Benito’s Birthday March 21, 2022
The sun perfectly aligned at its celestial midpoint when Benito Juarez was born, in Guelatao, Oaxaca, thus beginning his rendezvous with destiny. His Constitution of 1857 established for the first time a discernible line between the lawful and the unlawful. From hereon, the document declared, no man would be above the law, not even the priests and politicians. Not even the grand oil executives at Pemex, which AMLO has recently been pursuing for corruption.
The equinox does not earn a national holiday, but the birthday of Benito Juarez definitely does. He is Mexico’s most beloved son, the little Zapateco man that drove the conquerors away for good. To honor the occasion, Mexico City is opening its new airport, called Felipe Angeles, which is located far from the decrepit, chaotic downtown airport, ironically named Benito Juarez. Mexicans may fondly remember their greatest president, but I tend to associate the name with the place that lost my luggage.
“It is illegal to work today,” says one Benito lover, although the bustle on my street says otherwise. Venders on bicycles sell peppers and onions, while pots of tamales steam in a neighbor’s garage, in preparation for the lunchtime rush. I alone seem to be taking the day off. Call me a patriot.
Baltazar and Hilda have names that sound like they come from another eon, but, in fact, the old couple lives across from us on Calle Pantaleón Dominguez. She runs the convenience store through iron bars, while Baltazar takes my laundry, 10 pesos per kilo. Skies permitting, my clean load, folded and buttoned, will be ready in 36 hours. Hopefully, my change will be ready as well.
Their Lavendería sign has been removed, and this will inevitably hurt business, but Baltazar had little choice. Thanks to the enormous water-claim of the nearby Coca Cola bottling plant, taxes on water have increased, and laundromats have been hit particularly hard. However, the tax is levied only if you advertise your services, say, with a sign, and so Hilda shrewdly suggested that the sign come down. Thus, the business has gone underground. My laundry has entered the black market.
Wasn’t Baltazar one of the wise men?
20-liter jugs of potable water are only 22 pesos, plus tip, but this is only if the delivery truck shows up on Monday, which he does not. Another patriot perhaps. Or—and this is more likely—we have been out of town for most of a month, and the waterman has simply forgotten about us. I listen for the “Rain Drops Keep Falling on my Head,” but all I hear is emphatic cow bell. The source rounds the corner on Francisco Leon. In an orange jumpsuit, he announces the impending arrival of the garbage truck like a cattle stampede. San Cristobal tax dollars at work. Not even Mexico’s greatest president is above the garbage.