Chico Che on the Portside 2020
High winds manage to close the port again, stranding a Dutch trawler that might otherwise be dredging the Arrecife depths for sand, which the resorts apparently pay good money for. The captain does not talk about the potential illegalities of such excavations in a national marine park, but crew members tend to care less about indiscretion, especially at La Sirena after a few shots of mezcal.
Under thick clouds, the beach is empty and ideal for combing for the mystical Ojos de Venados, the beautiful seeds that protect infants from the Mal Ojo. Whitecaps splash over the synthetic-mesh Sargasso barrier, which has ripped free of its mooring and washed ashore. When the Governor recently bragged that the new floating filters were fully mobile, he did not have this in mind. Now it merely prevents bathers from entering the water. There is indeed a naval ship dedicated to the removal of Sargassum seaweed, but certainly not today.
Three blocks away is El Manglar, which has water of questionable quality, hardly surprising given the expanding Pemex facility at the shoreline. Cocodrilo Grande occupies his usual position at the mangrove’s edge, in the Jardin de Tejones. However, the free lunch is gone, ever since the shutting of Comida Economica, the cheapest good chicken tacos al Puerto. The beast might pine wistfully for mornings when the hairy owner, in tank top and bloody apron, would dump a bucket of guts and carcasses on his head. These days it is only an occasional mercy-morsel, too small to grasp without proper hands. But if someone does not find some chickens soon, this crocodile is going to take matters into his own, and a foolhardy tourist is going to make international news with a selfie.
Most of the inexpensive spots on the port side have closed, but for the old cocina at Tuch Tlan, which has been serving pollo y huevos since the dawn of creation. In their places have sprung upscale chique joints, most of which will not survive the short busy season. Even established places like El Nicho and La Sirena struggle to manage the transient existence. Meanwhile, the DK shipping container is locked and covered with vines. The hanging grapes at Posada Amor have been cut, and the archway is boarded. Bara Bara Cantina never reopened last year after an improvised explosive device left customers running and my friend Tony with tinnitus. My tattered side of town is no longer dark at night, power outages are less frequent, the wild dogs have been removed, the potholes have been filled, and an ultra-modern Chedraui Selecto fills Borge’s smelly old lot, where vagabonds use to camp under almond trees with giant hovering fruit bats. Hay Mucho Cambio en Dos Años.
Out to sea, the Arrecife Reef suffers, as effluent runoff reaches critical levels. The coral organisms blister with microbial infection before succumbing to fatal bleaching. Estimates of the destruction ranges from 30-60%. Fish numbers are plummeting, not that Puerto Morelos ever had a large commercial market, and divers have to venture further out to find surviving populations, beyond the wreck of El Cañonero Juan Escutia, which is submerged outside the break in the reef. This is where container ships pass through to the industrial port, Muelle Transbordador, and commercial interests would like to carve out a deeper port for the big ships. But not today.
Black flags are flying from Guardavidas, as a grey squall sweeps into town from the north. Hopes of dry clothes are dashed as I dart for the palapa at My Paradise, which is packed like a cooler of tamales and just as damp. My friend Luis regales an excited audience with stories of his most famous relative. For those who might ask—Who the Hell is Chico Che?—I can now proudly reply that he is the uncle of Luis Rodriguez, founder of the DK container. “Little Che“ performed his comedy pop in the ’80’s, and everyone of a certain age knows him. His son, Luis’s cousin, calls himself Chico Che Chico, and he is currently topping the charts with an amusing song about mixed relations called “El Africano,“ which is somehow not considered offensive. Their namesake, El Revolutionario Che, might like the simple folk tune solely because it annoys the gringos.
Luis has childhood memories of being by his uncle’s side while inundated by adoring fans, hungry for autographs. When the earthquake struck Mexico in 1985, Chico Che wrote about it in “¿Dónde Te Agarró El Temblor?“ which became an anthem in Districto Federal during the recovery. He performed his musical Parodia on television and in movies, in his distinctive overalls, t-shirt, and shaggy 70’s hair.
Chico Che was a man of the Campesinos, born in the deep south of Mexico, in Villahermosa, Estado Tabasco, a city only reachable by boat until the 1960’s. In Mexico City, this region is seen like our American South—an agrarian, crude-talking backwater, perhaps with radical Zapatista sympathies. Just like the real Che. Tabasco also happens to be the home of AMLO. All this President needs is overalls.