Various forms of present government corruption threaten Mexico’s dreams of growth. Past similar attempts at self-aggrandizement stir the memories of many long-time residents. The 1994 devastation of the Mexican economy is one of these. A new president, Ernesto Zedillo, had just been sworn in (December 1,1994), unknowingly inheriting the disguised economic debris left behind by outgoing President Carlos Salinas de Gortari.
The most destructive implement wielded by the Salinas administration was the deliriously popular national credit program, a maneuver that became economically suicidal. Its flaws were so well veiled that practically no top political operatives and only a scant few of the president’s closest confidants knew what was taking place.
My wife and I had recently ended a 20-year engagement with this newspaper. That experience provided frequent views of covert government misbehavior and its dangers. We viewed the final portion of Salinas’ six-year term as a plunge into slovenly and murderous conduct.
But few foreigners we knew, including a good many “old Mexican hands,” believed the Republic was sinking dangerously into such brutal self-made trouble. Mexican citizens had become enchanted by the government’s reckless nationwide easy-credit scheme. Most couldn’t see beyond the lush opportunity offered by a simple “strange” credit card.
Among our rural friends was a large extended campesino family whose jefe de familia extendido, Elodio Angel Diaz, was not entranced by fads – monetary, agricultural or any other kind.
Lodio and I had several trail-long discussions about both government-disguised and -undisguised greed that included increased economic bungling.
But when I mentioned doubt about the credit program, Lodio pulled up his pony. “Pos, it’s giving campesinos a new chance, hombre. Many don’t feel poor anymore,” he said. “That’s something new for Mexico. Unbelievable, to tell the truth.”
“Pos, it’s not going to last.”
“Why not? Who’s against it. Nobody I know. You?”
When I ran through a quick summary of the veiled but available research on government’s built-in “credit-relief” flaws he squinted unhappily at the horizon. “Pos, you’re school raised. So I suppose I should believe all that, shouldn’t I?”
“I don’t want you and all your family to get slammed when Salinas’ wild dream falls to pieces.”
“Fijete, hombre, you’re a gringo. Gringos don’t understand much about Mexican politics. Salinas de Gortari is gone, though he may still be trying to run things He just left.”
“Pos, that’s true. I’ve been studying government craziness every day for 20 some years, even though I could only write a piece here and there about it now and then. Officials worked their trickery, I worked to unknot it. ”
“You think you got it all worked out. Por seguro, eh?”
“Absolutely.” I’d grinned. We both did when talking of this matter. “Your government is just a bit crazier than mine. Both get too excited when hiding things from citizens.”
Lodio chewed on his match stick, gazing at the surrounding mountains. Then we decided to talk about one of his closest cousins. Stuff showing what the government was doing. “Mira, Chava won’t trust some gringo about selling our livestock.”
“No, not today. But when things begin to fall apart, he won’t have a choice.”
A couple of months later that time seemed to be coming fast. Chava, swearing, agreed to sell a modest herd of cattle. Lodio would pay him with my cash. Now, two months later those cattle were being driven to Lodio’s ranch.
We herded Chava’s cattle along a drainage ditch forming a low shoulder of the poorly paved Morelia highway. December had hit a hot spell, so it was a dry drive for thirsty cattle and horses. The Morelia “highway” was a narrow, potholed hilly road then. It was known for the number of accidents that occurred as impatient drivers tried to pass other vehicles on the brows of hills, on blind curves. Result: A lot of screeching ambulance sirens.
Lodio and I took the slanting downhill shoulder of the road, herding the cattle on that side of the wide, deep drainage ditch bordering the highway. Trees had grown huskily during the June-September storms and rain that came back briefly in November. They provided good forage. Such wild growth kept them from exploring too far up the sides of the drainage ditch. But where wild underbrush ran out, the cattle wondered to the uphill berm of the highway. Thirsty, they sought water.
Lodio and I were pushing a batch of wanderers back down and into a long well-harvested corn field, when a small handful of riders came out of some underbrush. “What are you doing putting your cattle onto our property?” one of them said in a harsh voice. He was on a dappled brown and white gelding, with a straight-blade machete in a leather saddle scabbard, and a sour expression on his face.
“Well, we’re hoping to get this stock over by Atoyac-Chiquistlan way to store them for a time while the government decides how much damage it’s going to do.”
The talker had a dark brown blotch on the left side of his face that he itched as he talked. “You’re a gringo. What do you know about our government?”
“Pos, he’s a periodista. Lived here a long while,” Ladio said.
“Any water around?” I asked
“Not for trespassers. You should have found that out before you started with this herd.”
“Mighty helpful folks in these parts,” I said to Lodio.
“That isn’t our job,” said the blotched-faced man.
As it got hotter, we balanced trail time and damp time. We roused the stock at four in the morning to graze on dew-dampened pasturage. Our horses, which we changed several times a day, got the same.
The next late afternoon, the harvested, fenceless milpa we found was easy going. Our “host” this time didn’t snarl.
“Our neighbor is a bit raw,” this rancher laughed. “But I don’t have water for all your herd. Enough for the main mounts you and your men are using. Maybe your point bull or cow. That’s all.”
“Muy amable, señor.”
In that time Salinas’ long-reigning Partido Revolutionario Institutional’s attractive choice as candidate for president, Luis Donaldo Colosio, was assassinated. So was his brother-in-law, Jose Francisco Ruiz Massieu, who the outgoing president had assigned to investigate the murder of Colosio. Alarmingly, Ruiz Massieu abruptly announced his resignation. He declared his investigation of Colosio’s slaying was being foiled by a cover-up manufactured by PRI officials. Ruiz Massieu was murdered in downtown Mexico City on September 28, 1994.
Zedillo, the new president, asked federal agents to set a trap for Salinas’ brother, Raul. They arrested him February 28, 1995 for the murder of Ruiz Massieu, To most onlookers here and abroad the PRI “system” appeared, as one reporter wrote, to have “gone mad.”