Down Mexico way

Nogales, Mexico

After the purgatory of Arizona, I was so happy to cross the Mexico frontier I could have French-kissed the filthy streets. It was just like home in Africa. Meat tasted like meat and meals were eaten to a joyous soundtrack of buzzing bluebottles. Stray dogs basked in sunshine among wrecked cars as music cascaded down streets. Maidens had nice, healthy bottoms and men were encouraged to whistle their appreciation. We drank beers in Sonora’s desert air and Our Lady of Guadalupe stared down kindly on all her Catholic sinners. Oh happy, happy Mexico!

Arizona, by contrast, was beyond dreadful. ‘We’re the skin-cancer capital of the world,’ they said to me proudly. I asked, can boredom or American TV give you cancer? Or hormone-injected chicken? Or does American food let you off with just a pair of bitch tits and an involuntary sex change?

Phoenix and Tucson are prefab cityscapes devoid of human life. Aliens haven’t abducted the people. They haven’t been mercifully put out of their misery by an asteroid strike. No, they are all in therapy — or in air-conditioned malls. Or they are in their cars. Walking is a felony in Arizona. People are too obese. Instead the law says they must trundle around in giant trucks to drive-in pharmacies and load up on cholesterol pills. I have never seen such an unhappy, rich, bored population. I’m not exaggerating. Don’t go there. People will approach you and say things like, ‘Can I bag that up for you?’

I went to Arizona with a Kenyan producer called Julie to make a film about the Mexico–USA frontier. As assignments go, it was harder than Congo. I would cry myself to sleep at night. Only the poor Mexicans themselves cheered me up, though they told me odysseys of unparalleled sadness.