Uncovering Mexico
Jeremy Schwartz is the Mexico correspondent for Cox Newspapers. He is based in Mexico City.What's on this page?
The entry titled "Small town suspicion."
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Home > Uncovering Mexico > Archives > 2008 > July > 30 > Entry
Small town suspicion
We arrived in Obrajuelo, a tiny pueblo in Guanajuato, to speak with return migrants. The visit had been arranged well in advance and the local councilman was there to meet us when we pulled into town. But we could tell something was wrong as soon as we got out of the car. The councilman shook our hands, but he was antsy. He began mumbling something about us needing a permit to speak with the townspeople. This was beyond strange. As Orwellian as Mexico’s bureaucracy can seem sometimes, it still does not require journalists to get a permit to interview its citizens. Despite our protests, the councilman insisted we drive to the nearby county seat to get the permit. “There have been extorsions,” he said cryptically. “The people won’t talk to you until you get a permit.” At this point a police car pulled up and two cops began peering inside our rented SUV. OK, I told the councilman, we’ll go to presidencia municipal.
At the presidencia (a combo of city hall and county courthouse), a young man in the “social communication” section apologized for the hassle and explained that a few weeks ago someone had come to town posing as a journalist, talking his way into people’s homes and then robbing them. Officials just wanted to make sure I was legit. I showed them my government-issued press credential and was allowed to leave (the phantom “permit” did not exist - the young bureaucrat looked mystified when I told him councilman said I needed one).
Usually when we hit small towns in Mexico, the reception is warm and hospitable. We’ve had our finest meals in the homes of local residents, been grateful for their kindness and marveled at their willingness to open up to us. But on occasion we meet some suspicious minds. Obrajuelo is an extreme example, but I have been mistaken for all manner of American law enforcement.
In the coastal town of San Marcos, south of Acapulco, we set out in search of a former migrant who imported fighting cocks. This was a tough fellow to find. We asked half the town it seemed, until we finally found someone who knew where to find him. “But I doubt he’ll talk to you,” the man told me. “Oh, is he a little leery of reporters?” I asked. “What? Aren’t you with the embassy? I thought you were looking to take him in.” When I finally reached the cockfighter, he was friendly as could be once he realized I was a reporter.
In Luvianos, in the Tierra Caliente, friendly residents warned me that I might be mistaken for an FBI agent. The area had had its problems with drug traffickers and the FBI (or people the locals thought were FBI agents) had taken part in operations. Apparently white guys wondering the town tended to be law enforcement officials. After hearing that, I made sure to keep my reporter’s notebook prominently exposed.
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