February 2006, taped telephone conversations beween Kamel Nacif and the governor de Puebla Mario Marín, were released to the local media. They revealed the extent to which Marín had been involved in Cacho’s arrest and detention. Kamel Nacif’s fawning tone with the governor caused laughter as well as outrage and was later the basis for a rap song and tv skits widely circulated on YouTube.

Far more chilling was the offer of “two beautiful bottles of cognac” as a token of appreciation for the Governor’s part in the arrest of Cacho. After the tapes came to light, Cacho filed a countersuit for corruption and violation of her human rights. Following a year-long battle, during which she suffered 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 considered a criminal offence. Despite the Mexican Supreme Court’s ruling that there had been ‘no serious violation’ of Cacho’s rights when she was arrested on Marín’s orders, 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 government 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.

Cacho claims that it is impossible to get justice in Puebla, particularly given the role of the state authorities in her ordeal. She is now forced to submit her case to the Inter-American Commission on Human Rights, but continues to receive threats to her life for her writing and her work.

With all the too-ing and fro-ing and legalise surrounding the case, I didn’t think to research what had happened to the Governor. I just presumed that when the tapes came to light Marín would have been stripped of office. Not so. I nearly fell off my chair when Jaime told me – in Puebla. Not only will Marín serve his obligatory 6-year term, today he is as popular as ever.

Mexico! This country that I love to hate and hate to love. The levels of crime and corruption are breathtaking. But the landscape is just phenomenal, its ancient civilisation still exerts a magnetism that is palpable and, despite the poverty, Mexicans exude a warmth and generosity that it’s hard to match anywhere in the world.

As you approach San Miguel de Allende, winding down one of the numerous hills that surround this pretty colonial town, it is the pink spires of La Parroquia (the parish church) that stand out. The façade was added to the original 1683 church by local stone mason Ceferino Gutierrez in 1880. With no formal training as an architect, this is Gutierrez’s idiosyncratic interpretation of a gothic tower. Legend has it that the illiterate mason would sketch out his instructions with a stick in the sand and his builders would follow these drawings.

It is just another example of Mexican ingenuity, a memorable piece of architecture, and I love its kitchness.

San Miguel is a picture-postcard town in Mexico’s central highlands and since the 1940s it has attracted many foreigners (mainly American) to make their homes here. Following World War II, American GIs came to the town to study at the art school run by Sterling Dickinson. Later, others followed and when McCarthy began his witch-hunts in the late 1940s, San Miguel also attracted American political expatriates seeking a refuge.

In the sixties, Beat writer Neal Cassady famously died just outside San Miguel after a wedding party in town – it is not known whether his death was as a result of exposure or because of a lethal cocktail of drugs. Cassady, together with Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg and, later, Bob Dylan, helped immortalise San Miguel’s most down-at-heel cantina, La Cucaracha (the cockroach) which still stands today.

Although the town has inevitably lost some of its bohemian edge, San Miguel remains a vibrant centre for aspiring artists. Within five minutes of arrival I found myself sipping wine at an art exhibition. San Miguel even has its own PEN centre and often hosts writers’ events. The first time I came here was for a writers’ conference in 2002.

Then, on one surreal evening, a few of us stole away for a dip in La Gruta, about five miles outside the town on the road to Dolores Hidalgo.  A popular spot for bathers, the three pools are fed by thermal springwater. Lit by starlight alone we groped our way through bushes, over a fence and into the first hot pool. We then waded through a pitch black tunnel until we came out in a cave with warm water cascading from its domed roof and down the walls. There are a number of these balnearios close to San Miguel and the experience is truly sublime.

As well as its narrow cobbled streets and slow pace of life, so different from Mexico City, I love the friendliness of the locals and the diversity of things to do and see. After the art exhibition, I was invited into the courtyard of a hotel to hear Casa Verde (GreenHouse) who were going to play original Latin tunes with a hint of reggae. When I arrived, this rather motley, seven-strong crew, were sitting around having a drink together. I had no idea they were to be the evening’s entertainment. But when they wandered onto the tiny stage and took up their instruments the end result was phenomenal. They metamorphosed into a disciplined group of musicians who played with real passion and energy.  There was an Argentinean on trumpet,  the female vocalist was French, a young Mexican girl was playing the congas and the guy who accosted me on the street played the requinto ( a miniature, more highly pitched, acoustic guitar commonly used in serenades) and employed a credit card as a plectrum.  They were hugely generous to one another – taking it in turns to introduce the songs and to sing lead vocals. It is always when you least expect it that something magical happens and I spent the rest of the night listening to this extraordinarily talented group.

The shops in San Miguel are full of interesting wares, that you are actually tempted to buy, from silver and pottery to sarapes and pretty handwoven blouses. This used to be a stopover for traders, en route from the silver mines of Zacatecas and Guanajuato, and is still predominantly an agrarian region, so it is no surprise to see men and children on horseback trotting down the streets. I had wanted to visit one of the nearby ranches to try and beg a bareback ride in the hills, but we did not have time.

The numerous church bells and firecrackers that wake you at dawn may bother some visitors but they evidently remain part of the town’s charm for the American retirees and wealthy expats who spend their winters here.

San Miguel also a bloody past for it was here that Mexico’s bid for independence from Spain first took root. Ignacio Allende, an army officer based in San Miguel, and a priest, Miguel Hidalgo, were among the conspirators to be captured and executed. The heads of Allende and Hidalgo and two other rebel leaders were brought back to Guanajuato and hung in cages outside a granary for ten years until 1821 when Mexico finally gained independence.  San Miguel el Grande was renamed San Miguel de Allende  in 1826 and his statue overlooks that of San Miguel’s founder the Franciscan Friar Juan de San Miguel. There can’t be many places were revolutionaries and friars are honoured side by side, but they often fought in the field together and it is the country’s most rebellious priests that have helped to make Mexico what it is today.

Tepozteco

I have finally climbed the magic mountain of Tepozteco and the experience was phenomenal. This is part of the mountain range (sierra) that encircles Tepoztlán, a sleepy market town one hour south of Mexico city. Tepoztlán is a Nahuatl name and means “place of abundant copper” or “place of broken rocks”. There is not much copper to be seen today – either in the landscape or being sold in the market – but rocks there are a plenty.

What makes the mountain so special is that an ancient pyramid, named after Tepoztécatl the God of pulque, drunkenness and fertility, was erected on its summit around 1200AD and the ruins remain to this day. Pulque is made from the fermented juice of the maguey (a kind of cactus) and by modern standards is generally considered rather unappetising (given its resemblance to human saliva) but it was a popular Aztec drink and pre-Columbian was used in religious ceremonies. (Tepoztécatl is evidently an Aztec version of Dionysus). Pulque is still sold today, although in far less quantities than the ever popular tequila. In a nod to the cult of inebriation, market sellers continue to tout alcoholic beverages at the foot of the mountain.

Between 1150 and 1350AD, the city of Tlapechacalco flourished in a small valley surrounded by hills. The Aztec inhabitants carved out terraces from the rock  and built their palaces, and temples. Today, you can see the archaeological ruins of the city at the foot of the mountain and at the top of cerro Tepozteco is the temple ruin.

Today there is no road to the top and the only way to see the remains of the pyramid is by hiking up the mountainside for 1.3 miles (2km).

I have been meaning to climb this mountain for four years. Sunday at midday probably wasn’t the most propitious moment to choose. Hordes of people decided to ascend at that hour and at least three different generations, if not four, were climbing at the same time as us. Dense vegetation overhangs most of the path, creating natural shade but adding to the humidity, and in places, we were scrambling up an almost vertical precipice. I was amazed to see babies and dogs, quite literally, being hauled up the mountainside. All shapes and sizes and all manner of clothes and shoes were on display. Amazingly, often those people wearing flip-flops and Crocs proved the most sure-footed.

Many websites describe the climb in terms of ordered steps and this is very definitely not the case. At times our staircase to the temple was just a mound of rocks and, in places, water trickles over the rock making the climb slippery and more arduous. We applied a note of magic realism to the journey by imagining it to be the sweat of all those who had climbed before us.

All too often we, rounded a bend only to be confronted with another precipice to be scaled. At times, those descending caused dangerous bottlenecks where neither person could pass without causing risk to others. False hopes were raised when the sun broke through the foliage, fooling us into believing that we were near the top. One man scaled the mountain three times – during the three hours it took us to ascend and descend.

Inevitably, the highlight was arrival – drenched in sweat – and the awe-inspiring view. Tepoztlán laid out before us in all its glory.  The pyramid itself is stunning – even more so when you see the Mexicans camped out on its terraces – munching on their picnics, chatting and laughing. Unbelievably they were selling refreshments on the summit – someone evidently had to lug numerous bottles of lemonade and water up the mountain earlier in the day.

I was amused to see the following sign, asking for payment, at the top. All those climbing on sundays are exempt from the 37 peso fee (about £1.60) . But it was the exemption for “disabled visitors” that struck me.  I cannot contemplate how anyone suffering from any sort of injury or disability would make it up the mountain!  Having myself been partially disabled just 3 weeks ago, I was amazed at the ability of my knee and ankle to hold out and that I survived the journey intact.

As someone who suffers from vertigo, the descent was murderous. I was touched by the amount of helping hands offered to me. My rigid concentration on the stones in front of me, rather than the tremendous vista surrounding me, must have told a tale. I am amazed that there are not more accidents on Tepozteco. Just the sheer number of people at the weekend attempting to climb and descend is a hazard.

We may now be in considerable pain but remain exhilarated by the experience. The memory of the ascent, with its stunning natural architecture, foliage and small ferns flourishing in the rock is unforgettable. The summit is indeed a fitting stage to celebrate deities and kings. The temple ruins and view from the top of the mountain are ample reward for the rest of us lesser mortals.

I can’t bear seeing these pictures of a bare-chested Vladimir Putin on horseback. http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/news/world/europe/article6738969.ece As well as beefing up his macho image, the one of him feeding his mount suggests a sensitivity, a gentler, caring side that, alas, is severely lacking in Russia’s PM. It’s a very shrewd but cynical tactic to have released the photographs for public consumption. I’ve always believed animal lovers to have a compassionate streak, and when I saw Putin kissing a horse (in a previous picture) I hesitated… for a fraction of a second.

But no! This was the man (then President) who refused for three days to issue a statement on the brutal contract killing of courageous journalist Anna Politkovskaya. When he was finally drawn, he callously remarked that “Politkovskaya’s political influence inside the country was of little significance.” The writer was shot dead on 7 October 2006, her body found slumped in an elevator outside her apartment in Moscow. At the time of her death, she was working on an article about torture in Chechnya that implicated Ramzan Kadyrov, then the pro-Kremlin Chechan Prime Minister. After her murder, rumours began to circulate that Kadyrov had ordered the contract killing to coincide with Putin’s Birthday.

Russia bears comparison with Mexico; a country that, in recent months, has been referred to as “a failed state”. One can see a similar pattern of violence in Russia, and in particular in the republic of Chechnya, where violence and corruption has created a lawlessness that Moscow seems increasingly to be unable to keep in check. On coming to power, Putin ordered a ground offensive in 1999 that was to become the Second Chechen War. Russia’s superior military power, its indiscriminate bombing and sheer brute force severely disabled the Chechen resistance and Putin installed a pro-Moscow Chechen regime under Akhmad Kadyrov that lasted until his assassination in 2004. His son, Ramzan Kadyrov, succeeded him, becoming President of Chechnya in February 2007. Over the past decade, Amnesty has published a horrific list of human rights abuses taking place in Chechnya, including extrajudicial executions, enforced disappearances and abductions, torture in unofficial detention centres and arbitrary detentions. It is these abuses that Politkovskaya was so intent on reporting and bringing to the world’s attention and that, few dispute, resulted in her murder.

And now, almost three years later, we are mourning the loss of another courageous female activist who has been slayed in a contract killing for her work. Natalia Estemirova, an award-winning Russian human rights activist and freelance journalist, was murdered on 15 July 2009.

Estemirova worked with Memorial, one of Russia’s best known and oldest human rights group. She was a close friend and colleague of Politkovskaya and they investigated some of the same cases together, writing about them in the independent Novaya Gazeta and other local papers. Estemirova was half-Russian and half-Chechen and had often interpreted for Politkovskaya. In October 2007, she came to England to accept the  inaugural Anna Politkovskaya Award from the Reach All Women in War campaign group; an award established to honour female human rights defenders from conflict zones who stand up for the victims of conflict, often at a great personal risk.

On the morning of 15 July, Estemirova was reportedly seized by four unknown men as she left for work and was bundled into the back of a white car. Neighbours at her house in Grozny, Chechnya’s capital, heard her shout: “I’m being kidnapped.” Later her body was found slumped on the main road of a village in Ingushetia, the neighbouring republic to Chechnya. She had been shot in the head and chest. The news of her death, coming so soon after Politkovskya’s, is heartbreaking. Just, fifty years old, Estemirova leaves behind a fifteen-year-old daughter.

There are many similarities between the lives and deaths of these two courageous women. Both were investigating human rights abuses in Chechnya. Both would listen to the stories of Chechen victims, who would tell them how their relatives had been shot by Kadyrov’s troops, or who had been kidnapped and tortured or who had just disappeared. Both wrote articles for Novaya Gazeta, well-known for its critical and coverage of Russian political and social affairs, and both collaborated with human rights groups such as Amnesty International and Human Rights Watch.  They were scathing critics of Kadyrov, who is a close ally of Vladimir Putin. Their murders bear all the hall marks of contract killings and in both cases their colleagues have pointed the finger at Chechnya’s president.

According to the Committee to Protect Journalists (CPJ), since 2000, under Putin’s tenure, seventeen journalists have been murdered for their work or have died under suspicious circumstances in Russia. They have been murdered with impunity; in only one case have the killers been convicted, and the masterminds remain unpunished.

When Dmitry Anatolyevich Medvedev, backed by Putin, became President, he pledged to enforce the rule of law by investigating crimes against the press. But according to CPJ, attacks on journalists continue unchecked. In the past year alone, CPJ has documented work-related violence against 19 journalists in various parts of the country. English PEN has reported on four journalists killed in the opening months of 2009.

One has to wonder why the most powerful man in Russia today, who is trying to soften his brutish image by posing in photos with horses, cannot stem the tidal wave of murders of journalists, lawyers and human rights activists in his country. Why do these courageous men and women keep on being killed and why do the perpetrators never get caught?

Click here to visit International PEN’s website for further info and suggestions of how you can help.

The Hidden Monument: Cortes, Malinche and Martin

Malinchismo seems to have entered the Mexican lexicon sometime in the late 1940s. Octavio Paz mentions the term in his book of essays, The Labyrinth of Solitude (1950). It refers to the taste for something foreign or exotic. More often than not it is used in a pejorative sense by Mexicans against their fellow country men and women who enjoy the company of foreigners or prefer their outlandish ways and ideals over Mexican culture.

It is only natural that the spread of television into homes across Mexico helped promote a fascination with all things foreign. Apparently in 1968 Mexican President Diaz Ordáz gave a speech where he scolded the Mexicans: “Our malinchismo is holding us back. We must get over it.” The term gained currency in the 1990s when Mexico opened itself up to outside spheres of influence and began importing goods. Malinchistas were those who encouraged Mexico to open itself to the outside world (for better or for worse).

The term is linked to foreign intervention and was born out of what Paz refers to as “the curse that weighs against La Malinche.”

Malinche was the daughter of a noble Indian family; some reports suggest she was of Mayan descent, others that she was the daughter of an Aztec nobleman. Whatever the truth, the important thing is that she knew various Mayan dialects and understood Nahuatl, the language of the Aztecs. Upon her father’s death, her mother remarried and after giving birth to a son, she sold/gave her daughter to some passing traders. Malinche was taken to Tabasco where she wound up as the slave of the cacique, a tribal leader. Here, some say, she learned Spanish from the shipwrecked conquistadores that were washed up on the nearby shores. By the time she was given as a gift to the leader of the conquistadores, Hernan Cortés, she was a natural linguist. She became known as the “silver-tongued translator” of Cortés and later bore him a son. It is not known whether she willingly became Cortes’ lover or was raped and this seems to have contributed to the ambivalence with which so many Mexican hold her today. By all accounts she was respected by Cortés and other conquistadores.  In a letter preserved in the Spanish archives, Cortés wrote: “After God we owe this conquest of New Spain to Doña Marina.”

It is perhaps because of the reverence in which she is held by the Spaniards that for centuries Malinche has been considered a traitor by many Mexicans despite the fact that her interpreting and well-documented diplomacy skills helped prevent widespread slaughter and her son is, in fact, the first true Mexican. In recent years, this negative image has started to shift.

In 1926, the renowned Mexican artist, José Clemente Orozco presented Malinche as the Mexican Eve in his mural: Cortés and Malinche (seen here).

Eighty years later, in 2007, popular Mexican author, Laura Esquivel, attempted to set the record straight with her novella Malinche; an imaginative recreation of the life of the native interpreter and her love affair with Cortés.

Jaime thinks that attitudes towards Malinche have changed with the rise of globalisation in Mexico. In the 1980s, he recalls that a statue of Malinche, Cortés, and their son Martín was placed before the entrance to the main church in Coyoacan Plaza in Mexican City. It was meant to celebrate the Mestizaje (mixed race Mexicans), but was greeted by outrage by many Mexican, who evidently still considered Cortés as “the invader” and Malinche his “whore.*  So the statue disappeared overnight and there was no mention of where it had gone. Some time later, Jaime found it, completely by accident, when walking in a small park on the outskirts of Coyoacan. He was utterly surprised to stumble across it concealed behind bushes and trees.

Parque de Xicotencatl

There are impeccably researched historical and academic accounts of Cortés and Malinche that fail to mention the statue or indeed go so far as to state that there are no monuments to either that exist in the country. So today, we set off to discover one of Mexico’s best kept secrets and we were not to be disappointed. It seems there has been another change of heart. I was surprised at the grandeur of the monument. Although, situated in a pretty, anonymous park of Mexico, the statue is no longer obscured by undergrowth and is sitting on its original pedestal. The regality of the three cannot be ignored.

The insistence of their hands  had me transfixed: Are they challenging, commanding, demanding or supplicating?

The sculptor’s identity is still a mystery, so if any readers have the answer, please post below.

*To this day, there is no other monument to Cortés in Mexico. His remains are in Hospital de Jesus, in line with his wish to be buried in Mexico City, and are marked by a discreet plaque.

Mexico: 5, USA: 0

enough said.

Yesterday, I finally got to see some live wrestling. Admittedly, I got side-tracked from the venture early on when we decided to have lunch at the race-track opposite.

The Mexicans are fans of flat racing. It’s fast paced and addictive – involving (mainly) thoroughbreds in very short sprints, around a lap or, at the most, a lap and a half. The restaurant is tiered and as the first arrivals we were given pride of place overlooking the finishing post. This was just too good to be true. We watched the horses arrive, saw the jockeys saddle up in the nearby paddock and then placed our bets. Three hours later, when we had all won once, we decided to call it a day and late afternoon we headed for the wrestling.

The fair was held in a huge exhibition centre that was full of stalls selling masks, T-shirts, badges, stickers and other memorabilia together with mock rings for children to have wrestling lessons. I don’t know why, but the various stands reminded me of the Ideal Home Exhibition in Earl’s Court. In Mexico, they too have this exhibition, but ideal homes are the dream of a few, so the masses flock to the more affordable wrestling fairs and the gain is immediate and just as long-lasting. Here, rather than taking photographs of eco heating systems you can have your picture taken with a masked,  semi-naked man, often one of the former Greats in the wrestling world.

The central ring where the fights took place was packed to the rafters and you could hear the roars of crowd from outside. Wrestling is evidently treated as a family occasion and there were plenty of children sporting T-shirts of their favourite stars and babies barely out the prams sat on their mothers’ knees. Much of the merchandise is aimed at kids.

When we arrived woman in shiny, brightly coloured latex were in the ring. They were wrestling in pairs – the bad girls (in shorts) with peroxide hair against the good brunettes (who were marginally better covered).  Then it was time for the men who, arrived in threes, and were greeted by shouts and jeers from the crowd. One of the most arresting of these was Maximo, a rotund figure with pink Mohican hair and a black and gold leotard to match.

Maximo camps it up – blowing kisses at his opponents and threatening to lick them when he has overpowered them with a powerful kick to the groin. I was surprised by his antics, given Mexico’s macho-ridden society, but the audience’s enthusiastic response was even more unexpected. Maximo was on the side of the “good guys – La Sombra (the Shadow) and El Valiente (the Valiant) – and in wrestling, the good guys always win.  But although his amigos were the muscle-bound heroes of comic books, the audience genuinely seemed to love Maximo the most.

Between rounds, as the wrestlers are introduced, bikini clad beauties strut down the walkways and at one point we even had two of them in the ring dancing to drums. A few days ago, I wrote in the Guardian that Mexicans love film more than theatre; but as I now realise all this colour and spectacle IS theatre. This is choreographed stage-fighting (some bouts are inevitably better than others and the most revered wrestlers are the most skilled performers). The wrestlers model themselves on particular archetypes (these divide into the ‘roughs’ and the ‘technicians’), many wear masks to add an air of mystique and good always vanquishes evil.

Close-up, you can see the flaws in the stage-craft, which makes me think that wrestling must be more impressive when watched on TV. But what you miss is the roar of the crowds, the excitement and the sense of spectacle. And when one of the better looking wrestlers, takes off his shirt an erotic element comes into play. It is no surprise to learn that wrestling  is very popular with women here.

The same story is played out again and again and the audience never seem to tire. In fact, they seem to gain some sort of catharsis by the experience; a similar sensation that, in ages past, would have overcome an audience upon watching a Greek tragedy. Outside the ring, so much of the violence in Mexico is carried out with impunity. In wrestling, the message is simple: The bad are always punished and the righteous are rewarded for their endeavours and receive adulation.

The referees look like wax works from the 1950s – even their suits are dated. The swaggering of the stars and their dare devil stunts, the over-stated costumes that remain the height of kitsch from lurid greens, screaming pinks, silver gold and leopard-skin and the wrestlers’ balancing acts on the ropes, their frequent contortions and back flips all recall the circus ring. Despite this, wrestling evidently wants to be taken seriously. There were T-shirts in the exhibition hall that proclaimed “Wrestling is not a circus, it is a passion.”

In one thing, I was to be disappointed. I have not yet experienced the world of midget wrestling but I was there in the front row when ‘the minis’ took to the stage/ring and I was hollering with the rest of the crowd. You never know, this may become a regular outing for me.

(This is a pic of ‘the minis’ wrestling, which was most impressive. I love the sense of humour of the burly guy’s ‘ViP’!  And they really were opposites in stature. To get an idea of their height, note the  position of the ropes – top left  of the photo)

I’ve just returned from Taxco de Alarcón and feel as though I have undergone a series of spiritual awakenings. Just 3 hours southwest from Mexico City, Taxco is a picturesque colonial town with winding cobblestone streets and white-washed houses. Taxco is famous for two things; its church and its silver. Formerly it was one of Mexico’s principle silver mining towns. Many of the early Spanish conquistadors made their fortunes from exploiting the silver mines here. When it seemed as if the silver had all but dried up along came a French-born Catalan, Jose de la Borda, who discovered another rich vein of silver in 1743. The story goes that he was riding in the area when his horse stumbled over a stone and exposed the silver. Later Borda built the Church of Santa Prisca church as a gift to the town on the spot where the vein was discovered.

The descent into Taxco is phenomenal. A bend in the road and the town unfolds before you. It is as if the houses have been built one on top of the other; the town literally clings to a steep hillside. Towering above the white adobe houses and their red tile roofs, are the spires of Santa Prisca and its brightly coloured dome. This was to be my first awakening.

The church’s design is Churrigueresque, a Spanish Baroque style of elaborate architectural ornament which emerged as a form of stucco decoration in Spain in the late 1600s. It is built of ochre stone and the excessive decorative above the church entrance is quite extraordinary.

It made me think of the lengths the pious will go to attract others to their religion. Obviously the intention was to make the church as beautiful as possible in order to encourage the town’s inhabitants to embrace Catholicism. But by incorporating as many designs and motifs as possible, on a pink background, the idea is pushed to its limits.

The Church was completed in 1758 and amost bankrupted Borda. Inside the design is no less florid with gold, gold, everywhere.

The Mexicans really know how to mix gore and kitsch to tremendous effect. Here Jesus is shown in great suffering, as the blood runs down his face and body; but the pastel blue apron in which he has been attired and the little angel placed on his right hand, with no sense of irony, lessens the pain and adds a lightness, almost a sense of festivity, to the proceedings.

Plaza Borda, where the church is situated, is packed with people every night. It really is the centre of town life here. Although Taxco is undeniably picturesque, the steep cobblestone streets are impossible to navigate if you are elderly or disabled in any way. I found it hard with my current limp. There are few cars; instead you walk or the numerous Volkswagen Beetle taxis and minibuses get you around town, but even they can’t get everywhere. The fact that they are all white adds to the overall ‘look’ – in fact, it would make a terrific setting for a James Bond film; just imagine the car chase!  The pollution, however, is terrible as the inclines are so steep the cars need optimum gas to make it to the top.  It made me ponder the lure of silver (today there are around 300 shops selling the stuff); and how greed breeds determination. Geographically this must be one of the worst places to build a town, but the presence of silver, then and today, has brought people here in their droves. For starters, the drainage and plumbing can’t be great; there is a faint reek of sewage in most corners of the town. It also seemed to be a breeding ground for mosquitoes – I got bitten alive, unsuspectingly, in the middle of the day.

We soon got silver sick – my next awakening. How quickly I now tire of consumerism when on every street corner there are the poor begging or selling their meagre wares.Having contemplated the lure of silver and the consolations of religion, we decided to leave earlier than planned.

It is always the smallest things that stay with you, and it was on the journey home that a nun caught me surreptitiously scratching my bites. She smiled, serenely. “Mosquitoes?” I nodded. “Limón” was her proclamation. I got home, and indeed she was right. Since rubbing copious amounts of lime over my legs the itching has eased and the swelling has subsided. As Jaime suggested (tongue firmly planted in cheek) God’s representative had spoken and offered a miracle cure!