I’m asked:
What is my favorite place in the world?
Where is my favorite place to go in this world?
I answer:
It is
to places
where
tyrants,
tyranny,
prohibitions,
oppressions,
are overthrown.
I thought Mexico was going to be this kind of place.
In August 2009, Mexico decriminalized the possession of up to five grams of cannabis.
Starting in 2015, the Mexican Supreme Court has issued five rulings stating that cannabis prohibition is unconstitutional, due to “the right to the free development of the personality,” as guaranteed by the Mexican Constitution.
The 2018 Supreme Court decision said cannabis, “can be used for rituals, for recreational use, for medical use, at work, for scientific investigations. For any adult use and that it cannot be penalized.”
As per Mexican law, the fifth ruling, the October 31, 2018 ruling, possesses the force of law, binding all judges in the country to follow the Supreme Court’s decision.
Cannabis was de facto decriminalized.
After the 2018 ruling anyone could get their charges thrown out for cannabis possession, use or cultivation.
However, a formal change of the law—which would be the only way to properly legalize cannabis, making it possible to sell it out in the open,
tax and regulate it
—needs to come from the legislative branch.
Following the decisive ruling, the Mexican Supreme Court gave lawmakers until Thursday, Oct. 24, 2019, to establish the exact guidelines of recreational marijuana’s legalization.
I made plans to be in Tijuana when cannabis was to be formally legalized
to party
to celebrate
the overthrow
of
a prohibition,
the overthrow
of an oppression.
And yet,
it was not to be.
In October the Mexican Senate was granted an extension by the Mexican Supreme Court to April 30, 2020,
to formalize the legalization of cannabis.
When I first came to Todos Santos,
Baja California South,
in January 2018,
for the
Tropic of Cancer Concert Series
it seemed like I had come
to the right place.
The music festival is permeated with the smell of burning weed,
people smoke in the street,
people smoke in all the venues where the music festival is held.
I was at the music festival in January 2018,
and then again in January 2019,
as the guest
of my good friend
the big (6 ft 6 inches)
big soul-ed
the song writer/poet
the musician
singer
Daniel Eduardo Rodriguez,
D-ro,
formerly of the band
D-ro is a friend of 20 years.
We both come from the vicinity of Norwich
in Southeastern Connecticut.
When asked how we know each other,
we both say,
“I grew up with this kid.”
I am much older than D-ro,
and yet,
this is true.
D-ro performing at the
Tropic of Cancer
in 2018
was a last minute thing.
It followed the sudden
break-up of
Elephant Revival.
He and I being at the festival was because of
Steve Poltz.
He is best known for his collaborations with singer Jewel, especially the 1996 single,
“You Were Meant for Me”
which reached number 2
on the charts
in the US.
Steve’s shows are
beautiful
funny
affirmations
of life.
But it soon became clear that the
Tropic of Cancer
was not
a place
where
tyrants,
tyranny,
prohibitions,
oppressions
have been overthrown.
The music festival
is the tyranny,
of Joe Firstman,
front man
of the
Cordovas.
To Joe,
The Tropic of Cancer
is his private
musical country club.
The special license
to freely
smoke cannabis,
is a thing that is only allowed
to Joe Firstman’s
country club.
He was glad
to include
D-ro
in his country club.
As for me
– not so much.
Joe is a millionaire.
I have had to learn
how to live
with little.
I live from
month
to month
on Social Security.
I can not afford
to pay
to get into music festivals.
Joe
being that kind of
pinche,
cabron,
rico
gringo
immediately wanted
to black ball me
from his country club.
He has never lost an opportunity
to call me a bum.
I respect
and admire
Joe Firstman
and
The Cordovas
as musical artists.
I am totally on their
musical wavelength.
That wavelength
of old school
Southern Rock
Bluesy,
Americana,
Grateful Dead
grooves.
I respect
and admire
the Cordova band members
as people.
And yet,
as for Joe –
not so much.
Joe alternates
between
being an
incredibly
charming dude,
and being
a
mean,
violent,
bat-shit crazy,
drunk.
I’ve mostly got to see
the mean,
violent,
bat-shit crazy
drunk.
D-ro
and
Steve Poltz
have a history
of performing together.
Steve opened for Elephant Revival
and played with them,
a couple of times
at Red Rocks.
D-ro and Steve
have toured together.
They wanted to play together,
at their favorite coffee place
in Todos Santos,
the Taller 17.
They asked Joe if it would
be ahite.
Steve
because he knew Joe,
longer,
asked.
Joe was drinking
expensive,
tequila
like an animal.
He was totally in
a mean,
violent,
bat-shit crazy,
drunk,
kind of place.
It seemed like he was going
to punch
Steve
in the face.
He growled,
“Don’t even think about it.”
And yet,
next day
Steve
and D-ro
y yo
were at
Playa Tortuga.
Todos Santos
is in the Northern Range
of the
very endangered
Leatherback
and
Black Sea Turtles’
range.
Most of the eggs they lay
in nests in the sand,
in winter,
would not hatch
if they were not incubated.
Sea turtle eggs
are collected
and incubated
in a green house
at this beach.
The new-born turtles
are nurtured.
And when
they are ready
they are brought
to the ocean
and released.
From
November 15
– March 30
at sunset
the hatchlings
are released.
People go to
Playa de Tortugas
to witness this.
Playing with
D-ro
and Steve
at Playa de Tortugas
before an audience
of about 50 people
and about
100 baby turtles
was the height
of my musical career
(if you can call it that).
I played harmonicas
and I sang.
And I looked into the eyes of the baby turtles,
when they arrived
at the sea.
It felt like,
in a modest way,
a tyrant,
a tyranny,
a prohibition,
an oppression
was being overthrown.
I left the festival when
D-ro left the festival.
And I didn’t come back
until January 2019
when D-ro returned.
Again D-ro was welcomed.
And again,
not so much
for me.
Yet, because of D-ro I was given the same wrist band that the musicians were given,
I was given the same access
as the performers.
It was killing Joe.
But he felt
he had to do this.
He made it clear
that I was crashing
his party
and
he didn’t like it.
Yet,
I was loving
the music festival.
I was loving
how gringo
and Latin American
music
bled
into each other.
I made friends with festival
regulars.
And when D-ro
left the festival
to go to his next gig,
I remained.
I saw the range of Joe’s
musical talent.
He is an amazingly
talented dude.
And yet,
I saw that he was one year
further along
in being
a mean,
violent,
bat-shit crazy
drunk.
A pall was cast
on the festival
when Joe
punched
Young Alex
in the face.
Alex is a gringo kid
who spoke Spanish
worked at the
Hotel California
and did
a lot of heavy lifting
in making the festival happen.
It was ugly.
I remained in Todos Santos
after the festival.
Joe let me know
that he considered
all of Todos Santos
to be
his country club.
He made it clear
that my presence in Todos Santos
was me
continuing to crash
his party.
He wanted me
gone.
But I wasn’t going.
Just like the baby turtles
when they reached
the sea,
I knew I was in
the right place
for me
to be.
I set up my tent
at ‘El Litro Trailer Park,’
which is the right place for me
to set up my tent.
And I set up my office
at La Morena,
which was definitely
not
the right place
for me
to be.
La Morena is where
Joe
and the
Cordovas
hang out.
La Morena is where
much of the
music festival happens.
During the music festival
people are freely
smoking weed there.
After the music festival
Joe
and the
Cordovas
and people
in Joe’s
country club
continue to
freely smoke weed there.
I continued to freely smoke weed there.
I would get breakfast
and iced coffee
and spend a lot of time there
working on my laptop.
The employees at
La Morena
thought I was in
Joe’s country club.
They welcomed me.
Joe was enraged
that I was
hanging at
La Morena.
He called D-ro
to bitterly complain.
When D-ro
asked me
about Joe’s call,
I went to Carlos
the main bartender,
and asked him
if it was ahite
for me
to be
at La Morena.
Carlos still thought I was
in Joe’s country club.
He told me
I was
very welcome
at La Morena.
Joe was furious
that I continued
being
at La Morena.
He told his
good friend
Erik Castellanos,
the owner of
La Morena,
that
I was not
in his country club,
and he didn’t want
to see me
there
again.
I was smoking weed
in the Morena,
like I had
many times before.
Erik sat down
at my table,
and asked
if
I was out of my fucking mind.
He said
cannabis
was illegal
in Mexico.
He said that he
was going
to call the cops.
He called me
a bum
in that special way
that
pinche,
cabron,
rico
Mexicanos
will call you
a bum.
He continued
on these themes
at length.
I wasn’t officially
kicked out of
La Morena.
And yet,
it was really ugly.
There were
a fair number of people
in the restaurant/bar.
It seemed like Erik
had rehearsed
this public
humiliation
of me.
I finished my iced coffee
packed up my laptop
and shook the dust
of La Morena
off my feet.
And I found
that the right place
for me
to set up
my office
in Todos Santos
was
the Cafelix.
I remained in
Todos Santos
until April.
Joe
and the Cordovas
left in March.
But every time
I saw Joe
he was drunk
and belligerent.
I returned
to Todos Santos
in the middle of December.
And when
Joe
and the Cordovas
returned
towards the end
of December,
I could see
that Joe
was
one year
further along
in being
a mean,
violent,
bat-shit crazy
drunk.
D-ro didn’t play
Tropic of Cancer
in 2020.
He was touring
with his good friend
Chadwick Stokes
front-man for the bands
Dispatch and State Radio.
Steve was going to play
the festival.
But he was going to do
a surgical strike.
He was going
to fly in
do the
opening show
and next day
fly out.
Even
with Joe’s
drunken malice,
I had come to love
the Tropic of Cancer.
I asked Steve
if I could be his guest.
When Steve’s manager
called to make arrangements
for me to be Steve’s guest
he got Joe.
Joe said,
he was busy,
and hung up.
Steve’s manager
who I once
though
was a friend,
wrote an angry e-mail,
and called me a bum.
Steve offered
to give me his
wrist band
to get entry
into the festival.
But I knew
that if I showed up
at the festival
with Steve’s
wrist-band,
there would be blood.
I heard the music
of the festival
faintly
in the distance,
at El Litro Trailer Park,
– a black balled outcast.
And yet,
after the festival,
because I so loved
the music
of the
Cordovas,
I would risk
Joe’s drunken malice,
to listen to them
when they played
La Morena
every Saturday night.
I would stand
in the street
and smoke weed
in my bat,
in my pipe
that looks
like a cigarette
(the way I’ve been smoking weed since I’ve been fifteen).
And I was not the only one
who was smoking weed
in front of the Morena.
The Cordovas left
Todos Santos
in early March.
I was glad
nobody got kilt.
Looking back at it,
I realize
how stupid I was being,
but I got into
this habit
of smoking weed
on the west side,
the sea-ward side
of the
Hotel California,
before walking back
to the trailer park
at night.
The wide boulevard
beside the hotel
is like a movie set
a location of a film.
I would sit on the curve
and even though
you can’t
quite see
the ocean,
you can see the sky
over the ocean,
the sky that would have a brightening Venus,
and the moon,
a sky that had already
become so clear
(because of the world’s
covid-19 shut down)
it had
a new color.
I wasn’t paying attention.
I didn’t see
the municipal police truck,
with five police
(including the driver)
until it was
in front of me.
They were on me.
There hands were
in my pockets
where I had stashed
a pill-bottle
that had
about a half gram of weed,
my pipe
that looked like a cigarette
and my lighter.
The biggest
ugliest cop,
told me,
I was in a heap of trouble.
I told him
I was doing nothing
that was illegal.
I told him
I had less than five grams.
The biggest,
ugliest
cop,
in the Todos Santos
Municipal Police Force
bent down
and put his face
inches from mine.
He asked,
what did a
pinche gringo,
like me,
know about
the laws
of the Republic of Mexico.
I assured him,
I knew about this.
Then
The Commandante
stepped forward.
He was a fit dude
about 50 years-old,
and there was
no doubt,
he was
The Commandante.
He said,
it definitely wasn’t legal
for me
to be smoking on the streets
of Todos Santos.
He gave the order
for my arrest.
My wallet
with my passport
and money,
my pipe
that looked like a cigarette
my pill bottle
with half a gram of weed,
my lighter,
my backpack
with my laptop
and a box with seven harmonicas.
was taken.
Handcuffs
were produced.
An argument ensued
about whether my hands
should be cuffed
in front,
or in back.
The Commandante
asked
what was wrong with them.
He said
give the old man
some respect.
My hands were cuffed
in front of me.
Then there was a debate
about whether
I should be put in back of the truck
or allowed
to ride in the cab.
Again,
The Commandante
asked what was wrong with them.
I was allowed to ride in the cab.
When I was brought
to the police station,
my wallet was returned,
and I was thrown
into
a dirty,
stinking,
no doubt
pathogen-laden
shithole
jail cell.
The toilet
was overflowing.
There was shit
smeared on the walls.
It seemed
like the toilet broke
years ago.
When my wallet was taken
it had 1,400 pesos (about $70).
When it was returned it had 500 (about $25).
I was in that shit-hole
for about an hour.
Then
The Commandante
came to my cell.
He started out
by telling me
that this was not
the United State,
he said
marijuana
was illegal
in Mexico.
Again,
I said
with complete
confidence
that it wasn’t.
Then he again said
that it definitely wasn’t legal
to smoke
on the streets
of Todos Santos.
I apologized,
said I wouldn’t do it again
(what I meant,
though,
was that
I would never be caught again).
Then our conversation
got weird.
He noted,
that I was
a 65-year old man,
(actually 65-and-a-half)
and yet,
I was acting
like a child.
He then
called me a bum.
But he called me a bum
like my Jewish mother
would call me
a bum.
He was talking about
life’s formalities,
the expectations
of society
in Mexico
in Latin America.
He was talking about
how I wasn’t
fulfilling
society’s expectations
of me.
I am older
than
The Commandante.
Yet,
he was
being
fatherly.
I listened
with respect
and a theatrical contriteness,
the same way
I would listen
to my mother.
I wanted to
answer
The Commandante
the same way I would
answer my mother.
I wanted to
tell him
that
I didn’t feel
I was here
to fulfill
the expectations of other.
I wanted to tell him,
that a lifetime
was too short,
too precious,
to be doing that.
But instead
I remained
theatrically
contrite.
He told me
to act my age.
And then
he left me in
that
dirty,
stinking
no doubt
pathogen-laden
shit-hole
for another hour.
When he returned,
he asked me
how he could help me.
At first, I though
I was mis-translating.
At first,
I thought he was trying to
extort the 500 pesos
that remained in my wallet.
I told him that I wasn’t
a pinche rico gringo.
I told him
that I lived
month
to month
on social security.
I told him
I really couldn’t afford this.
I told him
this was really hard on me.
He left the cell block
and returned
with the 500 peso note,
that had been in my wallet,
and handed it
to me.
I starred at it
incredulously.
And then
I was left
in that
dirty,
stinking
no doubt
pathogen-laden
shit-hole
of a jail cell
for another half-hour.
When I was released
from the jail,
by a young cop,
I was told to sign
at the bottom
of a document.
The cop held his hand
over the document
making it impossible
to read it.
I grabbed the ticket pad
and pulled it away from the cop
and read it.
It was a ticket
for smoking cannabis
in public.
I signed the ticket.
Then I was told
to get the fuck out.
I took my time
re-packing my backpack.
When you are arrested in Mexico,
of course,
the police are going to do
this chicken-shit
petty,
pilfering,
thieving.
The police took
a light backpacking shirt,
that I had for fifteen years.
They took
my knife,
my flashlight,
my earphones.
I was again told
to get
the fuck
out of the police station.
I told them
I wasn’t leaving
until
my pipe,
that looks like a cigarette,
my lighter,
and my weed
was returned.
The cop
returned
my pipe,
my lighter,
and then
he started handing me
my pill bottle
with about
half a gram
of weed.
When I reached for it,
he pulled it back
and laughed.
I walked to the door,
turned around
raised my fist
into the air
and declared,
“Es legal.”
And I took the street again.
Being
robbed,
extorted
by the police
happens a lot
in Mexico.
On Christmas Day 2017,
I was in La Paz.
I was crossing a street
when a
Baja California South
state police truck
pulled in front of me,
grazing my left arm.
The two
young
state cops
were on me.
They had been watching me,
for awhile.
They had seen me
smoking
out of my pipe
that looked like a cigarette,
on the malecon,
the promenade
on the La Paz
waterfront.
They had figured out
I wasn’t smoking tobacco.
And yet,
at that moment
I was just following
an old Jewish tradition.
I was walking
to a Chinese Restaurant,
on Christmas.
They told me
to empty my pockets.
But I knew that if I
emptied my pockets,
my pill bottle
with about
three grams of weed
and my pipe
that looked like a cigarette
would be taken.
I refused to empty my pockets.
I just took out a 500 peso note
(about $30 back then),
and threw it at them
making no attempt
to conceal
my contempt
my disgust
my anger
my loathing.
One of the cops
pulled out his pistol,
an old Beretta 9 mm
semi-automatic,
and showed it to me.
He said he had to use his pistol
all the time.
He said he was always
risking his life,
and yet,
he couldn’t feed his family
with what he was paid.
I don’t own a gun.
But I know guns.
I looked at it closely.
It was,
no doubt,
a well-worn gun,
a gunfighter’s gun,
that had been fired
a lot.
It smelled like
it was fired recently.
I told him
that the Mexican Police
should organize.
I told him
that the police
should demand wages
that would allow them
to take care
of their families,
so they wouldn’t have
to rob
and extort
the people.
The cop thought about this.
Then he made this gesture,
he shrugged
raised
his palm up hands
in this gesture
of utter
hopelessness,
helplessness,
and said
sadly,
forlornly
‘Mexico.’
I had seen/heard this before.
And every time I heard it
I wanted to cry,
(sometimes I have).
About three weeks
after first being arrested
in Todos Santos,
I was walking back
to the trailer park,
around 10 p.m.
on a Friday night
when I heard
the police truck
swooping down on me.
This time there were four
Todos Santos Municipal Police,
(different ones then those who
arrested me before).
They pushed me
against the truck.
There hands were
in my pockets.
They took
my pill bottle
with about two grams of weed,
they took my pipe
that looks like a cigarette,
they took my lighter,
they took my backpack
with my laptop,
and my harmonicas.
The cop in charge
was a little guy
with a little man complex,
that he wore on his sleeve.
He was a little thug
in a uniform.
He told me
that I
was in a heap of trouble.
I told him
I was doing nothing illegal.
I told him
he was the one
being a criminal.
I told him I had less than five grams.
He asked me if I had
a medical permit.
He asked me if I had a document
that authorized me
to transport weed.
I told him
he was full of shit.
And then he made the
first threat.
The threat to have me deported.
The little thug
didn’t like the way
I was talking to him.
I shouldn’t have been talking to him,
like that.
Yet,
I couldn’t help myself,
I was angry.
The little thug
wanted to make this
more than theft
more than extortion.
He wanted
to make me scared.
I was thrown in the back
of the truck.
And the little thug
rode in the back
with me.
I denounced him
as a thief
an extortionist
as an enemy
a predator
on his own people.
He said,
“keep on talking,
asshole,
you are going to get your ass
deported.”
When we got to the police station,
he put his hands on me.
It was one time
too many.
I threw his hands
off of me,
and got into position
for whatever was
to come.
We starred
at each other,
and then
he backed down.
When we went into the police station
There was a young tenante (lieutenant)
of police in command.
He asked me,
in a pleasant
affable
way,
“How I was doing?”
I answered,
“No bueno.”
There was the same desk sergeant
who was there
three weeks ago.
He recognized me.
Told the tenante
I had been there
before.
The tenante
asked me
if I had been arrested before.
I confessed that I had.
He said that I could be deported.
I didn’t believe him.
The little thug
took all the money I had in my wallet.
And counted it,
out loud.
There was about 5,500 pesos
(about $220).
My money and my wallet,
but not my passport
was handed back to me.
The tenante told me
that if I gave him
2,000 pesos
I could be
on my way.
I asked him
why I should do that,
I hadn’t done anything illegal.
He said I needed
a medical permit,
He said I needed
a permit
to transport cannabis.
I said,
with complete assurance,
that he was full of shit.
He then picked up the telephone.
He said he was going to call
the immigration office
in La Paz,
and my ass would
be deported
next day.
I didn’t believe him.
It was 10:30 p.m.
on a Friday night.
I gestured that he should
proceed.
The little thug
pushed me
through the door
that led
to the cell block.
The cell that I had been in,
three weeks before,
now,
held three young
Mexican guys.
They weren’t rich,
but they weren’t poor.
They looked like
birds,
mice,
that were being tortured by a cat.
I was put in the next jail
cell,
which was also
a dirty,
stinking
no doubt
pathogen laden
shit hole.
I was kept there
for about fifteen minutes.
Then the little thug came
and took me to the
tenante’s office.
The tenante was sitting
behind his desk.
He told me to take a seat.
He told me I wasn’t in Colorado.
He told me again
that I needed
a medical permit,
a permit to transport cannabis.
I was about to say
“bull-shit”,
but I caught myself.
In that
dirty,
stinking,
no doubt
pathogen-laden
shit-hole
of a jail cell.
I had collected
myself.
I had calmed down.
The tenante said,
I had been arrested twice
in the past three weeks.
He said I had dis-respected
the Mexican police.
He said I had dis-respected
the laws
of the Republic of Mexico.
Then he started talking
about baseball.
He said,
I had two strikes.
And if I got
another strike,
I would be
out
-deported.
I assured him
I had nothing
but respect
for the Mexican Police,
for the Republic of Mexico
for the laws
of the Republic of Mexico.
I assured him,
I would fully comply
with the laws of Mexico.
The tenante said,
he didn’t believe me.
He said,
he believed
I was still going to pretend
I was in Colorado.
He said,
he was sure
I was going to be
arrested again.
And if I was arrested
three times,
he assured me
I was going to be deported.
There is a history of gringos
being deported
from Todos Santos.
Peter Buck,
former R.E.M. guitarist,
in 2012 created the Todos Santos Music Festival.
(Buck had bought a house in Todos Santos in 2008.)
He loved Todos Santos.
And Todos Santos
loved him.
The highlight of the Todos Santos Music Festival
was a free concert
in the church plaza
that was attended
by more than 4,000.
Peter Buck
and his music festival
benefited
the Palapa Society,
an education organization,
that provides
world-class education
to Todos Santos’ youth.
After Hurricane Odile swept through
in 2014
concert proceeds that year helped residents rebuild.
And then Peter Buck
joined in the good fight.
The fight against
tyrants,
tyranny,
oppressions.
There is only one beach in Todos Santos
Punto Lobos
(also known as
fishermen’s beach)
where it is
safe to swim,
where fishermen can safely get
their boats
in and out
of the ocean.
The Tres Santos Development
was about
the dispossessing
of the fisherman
of their working waterfront.
It was about dispossessing
the town’s people
of their beach,
of their aquifer
which provides
all the town’s water.
Tres Santos was about
building
4,472 palacios
for the dirty, stinking rich.
It was
authoritarian oppression,
it was billionaire kleptocracy.
It involved Black Creek Group, a Colorado-based company,
Colorado State University
of Fort Collins,
played a big-role
in this oppression.
It did
the ‘green-washing’.
It told
the big lie.
It said Tres Santos
would be good
for the environment.
Tres Santos
involved
Jerónimo Gerard Rivero,
the brother-in-law of
the disgraced
stinking corrupt
former president of Mexico
Carlos Salinas de Gortari.
It involved
violent confrontations
between
the fishermen
and
town’s people
against
the pinche policia.
On the last day
of the 2016
Todos Santos Music Festival,
January 23,
the free concert happened.
The concert included
Mike Mills (R.E.M.),
John Paul Jones (Led Zeppelin)
Death Cab for Cutie
and La Santa Cecilia.
Hundreds of people
marched into
the church plaza
to rally for the fishermen
and protest
The Tres Santos Project.
Buck got on stage
and said,
“What’s gone on in this town for the past two years is a fucking crime.
“This town is not owned by crooked politicians,
sleazy developers…
“This is your town.
Every one of you people has a say in this town.
So everybody
wake up!
This is your town,
take it back!”
The retaliation was swift.
On January 27th,
four days after the concert,
Buck had to leave Mexico
after being threatened with deportation
for violating article 33 of Mexico’s constitution,
which prohibits the involvement of foreigners in national politics.
There was no music festival in 2017.
In 2018 the first
Tropic of Cancer
happened.
Buck
briefly returned
to Todos Santos
in January 2019,
days before
The Tropic of Cancer,
and performed
with Joseph Arthur
(Fistful of Mercy
and RNDM).
Buck has made it clear
that he is not affiliated
in any way
with the
Tropic of Cancer.
On June 12, 2019,
Buck wrote,
“I’d like to state for the record that I don’t know Joe Firstman well,
and that his Tropic of Cancer festival has nothing to do with me.”
And perhaps,
Buck knows
Joe
well enough.
Perhaps he knows that
Joe is
a mean,
violent,
bat-shit crazy
drunk.
The good fight
that Buck
had joined in
succeeded.
The Tres Santos Development
was stopped.
Tyrants,
tyranny,
oppressions
were overthrown.
The tenante
went to great lenghts
to assure me
that he could have me
deported.
He wanted 1,000 pesos.
I again explained that
I wasn’t
a pinche, rico gringo.
I again explained
that I lived
month
to month
on social security.
The tenante asked,
how much money
could I give.
I said 500 pesos.
The tenente
paced the room.
He went outside
and paced outside.
He returned to his office
sat down,
and as if
he was granting me
an incredible favor
he said
he would accept
my 500 pesos.
I handed it to him.
I watched him put it
in his uniform
shirt pocket.
And I was unable to hide
my disgust,
contempt,
loathing.
The tenente saw this expression.
He wagged his finger at me,
and said,
there you go again,
pretending
that you are
in Colorado.
I took my case
to the pueblo.
When I was greeted
by the people
of the pueblo
of Todos Santos,
when they asked,
‘que honda?’
‘que tal’?
‘como estas?’
‘que pasa?”
I would answer
‘No bueno.’
I would answer:
‘la pinche policia
chingando
conmigo.’
(Not good,
the asshole police are fucking with me).
I’d tell my story.
Most times the town’s people
would make the gesture,
and
sadly
forlornly
say,
‘Mexico.’
But some people
got pissed off.
They said
they knew
officers, people in charge
of the police,
and would let them know
about my situation.
I was
eventually told
that the police
would
no longer
fuck with me.
And yet,
I was
just walking.
Again,
I heard the police truck
swooping down on me.
Again
there were hands in my pockets.
Again my backpack
was rifled.
Again I was frisked.
But the pinche policia
did not find
the joint
in my sock.
Last night,
I was walking home
to the trailerpark.
The police were on me.
They pushed me against the truck.
Their hands were in my pocket.
They took my wallet.
They frisked me.
They tore my backpack apart.
They found nothing.
I had nothing.
There were 440 pesos in my wallet.
When it was returned it had 40.
On April 17, 2000
because of covid-19,
the deadline for
the official legalization
of cannabis
was extended
from April 30
to December 15, 2020.
I am out-of-here.
Todos Santos has been the
right place for me to be.
It has been
a harbor
in these
strange days
that have
engulfed
the world.
But now
I am going
to the next
right place
for me
to be.
And I’m not coming back.
I’m not coming back
to Mexico,
to Todos Santos
until
Peter Buck
takes back his music festival.
I am not coming back
until the pinche Mexican Policia
stop
being criminals.
I am not coming back
until the prohibition
is definitively
overthrown.
I’m not coming back
until
the weed in Mexico
is every bit
as fine
as the weed
in Colorado.
I’m not coming back
until
tyrants,
tyranny
prohibitions,
oppressions
are overthrown.
This is unlikely.
And yet,
Quien Sabe?
