Archives for category: Mexico

THE GHOST OF DON MANUEL

June 4, 2015 //
0

The Dream That Never Died

Haresh Shah


It stands there in the middle of Mexico City, looking wrecked and devastated like the crudely chiseled and ravaged structures in the bombed damaged cities of Europe in the aftermath of the second world war. The walls half built and then left unfinished with their uneven rough edges sticking up, floors smeared with the dried out cement. The bare stairs next to the elevators are exposed with no doors concealing them. The haltingly moving lethargic lifts are pulled up and down by the sinister looking cables behind the barely lit entrance to the building. You need to strain your eyes to see the lone figure of the security guard sitting at his battered desk sprouting a dim desk lamp. The open wires devoid of the fixtures dangle down from the high ceilings like in the Snake Alley of Taipei.

When coming in from the street, you walk the rough dusty grounds of what was probably  intended to be a Plaza to surround the tall structure planned to be the tallest building in the all of the Latin America. You climb the few unplastered scratchy cement steps to the lobby and make your way towards the elevators. You hurry past the guard and barely return his greetings. You wait for the elevator descend ever so slowly and watch the cables that control it in that semi-dark dusk like filtered vision.

You hurry in and hurry out of the elevator when you get off your designated floor lest one or more of their cables were to snap. On your left is unlit deep dark bowling alley like narrow passage. The corridor on your right is all lit up. The walls are plastered smooth and painted in pleasant colors. There are doors on the either side with bright light pouring through. Walls in between the doors are adorned with paintings – most of them large originals of the illustrations that brighten up the writing within the pages of the magazine. You hear the cacophony of voices and the hustle of the humans presence from behind the doors. These are the Playboy offices in the Aztec capital of Mexico City.

If brought in blind folded and walked directly into one of the offices, you never would imagine the exterior of the building being anything other than one of the modern glass fronted structures of the time. Sitting in our publisher Irina (Schwartzman)’s office what you see are the angled  walls covered with multiple of original paintings and the clear glass panels that form the outer walls, overlooking the trees and the buildings outside in this residential neighborhood of Colonia Nápoles. Irina’s glass top desk and the chairs around make it for the setting of one of the most modern offices providing a very pleasant work environment. Even though we are only on the second floor of the building, what you see outside those glass walls is the panoramic view of this sprawling mega city, which is mostly covered in the dense smog. So prevalent is the smog that someone with a sense of humor is marketing a Mexican flag covered sealed beverage can “containing” aire de Mexico sin smog – the Mexican air without smog. But the view you get from Irina’s office is more like the romanticized dusty urban landscape reminiscence of the hazy  dreamy images of David Hamilton’s pubescent maidens.

This is the late Eighties. The building was originally meant to be a fifty stories high Hotel de Mexico. The man often referred to be the protégé of Pancho Villa, it was to be the dream tower of the eccentric entrepreneur Manuel Suarez y Suarez, construction for which began in 1962 and was meant to be completed before the country’s 1968 Summer Olympics to provide accommodations for the athletes from around the world. It was to be just like Mexico’s hosting of the Olympics, meant to showcase the country as becoming a part of the modern world, coming true of an immigrant dream that this Spaniard wanted for his adopted country.

Unfortunately, Don Manuel as he was universally called, ran out of the money, and the construction of his dream project had to be halted. Even though the main tower was completed in 1972, it remained an unfinished skeleton for twenty more years. However, also completed and inaugurated was the integral part of this massive undertaking, Polyforum Cultural Siqueiros. In 1980, the project was re-imagined as an international business center. Don Manuel blessed the idea, but before it could be materialized, he died in 1988, while still leaving the unfinished tower to its own fate. But in 1992, the remodeling began partially with the public funds and the completed tower finally opened in 1995 as Mexico’s World Trade Center and eventually went on to become the administrative head quarters for NAFTA (North American Free Trade Agreement).

It is during the interim years when the building was infested with rats and inhabited by the squatters that our clever publisher Francisco Javier Sánchez Campuzano grabbed the opportunity to headquarter Playboy Mexico’s parent company Grupo Siete in the building so desolate and bare boned Meccano like structure.

Javier had an uncanny knack for setting up his offices whatever space he could lay his hands upon. Originally situated in a family home in the residential Colonia del Valle, it was then moved to Calle Maricopa, practically around the corner from the World Trade Center, into the corner of an art gallery, still known as Hotel de Mexico. Now that I think of it, could well have been an extension of the Polyforum Siqueiros.

Like another sub bunder ka vepari – the trader of every port, Javier dabbled seriously into the art business as well. It seemed quite natural to him to fill the nooks and corners of the large space with setting up desks and phone lines for his editorial staff. Which reminds me of the weekend retrieve Christie Hefner had us Playboy executives to convene and bond. It was at the Kohler show room in Kohler, Wisconsin. Yes, we mingled and toasted and were treated to a sumptuous buffet set up along with the high café tables in the midst of shiny toilet bowls, a huge variety of bidets, bath tubs and shower stalls. It turned out to be one of the most relaxing venues for us to synergize in.

And so were Playboy offices dotting the art gallery. It obviously couldn’t well be the permanent habitat. Whatever other businesses Grupo Siete had drummed up under its umbrella, Javier owned several radio stations of which he had come up with a brilliant idea of setting some of  them up to focus mainly on the listeners of north of the borders – that is, of the United States of America. The Hispanic population of the border states such as California, Arizona, Louisiana, Florida, ate up the programing and the advertisers couldn’t be happier, while the listeners got the taste of home.

What’s more – while most of the building remained in unfinished tatters, what was already finished was the antenna tower, reached by the take your lives into your hands high speed elevators. Voila. Javier knew how to make use of the antenna and he promptly set up his radio stations on the very top of the Mexican skyline.

The saving grace were those awesome King Kong size murals already dominating the entrance to the Polyforum, created by no other than the illustrious muralist David Alfaro Siqueiros, in front of which stood statues of the artist and his legendary patron, Don Manuel Suarez y Suarez. Approaching Calle Montecito from Avenida Insurgentes Sur, you can’t help but be in awe of those imposingly beautiful murals, lighting up the otherwise drab and deserted fog and dust filled city scape. It had a feeling of a lush green patch of lawn in the middle of the dry desert. It was a pleasure to stroll by them during our long lunch breaks.

As much of a shock as entering the main tower was, we had gotten used to our environment, of which many stories could be told. Often, Jesus (Bojalil), the editor in chief and his second in command Perla (Carreto) and I would ride the elevator to the vertiginous height and breath the cleanest air one can possibly in Mexico City and look down at the swarming multi-colored houses splattered across the horizon. And Jesus would tell us with all seriousness on his face the vibes he often felt when left alone in the office at nights, how he felt the presence of a shadow moving across our hallways, which he was certain being that of the wandering soul of no other than Don Manuel himself. His dream place, still struggling for life. With Playboy people breathing there, he must have taken comfort in the knowledge that at least the hallways of the second floor had cuddly little bunnies hoping and some of the most beautiful young women frolicking and filling them up with their perfume and and laughers.

This however small a ray of light, he must have seen as the beginning of what would within a few short years turning his dream into the reality. That once again the construction would begin and it would be opened as the convention and cultural centers, containing of the parking facilities, a multiplex, a revolving 45th floor luxury restaurant and a major shopping center with Sears as its principal occupier. And the complex also includes 22 floors of luxury hotel rooms. Perhaps Mexico should host another summer Olympics and have those rooms abuzz with the fervors of the world’s top athletes.

© Haresh Shah 2015

Illustration: Jordan Rutherford

SISTER SITE

http://www.downdivision.com

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On Friday, June 19, 2015

MULTIPLYING LIKE RABBITS

You of course know Playboy to be the name of a magazine, but you have also seen or heard of Playboy Clubs, Playboy Apparels, Playboy Pinball machines, Playboy fragrances, Playboy cigars, Playboy golf balls. Have you ever wondered how a sheer magazine become known for all of the above?

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Categories Entrepreneurs, Mexico, Playboy

THE TUNNEL OF LOVE

April 23, 2015 //
2

My Pied À Terre In Mexico City

Haresh Shah

tunneloflove3
You would think, who in his right mind would get tired of living in Mexico City’s most luxurious and yet most making you feel at home hotel, Camino Real? Especially when the company is paying for it? During the first few months of my back-to-back trips and long sojourns in the city, Camino Real, or as my friends began to call it tu casa amarilla, because of its predominantly yellow façade, has become my permanent home. What’s more, I have fallen in love with the place. As big as it is, it has that warm homey feeling. By now, I know every nook and corner of this huge labyrinth of 720 rooms hotel, have been to each one of the restaurants and bars. The rooms are spacious and I am always welcomed by being placed in a poolside room with balcony. In a few short months, I have spent more romantic days and evenings at Camino Real than all other hotels of the world put together. I am regular at their French restaurant Le Fouquet and their private Le Club. Have splurged into frequent poolside buffets outside Los Azulejos, sat at La Cantina drinking beer and watching the traffic of the beautiful people of the city walking to and from the most-in Lobby Bar – the place where the locals and the hotel guests come together to see and be seen. And have danced the nights away at Cero Cero and then stumbled in for late breakfast at Las Huertas and nursed my hangovers with freshly squeezed tropical juices and very strong Mexican café con leche. Practically every service personnel knows and makes fuss over me. The place I feel at home in the true Mexican spirit of mi casa es su casa. What else can one ask for?

Well, like the Linda Ronstadt song, silver threads and golden needle, at some point that kind of  indulgence too saturates you. What I suddenly want is a place of my own, a pied-à-terre, in the city that is becoming as much my home as is Santa Barbara. I want my own kitchen and make my own ham and cheese sandwich and my famous soon to be baptized Shamolette by Mick Boskamp of Holland. Pop a bottle of beer, instead of having it delivered to my room. I want to cook elaborate Indian food and invite friends, play my own music. Be able to go from one room to another. I want to have a place where my friends from north of the border can come and visit and be able to stay with me.

We find a place, not too far from Camino Real at the corner of Calle Guadalquivir and Paseo de la Reforma. It’s unpresumptuous two bedroom apartment, owned by a woman called Señora Maldonado. It is furnished and comes equipped with kitchen appliances including pots and pans, a set of dishes, silverware and all. Adequate for my trips to Mexico. Just that there is something very ordinary, very boring about the place. The starkness of the place and the lack of imagination makes it look and feel like a drab, but I still take it. It’s at the intersection of two busy streets with incessant  auto traffic. This is Mexico and this is 1977. There are no rules about the air pollution and the noise. I spend night after sleepless night, tossing and turning, tortured by the shrill screeching of the metal over metal of the worn out breaks and grinding of the grease deprived gearshifts. Just within a couple of days, I know that I’ve got to get out of there. But I have signed a  year long lease and Señora Maldonado is not in the least inclined to allow me to wiggle out of it. Finally with the intervention of my friends at the office, she very reluctantly lets me off the hook with me agreeing to pay her two month’s rent for having lived there barely for a week.

Hearing my woeful tale, our publisher Ricardo (Ampudia) picks up the phone.

‘Let me see what I can do!’

‘Hola Antonio….’ And I hear lots of laughs and bantering of the two old school buddies.

‘I think I have just the place for you.’

The very next day, I am climbing the elevator of Berna 14, in the heart of Mexico City’s famed Zona Rosa. The small L shaped street you can enter or exit from Paseo de la Reforma at the Angel and Florencia. Number 14 is snugly nestled in the sharp corner of the inverted L. The building so narrow that you may mistake the sliver of the visible façade to be a dividing line between the two edifices tightly hugging it. It has three floors and three apartments. Mine is on the top floor. Each apartment is accessible only through the elevator, and there are no buttons to push. You need a key for your floor. Like starting a car.

On the third floor, the elevator doors open into the total darkness. When the lights are switched on, you find yourself standing in the middle of a long tube of a submarine like abode. You are in the kitchen/dining room. On the right is the bedroom – the only room to face the street and is exposed to the natural light. It is tastefully furnished with a custom-made bigger than the California King size mattress, which is probably 20” high, placed directly on the floor. It’s covered with shiny white satin sheets and strewn around are several large pillows, also draped in  satin. There are no windows, but floor to ceiling and wall-to-wall clear glass wall with the view of the street. When you draw the heavy drapes over the wall, you get a feeling of being in a submarine moored all the way down below the surface of  the water.

Every inch of the apartment is covered with amply padded and a very high quality tightly woven  off white wall-to-wall shag rug. The kitchen is well equipped and is efficiently placed along the wall and there is just enough room for maximum two people to squeeze in to cook. Rest of the space is covered with an enormous custom made round dining table with the diameter of 6 feet or more, which rests on heavy cast iron stainless steel pedestal. Around the table are very comfy  white dining chairs. Next to the kitchen is the living room. Lushly furnished with soft cushioned couches and arm chairs, also in white. Appropriately placed is the cocktail table and state of the art sound system.

You get a feeling of being placed in a deep cave. The entire place is about 60 feet long and twelve feet wide (approx. 18.3 meters x 3.7 meters). In between there are no walls and/or doors. The rooms are visually divided by the passages designed in the image of the most curvaceous female torso. Recessed lighting illuminates the place.

It is created to play. Every nook and cranny of it screams of now & here. The dining table, the couches, the rugs are all as inviting as the playground size bed, which at some point must feel like too far of a walk when you’re in the mood.

The apartment belongs to Ricardo’s childhood friend, Antonio – a very rich industrialist, whose main residence is outside Mexico City. Probably a hacienda. He has built this man cave in the heart of Mexico City as his pied-à-terre for his extracurricular activities. From what I understand from Ricardo is, at the time, Antonio is going through a particularly dry phase in his life and therefore the apartment remains more or less unused. Not something you can advertise and rent to just anybody. Now to rent it to someone like me, a Playboy executive and a business partner of his childhood friend is another story. I agree to the monthly rent of US$ 500.- as suggested by Ricardo. Lot of money in Mexico and at that time also in the States. I pay less than half that much for my much bigger place in Santa Barbara, California. But then, mere four nights at the Camino Real would cost me more than that.

I couldn’t be happier. Patricia loves it. My young friend Ignacio (Barrientos) adores it. Even Manuel (Peñafiel) with his own super bachelor pad nods his approval. Several months later when things have changed in my life, Carolyn comes to Mexico to spend a few days and thanks to the cozy and intimate Berna 14, she barely gets to see much of the city! It is indeed the most unique place I have ever lived in and is undeniably forms an important part of my Mexico memories.

During my extensive travels and absences, I would let my friends use my apartments, be it in Chicago, Munich or Santa Barbara. I like the idea of someone being there enjoying the place, while also taking care of it, watering the plants, picking up the mail. But I would always be careful who I give my keys to. A couple of colleagues at Editorial Caballero alluded of their interest, but one lesson I had learned from my Lake Shore apartment in Chicago, never to give keys to your married friends for their rendezvous, especially when you also know their wives. A friend’s wife at Time Inc. is still pissed at me because of his clandestine frolicking in my apartment. But the young editor Ignacio is single and we are becoming to be close friends. He probably has as many or more memories of Berna than I do. And I was happy that someone would water my houseplants that I had put in the bedroom to make the place more mine and  homier.

And to water them he did. Like my younger brothers in India, Ignacio too is still living at home, and being a boy, also like my brothers doesn’t have a clue of how these little household things work. So while watering plants, isn’t it better to water more and submerge the soil than leave it not quite saturated? I must have been gone two weeks and when I return, both of my plants in Mexico are promptly drowned and are drooping limply over the edges of their pots. Oh well! At least I don’t have his ex-wife to deal with and have not earned a permanent place on her shit list!

Other than that first meeting, I never have had a reason to see Antonio in flesh and blood until one evening when I am home early and am lying on the couch reading, I hear the elevator door open and someone getting off. Only other persons who had the keys was Ignacio, and Antonio’s manager Sergio, who would stop by every month to collect the rent. But neither of them would ever show up without first having called. A jolt of fear runs through my system, I jump up from the couch and run to the kitchen.

‘I am sorry for barging in on you. I was in the neighborhood and thought come and say hello to you.’ It’s Antonio. Still dressed in his impeccable business suite with an expensive looking leather briefcase in his hand. But other than the perfunctory apology, what I see on his face is the  entitlement he must feel, and okay to barge in on me just because he owns the joint. I don’t really like it, but welcome him nevertheless. Offer him a glass of wine. I sense he already have had a couple of drinks before he decided to wander in. Whatever! We talk about inconsequential things and somewhere along the line he mentions that perhaps we should talk about raising the rent a little bit.

I am not exactly against it, but I think what I was paying to be a fair rent, and I tell him how I paid only $230.- for my Santa Barbara apartment. But he seems to be in a funky mood.

‘You don’t think it makes any difference to me at the end of the day how much rent you pay, do you?’

And then we trail off talking about something else. Somewhere along the line, he picks up his  briefcase, opens it and slides out of it – a gun. He holds it his hands, looks at it endearingly and almost caresses it. Swirls it around his fingers the way John Wayne and Clint Eastwood do in their westerns. The metal of the gun shines like a newly minted penny and its wooden handle is polished to the T.

‘I just bought this. Isn’t she a beauty? You want to hold it?’

‘No it’s alright. I don’t think I have ever held a real gun in my hands.’

He once again fondly looks at it and puts it gently down on the cocktail table in the middle. We continue to talk, but I am no longer as comfortable. What I am thinking is; what the fuck? What does this man have on his mind? I feel a jolt of fear scurry through my spine.

We’re sitting in his time capsule of an apartment, completely sealed off from the outside world. Other than the elevator, there is a door at the very end of the living room that opens at the back of the building, which is double bolted. I know, there are keys in the kitchen, in case of emergency. And what could Antonio have against me? I try to think of the women I have been out with in Mexico City and wish that none of them had anything to do with the man sitting across from me. You know, sort of honor killing. If her were to pull the trigger for whatever reason, no one would hear the bullets popping. His lackeys would get rid of me in a classic Mexican maneuver as if I disappeared in the thin air walking down Paseo de la Reforma. Adios Amigo! My thoughts sound absurd. But they occur to me nevertheless. Outwardly, I stay cool and carry on.

‘Well, I think I better get going so I can be home in time for dinner. By now, the traffic should have eased somewhat.’ He picks up his gun, slides it back into his briefcase, and is gone as abruptly as he had shown up.

© Haresh Shah 2015

Illustration: Celia Rose Marks

SISTER SITE

http://www.downdivision.com

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On Friday, May 7, 2015

THE DELICATE BALANCE

How do you manage to remain the nail that manages not to be pounded down and still make everyone feel that your head is as sunk in as theirs, and that you’re one of them and trust you despite the fact that you’re employed by the other side? Indeed a difficult task, but not impossible. Yastaka Sasaki was that man, who knew how to maintain such a delicate balance and yet not be seen as someone who sold out to one or the other. My fond homage to this incredible man who is no longer with us.

  

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Categories Dwellings, Memoire, Mexico, Playboy

LA PLAYMATE MEXICANA

February 5, 2015 //
1

The Reverse Migration To El Sur

Haresh Shah
fiercelatina

Had she submitted today, a polaroid wearing only a tan and mascara, just to see if I could make the cut, she certainly would have been considered seriously and most probably made it as Playmate of the Month in the U.S. Playboy. In the year 2015, with the dramatically altered demographics and with the both political parties wooing the ever growing Latino population, what could be better than to have a born in Glendale, California of Mexican parents, a natural beauty, raven haired, five feet tall with voluptuous hourglass figure, the dark brown eyes, seductively and invitingly looking back at you? At 24, she is in her prime and has already been a part of a study program at the University of Copenhagen in Denmark and has earned her B.A. in Theatre Arts from Whittier College. A perfect fusion of beauty and the brain – an ideal girl next door.

But thirty five years ago her chances of being approved were slim to none. Even to the casual observer it would be obvious that the basic attributes of the majority of the published Playmates up until then could be summed up with Blonde, Blue Eyes, Big Boobs. Not that there were no exceptions. Once in a while an ethnic Playmate would sneak in, by and large, Playboy’s Eliza Doolittles shared the above three attributes. The girl next door, turned into My Fair Lady in the image of Henry Higgins of Playboy empire’s Hugh M. Hefner himself. And yet, when an exotic beauty showed up at one of the magazine’s studios, the photo editors couldn’t resist the urge to try her – just in case. She could turn out to be the one of those few and far in-between. Often times, after the initial internal voting, she wouldn’t even be presented to the MAN! Most of them would end up in their slush files, never to be looked at again.

Editors felt not so good about having to reject someone outright – someone who could have been a promising candidate. By then they would have also known the girl and may even have liked her at personal level. But not much they could do. There were other limitations: a sign tacked on the cork wall of Chicago based Playmate editor Janice Moses said: BUT WE ONLY NEED TWELVE A YEAR! Alluding to the fact that hundreds of girls presented themselves at Playboy’s door steps in hopes of maybe, just maybe being picked to become the next month’s Playmate. Perhaps even Playmate of the Year. But now with the Foreign Editions having firmly established themselves, they had an option for such an exotic beauty, especially the  ones with foreign ethnic backgrounds.

One of the first such candidates to land on my desktop was a pile of 35 mm slides of Elda Mareea Lopez, sent to me from our Los Angeles studio chief, Marilyn Grabowski. The brief hand written  note on the inter-office pink memo paper said: perhaps you can use her. I think she is gorgeous and is absolutely delightful in person. Judging from those hundred or so frames, she certainly is gorgeous. And when I first meet her, she is beyond being delightful. She is down home muy simpatica!

What strikes me oddly intriguing about her even before I put the Lupe to her slides is the way she has spelt her middle name in the Playmate Data Sheet. She has spelt it Mareea instead of usual Maria. I guess, she is looking for her very own identity, distinguishing herself from practically every female of the Latin origin with virgin Mary squeezed in somewhere in to their names.

To Marilyn’s perhaps you can use her, I immediately think, she could be our first Mexican Playmate! Now they won’t have any excuse not to have one. It’s been almost three years that we have been on the tails of our Mexican publishers about the need for us to have some authentic Mexican Playmates, which would allow us to promote the edition in a way we couldn’t by inviting American Playmates to the south of the border. Finally we are able to convince Ricardo Ampudia, how important it is to have a local girl next door Playmate to grace the pages of our Mexican edition.

Over a weekend while both Al Debat – our Chicago based departmental manager and also a professional photographer and I were in Mexico City, Ricardo tells us that he has just the right  Playmate candidate. Al and I agree to a quick test shoot and take it from there. Ricardo invites us to his house for breakfast on a Saturday morning and we are to do the shoot in his garden. Al and I together shoot eight rolls of films.

Ricardo’s backyard is fairly private with tall and dense bushes. It is a well tended garden with gleaming tropical plants and colorful flowers. The grass is lush and well manicured. The sun is shining bright and it’s warm, but being February not too warm to be hot and humid. The name of the girl he introduces us is Blanca. She is probably in her early twenties with the body that’s fresh and well proportioned and vibrant. She is pretty and she is naturally blonde of the original Spanish stock. And she is far from being shy. Especially considering that she is surrounded by not just the two of us – as it usually would be, but by several people milling around.

The whole tabloid looks like a scene set for a comedy waiting for the curtain to rise. There are two maids constantly walking in and out crossing the grounds, bringing us fresh juices and refreshments. There is the gardener pretending to tend and trim the floras. His teenage son is trying his best not to look at the naked Blanca prancing around, and yet he can’t help but steal a glance whenever he thinks nobody is watching. Fortunately, Blanca seems comfortable in her bare skin. As adorable and beautiful as she is as a young girl, both Al and I think she would one day turn into drop dead gorgeous. She is natural, almost animal like in the way she moves so unconsciously and happily humming to herself. Her smiles are contagious and seductive. She is more like a cuddly pet who you want to hold close and hug. And she is game for anything you ask her to do and pose so naturally without any inhibitions. She is the kind who would do anything to please you and be pleased by it herself. Neither Al nor I spoke any Spanish at the time, so we couldn’t communicate one on one – but we do. Our non-verbal or interpreted communication works just fine. At some point, you can’t help but feel parental and protective of her. That night I write in my journal: Wish you always could stay as happy. Keep singing and smiling.

As unprofessional and as unplanned as the shooting, it is fun. We spend a very pleasant weekend day. Now I am trying to think whatever happened to that shoot and Blanca? I am just  imagining. She probably changed her mind. Or ran into the trouble with her parents. Or Ricardo decided against it. But most likely because not too long after, the magazine changed hands. She just got lost in the shuffle. With the new publishers, I would start all over again, pushing for local Playmates. They would always agree with me, but give me the same excuse: but we can’t find anyone qualified enough willing to pose in the nude, you know how conservative our society is?. By then I knew Mexico well and also spoke Spanish, and knew better how it would be easier to take to bed one of the society girls, but almost impossible to convince them to pose in the nude.

But now we had an option in Elda. Not that she didn’t have any family concerns. But as she herself tells it: I had already been very independent. My mother I’m sure was surprised and being a good Catholic woman had her doubts, and was perhaps privately fervently saying prayers for my soul, yet she accepted it without protest. My father at one point said, “Mija, it’s not a bad magazine”. He seemed calm about it, but again, privately not so sure. 

Excited, I pick up the phone and call Eduardo Gongorra – our new publisher in Mexico City.

‘I’ve found ourselves a Mexican Playmate!’

And other than the obvious, I go on to tell him how I envision it happening. We can build a story around her Mexican heritage and have her reverse migrate through her photos and the presence in flesh and blood in Mexico. We could stage a promotional event for the invited VIPs and the media. Present her as our first Mexican Playmate. That Playboy’s  test shoot was good enough for us to use and would cost us nothing. All we needed was to shoot the cover and the centerfold, which I could produce in Chicago, have her photographed by our star photographer Pompeo Posar.

Soon as I hang up, I call Los Angeles. I introduce myself and tell Elda what I was thinking. She sounds so sweet and absolutely delighted. During the conversation, I find out that she doesn’t speak much Spanish. That creates bit of a problem. But I am too far gone with the idea and in the meanwhile, so is Eduardo. We agree, we would build her story around her being the USA born full blooded Mexican. After several phone calls between Mexico City and Los Angeles, I invite her to Chicago, and schedule the cover and the centerfold shoots.

Everything goes according to the plan. With big fanfare the first Mexican Playmate travels from Los Angeles to Mexico City. She is received warmly and enthusiastically. She is presented to the invited guests at Hotel Camino Real, standing in the front of the bigger than life size image of her in the backdrop is the April 1981 cover of CABALLERO con lo mejor de Playboy – as the magazine was then called. As it turns out, our fears were unfounded. If not fluent, Elda did have some command of the language – that mixed with English, she does just fine.

She feels pampered and loved in the Mother Land. They host a dinner  in her honor, it was a good feeling. And Elda joins the ranks of a very few Playmates, she gets to write her own text to accompany her layout. Even though she didn’t make it in to the pages of the mother edition in el Norte, she got a real taste of the world of Playboy. Thanks to her appearance in the Mexican edition: I met Hef, silk pajamas and all. He was gracious, kind and hospitable. The home and grounds were lovely. I had many a fun time at the mansion! Happy ending!

But this is a Mexican story, so it doesn’t end there. Soon, perhaps also because of all the press coverage generated brouhaha, the authorities decree that name of a magazine cannot be a  common noun. Never mind that Caballero has been around and officially registered for a dozen some years even before joining forces with Playboy – the name long been officially banned in the country.

Panicked, Eduardo calls. But in a country like Mexico, you don’t just walk away from the table just because the rules of the game have arbitrarily changed mid stream by the powers that be. You try to beat them at their own game. Eduardo needs an immediate approval from Chicago to change the name of the magazine from Caballero to Signore, which also means gentleman, but in Italian – not to confuse with Spanish Señor. So Signore it becomes overnight and so it remains up until June 1984, when the authorities finally relent and allow the magazine to be called Playboy.  We re-re-launch, this time with the Mexican born and grown starlet/singer Elizabeth Aguilar as the Playmate.

In the meanwhile, to lend the magazine authentic continuity, Elda makes an encore appearance in May 1982 on the cover of Signore. Now at 58, she looks stunning as ever, not a girl any more but a very attractive grown woman. Over a telephone conversation, I compliment her on her well preserved looks: you still could drive some honest man to cheat on his wife. To which, I got a chuckle out of her with funny! Because it’s the subject very close to her heart in that she has written an entire book titled The (In) Fidelity Factor – Points to Ponder Before You Cheat. But like the good old German saying goes, spass muss sein – fun must  exist. The most important is: We have remained close friends over the decades and have become shoulders for each other to cry on.

© Haresh Shah 2015

Illustration: Celia Rose Marks

SISTER SITE

http://www.downdivision.com

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Next Friday, February 13, 2015

FRIENDLY SKIES NO MORE

Not only because what I did for a living required extensive amount of flying around the world, but even otherwise I love to fly. The excitement and the adventure of it, the feeling of being totally disconnected from the world, being able to kick back and relax. And being pampered – not only in the First and the Business Classes, but all across the cabins. And airports were the civilized places from where to leave and arrive at. Sadly, no more. And I can’t help but feel soooo nostalgic about those truly good old days!

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Categories Friendship, Memoire, Mexico, Playboy, Playmates, Profile

THE EARTHY AZTEC BEAUTY

February 20, 2014 //
0

The Domestic Arrangements South Of The Border

Haresh Shah

aztecqueen

I met Pepe Morales during a Playmate promotional jaunt in Acapulco. Our publishers have hired Pepe to cover the event – a young Mexican photographer and socialite of some renown . He seems to know everyone we run into and is greeted with the warmest abrazoz and pats on the back, while he bumbles around following the Playmates and documenting the weekend, with me taking additional photos whenever I am able to sneak some shots without neglecting my duties that of the Playboy executive on site.

Pepe and I hit it off right away. When back in Mexico City, we meet one evening for dinner. We have fat juicy steak dinners at Barbas Negras during which we drown three bottles of Los Reyes. Feeling absolutely no pain, Pepe asks:

‘What would you like to do now?’

‘I don’t know. This is your town. Maybe go cunt chasing?’

‘Why not? Let’s just get out of here and together we’ll paint the town red,’ he proclaims.

So we get into his fire red Mach 1 and end up at the cozy Las Nueves. Unfortunately for us, since Pepe’s last visit there, it has now turned into a trendy gay hangout. We have a drink or two there and then make our exit.

‘I know where we can go. To your casa amarilla.’ So we end up at the lobby bar of Camino Real. This gives us time to simmer. As in Acapulco, Pepe seems to know everyone and everyone seems to know him. People would stop by, couples, men, women – especially women and they go through their Mexican tango of hugging, patting the back and then parting with promises to meet up soon again. At the end of which, two of his female acquaintances walk up with exuberant Hola Pepito. He invites them to join us. Introduces me and builds me up as el hombre de Playboy. Curiously, it’s a pair of a blonde and a brunette. Both good looking. Gives me a feeling of being society girls about town. Quite friendly. But they speak only perfunctory English. We have a couple of drinks with them and then Pepe proposes.

‘How if we go to my place and party?’

The girls try a bit hard to get, but then after some prodding from Pepe, seconded by me, we all pile into his compact sports car, somehow managing to squeeze ourselves in. Pepe and Lucia in the front and me and Tere  in the back.

●●●

On that Saturday, Pepe has invited me to his place for breakfast. He feels it’s unpardonable that as long as I have been coming to Mexico, nobody has yet gotten around to take me to the Pyramids. Why don’t you come over to my place on Saturday, we’ll have a nice breakfast and then drive out to the Pyramids?

Pepe’s is a spacious penthouse apartment near the Chapultepec Park in the center of Mexico City. Cascades of light pours in through the skylights illuminating dozens of artworks and the blown up photographs that adore the walls. Some of the photographs with blurred images of the billowing skirts of the folk dancers remind me of Holi festival in India. He’s not only a photographer but also a serious artist and all that hangs on the walls is his own work. The place looks larger than I remember it from a couple of nights ago. I think it contains three, if not four bedrooms. Large kitchen and the dining room. Even though some of the furnishings has that colorful feeling of Mexico, most of it is the modern functional. It feels warm and comfortable.

When I arrive, I am greeted by a tall, angular faced, as if lifted from a cubist art, long necked and sharp penetrating dark eyed woman standing on the other side of the threshold. She doesn’t say anything, but silently welcomes me with a toss of her head. Her long and curly hair following the motion of her neck.

‘Hola Haresh. Bien venido mi amigo a tu casa en Mexico.’  Pepe rushes towards me, suddenly throwing the woman in the background with a fuerte abrazo, and the pat on the back he takes me by the arm and leads me to the table. Such exuberance! But this is Mexico and I am getting used to it.

The table is laid out just so. The plates glowing with vibrant colors are nestled into the larger shiny copper plates that serve as placemats. The clothes napkins are bright burgundy. A jar sweating of freshly squeezed orange juice awaits. The pungent aroma of strong Mexican coffee permeates the air. Engulfed in Pepe’s exuberance and displayed hospitality, for a moment I even forget about the pretty young woman.

I am treated to a sumptuous Mexican breakfast consisting of fresh papayas and mangoes, huevos rancheros with home made red and green salsas, frijoles, chorizzo, piping hot tortillas and even chiles toreados – the pan fried hot jalapeño peppers with fresh scallions. The relish my Latin Valentine Patricia had introduced me to and Pepe remembered me telling him how very much I loved it. And of course the strong café Mexicano served so attentively and gracefully by his maid Clarissa. For every gracias I utter, she rewards me with de nada and with the sweetest little smile and a sparkle in her eyes. At every compliment, I feel that extra hump in her short walk between the kitchen and the dining room as I watch her long curly hair tossing up above small of her back and caressing her shoulders. She looks very young, like in her late teens the most. But even in her innocence, I sense a certain worldliness on her face and in her eyes. Would certainly qualify to be a Playmate. Even in her homely dress covered with an overall, her figure and her beauty excel.

Seeing that I am eying her, should we take her along? Asks Pepe.

‘Sure. Why not?’

‘Let’s do it. It would do her good to get out of the house. Why don’t you ask her?’

‘Me?’

“Si. Then she wouldn’t feel pressured!’

‘No quires ir con nosotros?’ I ask

‘A donde?’        

‘A los Pirámides.’

‘Puess…,’ she says and then hesitates a bit and turns her face to Pepe.

‘Puedes, si quires, Venn!’ She turns around to face me.

‘Entonces si. Me gustaria mucho. Gracias.’

When we’re done and she has cleared the table, Pepe tells her to leave the dishes alone and go and change.

Transformed, a gorgeous young woman emerges from the back room. She is dressed in a simple long white cotton dress. It’s trimmed with wide bands of light grey lace around the neck and the waist and the hem, practically touching the floor, a wide white sash tied in a bow at her back billowing in the air. A simple silver hoop choker with a dangling little ball adores her neck. Her sculpted face with high cheek bones and the shoulders pointed proudly upwards, she stands tall on her plain white platform shoes. Her slightly slanted eyes enhanced with the kohl outline, she wears only a light touch of red lipstick on her pert lips quivering under her dainty little nose.

It seems Pepe too is in awe of her sudden transformation from a simple maid serving us humbly a while ago into a femme fatal. Something he probably haven’t yet had a chance to see. And when placed in front of the Pyramids, neither Pepe, nor I could ignore her. Between us two, we turn Clarissa into the most sought after photo model. She doesn’t say much, except swirl and move as we request, flash shy smiles as if to herself and in her face I see her savoring what must have been a unique moment of her young life. To be appreciated for her own natural beauty and in an environment which undoubtedly is hers. She doesn’t look Spanish and or Indian or a mulatta, the mixture of the two. Her face wears the looks and the pride of an Aztec Princess reincarnate, standing comfortably in front of the Pyramids and the ruins of the ancient Aztec built city of Tenochtitlan, as if she owns them.

●●●

On our way back, Pepe drops off Clarissa before taking me back to my hotel. We are in contemplative mood. We avoid the bustles of the lobby bar and settle ourselves over beers in their by now subdued cantina.

‘She is pretty!’ I say reflexively.

‘Who, Clarissa?’

‘Who else?’

‘You’re right. She is prettier than I ever thought she was.’ And then we are quiet. I see a certain smile cross his face, as if trying to contain a private joke.

‘What?’

‘I guess, I picked her right.’

‘Did you interview many of them?’

‘No, that’s not how we do things around here in Mexico. One weekend, I just drove out to the country bazar, she was standing there up above on cliff under the tree with others, and I picked her.’

‘You mean like from a line up?’

‘Not exactly. But sort of. They are offered for the domestic work, mostly by their parents.’

‘You mean like slaves?’

‘Noooooo mi amigo. Just that they are poor in the backlands and one way for them to make some money is to work in the city. You negotiate with their parents and agree upon the monthly salary and other conditions. But she is free to leave whenever she wants to.’

Having grown up in India in a relatively affluent family, domestic help is not that unusual to me. But all our servants came from little villages to Bombay on their own, looking for jobs. They may have known someone else from their village in the city and then its just a word of mouth. What Pepe tells me is a bit different. Seeing me lost in my unspoken thoughts, he continues.

‘I pay all her expenses. She has every Sunday off and has her own living quarters in the back of my apartment.’

‘How does that work? A young pretty woman living under the same roof?’

‘You’re right. There is always that possibility. And the temptation. As you see, she is very pretty, you know?’ I give him a sideway look.

‘Okay. I could take advantage of her if I wanted to, and get away with it without even risking losing her. But your friend here is a romantic type. I had to pursue her, and pursue her long.’

I don’t interrupt.

‘She always resisted my advances. And I respected her for that. And then one evening, without any warning, she just opened up to me, like a flower. Like an orchid!!’ I can see on Pepe’s face what he must be seeing, something I could just imagine.

‘Doesn’t that put a damper on your social life with other women?’

‘Not at all. At the end of the day, she realizes, and I make sure she knows that the first and the foremost she is my maid.’

‘Yes, but we’re now talking matters of the heart. How does she feel about when we showed up in the middle of the night with the two women a couple of days go? Or was she off that night?’

‘No she was very much there, and she didn’t like it. In fact she is quite crossed with me. Thanks for being so kind to her and making her feel special. I think she is now softened a bit and I’m sure we’ll make up.’

Just a few hours drive from Santa Barbara and you’re in Mexico. What a different world? I think.

© Haresh Shah 2014

Illustration: Celia Rose Marks

SISTER SITE

http://www.downdivision.com

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Next Friday, February 28, 2014

UNDETERMINED

Both you and I will have to wait and see which entry in works makes its way up to the top. Whichever it turns out to be, promises to be good. Stay tuned.

 

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Categories Artist, Culture, Friendship, Mexico, Profile

LOVE, LIES AND THE LATIN LOVERS

January 30, 2014 //
1

Haresh Shah 

How Can You Not Fall In Love With Them?

parachute

‘And now ladies and gentlemen, we are approaching the home of one of the most colorful characters of our country: Giacomo Girolamo Casanova, the adventurer and the author of the Republic of Venice and the autobiography, Histoire de ma vie (Story of  My Life), which is regarded as one of the most authentic sources of the customs and norms of European social life during the 18th century. But as many of you certainly know, he is mostly known as the great lover of women. Yes, the great lover and the great liar.’ We are on a gondola site seeing tour navigating through the narrow canals of Venice. On our right is a long curving three story flaming rust colored brick building with elaborate balconies protruding out of the walls and huge windows overlooking the the canals down below.

I am crisscrossing Europe with my friend Ranjan from Bombay, and of the cities in Europe we have seen so far, Venice certainly takes us to a dreamland like no other. I notice a self-congratulating chuckle on the face of the gondolier for having said something so clever as to pair the great lovers with the great liars. Perhaps more true of the Latin lovers than the others. The reputation they must have earned from the speed with which they move forward, totally infatuated in pursuit of the objects of their desire.

My friend Irene in Chicago is head over heels in love with Bruno – a  handsome singer guitarist playing at a Lincoln Park venue around the corner from her apartment.  He is good looking for sure, soft spoken, charming and a smooth operator. Irene believes in whatever lies he tells and the promises he makes. And before any of us realizes, Bruno has moved in with her. We actually like Bruno and are even charmed by him. But we are protective of Irene. She is particularly vulnerable and we don’t want her once again to be hurt. We suspect all along and tell Irene that he is probably happily married with kids back in Mexico. But something as trivial as that never stopped Irene from her amorous escapades. And then he is gone. As we had suspected, before departing, Bruno confesses to Irene that he indeed has a family in Mexico and is in Chicago to  make a few fast bucks. Whether Irene expected him to leave his family and stay with her, I don’t know. But she is devastated nevertheless. Like others before Bruno, Irene manages to move on with time. Though I know, he was for her more than just a fling.

Fortunately, in most cases, it’s just that. A fling. Short and sweet. Just like one of the two American Playmates I had invited to come to Mexico some years earlier to help us promote the local edition. We are in Acapulco and have an afternoon off.  We linger at the beach front bar restaurant long after lunch. While one of them decides to waddle through the sand with a juicy paperback in her hands and stretches out on her stomach, baking under the sun, the other decides to be adventurous and signs up for parachute jumping. So off she goes with an instructor. Young, svelte, gleaming bronze tan and of the body toned like an iron statue – Roberto is certainly handsome. He speaks reasonably good English and is probably tickle pinked that he gets to help this American beauty – a Playmate, no less. He is vivacious and charming as he buckles her up and snaps in the parachute. Gives a little push on the small of her back, she taps her feet on the sandy ground and struts towards the approaching waves. The parachute unfurls and she is airborne. Roberto shades his eyes and watches her pulled up and away.

By the time she comes back down on the earth, she is exhilarated and giggly. Roberto unsnaps her and helps her undo her gear. Free of constraints, he gives her a congratulatory hug and like a true galan, escorts her back to us. All of these couldn’t have taken more than total of ten minutes. But for a true Latin lover, that’s more than enough time to hook his prey. I can just imagine his squeezing in hola guapa, que bonita eres and don’t you want to have a drink with me? along with other phrases of endearments that Latin languages are so rich with and come natural to them. How can you even begin to compete with te amo and eres mi corazon, or ma chérie amour and j’taime in French or ciao bella and bellissima in Italian?  In comparison, you’re beautiful, i love you and ich liebe dich sound absolutely hollow.

The next morning, we meet again at the same table and are waiting for the Playmate to join us for breakfast. As punctual as she normally is, it seems a bit strange that she isn’t there already. She is about half an hour late when we see her making her way towards us, swinging on the arm of, who else? Roberto. They part with a quick peck on cheeks and as she approaches us and as if in answer to the big question mark on our faces, she is all smiles. No need for her to elaborate. Her smile and how radiant she looks tells us all. We all smile back the knowing smiles. Thinking: Good for her. Knowing well that it’s just a passing fling and there is nothing for us to worry about. And so it was. Some months later she is married to a good American boy back home.

So when during the Mexico World Cup shoot in Puerto Vallarta, Jan (Heemskerk) and Michaela (Probst) are stood up by Alfonso, because he was busy with our Pat (Tomlinson), none of us actually gives it a second thought and we immediately write it off as a vacation fling south of the border. This was the first week of March. We all return home towards the end of the week. Pat and some others may have stayed over the weekend before coming back. But little did we know, from there on, things must have progressed at the speed of a bullet train.

Barely three weeks later, Pat stops me in the corridor and hesitantly but happily tells me that she was getting married that weekend, on the Easter Saturday on the 29th. The groom to be? Alfonso! I don’t know whether it’s the shock that I feel, but it certainly jolts me a bit. It makes me feel quite uneasy. Alfonso was brought in by our Mexican publisher to help us with logistics of our photo production but was not a part of the regular staff. I didn’t know much about him, if anything. Handsome, tall, dark hair, tanned skin and a fast talker. I didn’t really think much of him, also because as charming and affirmative as he was with his always positive si como no! attitude, things that he would promise or said he would take care of, he didn’t or didn’t quite.

The speed and urgency with which it’s planned feels like a shot gun wedding. It’s not going to be in a church or anything. It is to take place at her sister’s home in the north western suburb of Barrington. I am not sure whether it would be her sister or someone else would perform the ceremony. And then there would be small toast to the newly weds followed by dinner at home.

Even though Pat has worked with me on several projects over a period of years, we are not exactly close enough for her to invite me to her wedding. ‘I know what you might be thinking. But it all happened so fast. I never thought I could fall in love at first sight, you know! We’re both very happy.’ She pauses and continues, ‘It’s just my immediate family. I would love it if you and Carolyn could come. To have someone who was there when I met Alfonso.  It would mean a lot to me for you to be a part of it.’

When Carolyn and I arrive at her sister’s home the night of the wedding, there is a distinct cloud of doom covering everyone’s face. I say perfunctory hola to Alfonso, who looks petrified and distressed. The place itself looks helter-skelter as if a bunch of rambunctious kids having turned it upside down hunting for the hidden Easter eggs. Everyone frantically looking for the missing wedding band Alfonso has brought along to slip on his bride’s ring finger during the ceremony. He swears to have carefully tucked it away into a small pocket of his carry on duffle bag. Could it have fallen down and rolled away somewhere in the house as he unpacked? It was also likely that it fell off when the customs officer opened it to inspect its contents? The room is filled with the cacophony of multiple possibilities on the fate of the dainty little wheel of the precious jewelry meant to bind them for life for the better and the worst. Pat is besides herself and is on the verge of breaking down with a cry. Before things get any gloomier, someone suggests that we should just go ahead with the wedding ceremony anyways, the ring’s got to be somewhere around, and must show up sooner or later. Rest of the evening is blurred in my memory.

Fast forward to me running into Pat once again in the corridor of our offices. That marriage didn’t last too long and as it turns out, Alfonso was already married in Mexico and there was never a ring.

Something to be said about the wisdom of the Venetian gondolier having described the great lover Casanova to be also a great liar.

The good news is: Whatever suffering Pat may have endured, she flashes a pragmatic smile and tells me that since then she has found herself a true soul mate and is now happily married.

© Haresh Shah 2014

Illustration: Celia Rose Marks

SISTER SITE

http://www.downdivision.com

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Next Friday, February 7, 2014

PORK, DUMPLINGS AND CABBAGE

I was one of the early ones to enter the countries of the former Eastern European countries almost as soon as the Iron Curtain was lifted and the fall of the Berlin Wall. The first three editions to be launched in the region were Hungary, Czechoslovakia and Poland. In the early years, my predicament always remained, what to eat?

Tags , , , , , , ,
Categories Culture, Mexico, Playmates, Romance

WHO’S EVER SEEN GOD?

January 23, 2014 //
1

Body And Soul Union

Haresh Shah

cuernavaca

Actually our destination this Sunday is Las Mañanitas, more in line with an all day weekend outing for Playboy executives to spend a leisurely afternoon in the lush gardens of one of the most beautiful hotels and restaurants in the world. Enjoy sumptuous Mexican delicacies washed down with Tequila Sunrises and Daiquiris. Only a short half an hour drive from Mexico City, the town of Cuernavaca is heralded the City of Eternal Spring by the geographer, naturalist and explorer, Alexander von Humboldt, is a perfect escape from the dense clouds of pollution, swarms of crowds and the constant dint of noise of Mexico City. It is the pride and joy not only of the town of Cuernavaca, but of the entire country. We sit under the open sky and under the cooling shades of the trees and sip on our psychedelic tropical drinks. We are surrounded by  the tall royal birds among them the proud peacocks gracefully prancing up and down with their iridescent tails spread out into magnificent round throne like fans. Prancing along are other long necked beautiful birds swaying and strolling while jumping monkeys frolic up and down the tree branches. It feels like being in paradise, the garden of Eden as one would picture it. The only other time I would come upon such an exotic place would be several years later on my first visit to Playboy Mansion in Los Angeles.

Feeling euphoric, soon as we are settled, a waiter comes by, carrying a huge blackboard and sets it down on the ground. On it the menu of the day is listed in colorful and curlicued script. We order and then continue with our drinks. In no hurry to go anywhere, just letting ourselves loosen up and enjoy  the moment. Time slips by and then we are invited to the table all set up for us on the terrace shaded with bright and vibrant umbrellas. The food! The food!!! This is my very first trip to Mexico, which was originally meant to be just a short orientation thing, but as has been with my life, it stretches into almost three weeks. Work! What else? I am required to dive right into the thick of it, as I had to several years earlier in Germany. And so I do.

The people I am working with are wonderful partners and the hosts. This is the rewards part of the hard work. Our taste buds are treated to the fat succulent camarones con ajos, and fresh red snappers and carne asada replete with Mexican flavors of chili and cilantro and lime. No hard taco shell anywhere in sight, like back in the USA. I didn’t know anything about the TexMex and the CalMex part of what I had come to think of as the authentic Mexican food. Soft shell flautas at McGill’s in Isla Vista washed down with XXX beer is as far as I had come to know of the Mexican cuisine. So it turns out to be the most deliciously pleasant surprise.

I am brought here by Carlos Civita, the partner of our Mexican publishers, Ampudia family of Editorial Caballero.  Carlos, of the famed Civita family originally from Italy, but known for their publishing empire Editorial Abril in Argentina. During the political upheaval there, the family just decided to cash in and leave. His father, Cesar Civita is now living in New York City while Carlos has taken up residence in Mexico City. The delightful bunch, some of the most wonderful people I have ever been fortunate enough to know. Carlos basically takes me under his wing and the very first weekend that I am in Mexico City, he just hands me the keys to his little Renault, so I get to explore the city on my own. Now when I think back, it could well have been a disaster. Because driving in Mexico City is not exactly like driving in Chicago or even New York. Its more like Bombay and Saigon where the chaos and survival of the fittest reigns supreme. Not to mention extra attention I needed to pay to the car’s manual transmission. I remember, how the little Renault shuddered and came to a stand still right in the middle of a square with hundreds of cars zapping by and not paying any attention to stranded me. Not even the cops nearby directing traffic budge an inch. Somehow I survive and get the thing going again. I won’t even mention how many times I got lost during that weekend.

But the weekend after, he wants to show me around and picks Cuernavaca and Las Mañanitas as our destinations, accompanied by his visiting parents, and makes it in to a family outing. They pick me up from my hotel around ten. Early for Mexico, because the lunch is never served before two at the earliest. But before we settle down and splurge at Las Mañanitas, he wants us to attend that morning’s mass at Cuernavaca’s  Catedral de la Asunción de María. That seems a bit odd because Carlos and his family are not exactly what I would call religious folks. Plus, they are born Jewish, though Carlos’ wife Marta is Catholic. But he has heard so much about the uniqueness of the mass performed by the Bishop of Cuernavaca cathedral, and how uplifting his sermons are and how they are devoid of religious dogmas.

The Bishop is more like a secular philosopher and a teacher than a Catholic priest. Apparently very popular among his followers, majority of them very young. He seems to have a rock star status within his congregation whom I end up naming the Pop Priest. His manner of conducting the mass is nothing like I have ever experienced. Flamboyant and colorful, his words that I don’t understand, sound so uplifting and optimistic. And he has built himself a reputation that surpasses that of the historic cathedral – a proud landmark of Cuernavaca that rivals even Las Mañanitas. Thus making them the perfect twins in balancing the material world with the spiritual life, symbolized so appropriately by its revered Bishop.

Probably in his late Fifties or the early Sixties, he wears an easy smile Wrapped over his white cassock  is a green shawl. And his choir is made up of a six piece rock band, containing of three guitarists, two violinist and a drummer. They all wore long frizzy hair and are dressed in their blue jeans, t-shirts and such – tops normally worn by teenagers. His voice is gentle and natural. His congregation is dressed not in their Sunday best, but in their ordinary street clothes. At this point, my Spanish is non-existent, but I like the soothing and even tone of his voice vibrating in the air.

Post mass, he stands outside the front gate greeting the exiting crowd, making small talk. He breaks up in a smile when he sees me emerge from inside and folds his hands together in traditional Indian gesture of namaste.

‘How did you like the mass?’

And we converse for a while. He asks me about India and refers to Buddhism and Hinduism and tells me how the message remains the same; be it Jesus or Buddha or Krishna. Devoid of any theatrics, what strikes me the most is that unlike other services I have attended, he certainly does not talk or constantly repeat the name of Jesus in vain. He doesn’t make you feel that unless you believed in Jesus you were doomed to be engulfed by the long and thorny tentacles of the wild hell fire. Likewise, I don’t once get a feeling, the one I normally got in the past from the priests whose message was loud and clear: Jesus is the way and the only way. I see in him an image of Gandhi – who though extremely religious, and very much into his Hindu beliefs and rituals, never lost the sight of the fact that there were other beliefs and they had to be revered and respected. Like my own dad.

My dad remains the most religious person I have ever known. He followed his Vaishnava  faith to the T. An entire room of our home was and is still devoted to his in-house temple designated as Thakorji no room. His daily rituals lasted an average of four hours. Longer on the religious holidays. Of us eight siblings, the rest could be said to be more or less religious to the extent that they all follow bits and pieces of my parent’s total devotion, but as for me, it would be fair to say that even for a long while I identified myself as an agnostic, finally I have come to realization that that was a cope out on my part, because what I really am is: an atheist. After holding out hopes for me up until I was in my early thirties, my dad astonished me one night. I had just returned from paying my tribute at the shrine by our house – something I did out of sheer respect for my dad and expressly to please him.

‘You don’t have to go to the temple just to please me. You’re just crowding it and taking a place away from a true believer.’

What he didn’t verbalize was what I read in the look on his face. I know you’re a good kid and that’s all that matters.

Not withstanding occasional and almost always politically provoked sectarian violence in India, especially in it’s most metropolitan city Bombay, is where you also grow up respecting every religion, every culture and every custom. No one ever walks past without bowing his head, be it a temple, a mosque, a church, a derasar, a gurudwara or a Parsi fire temple. As religious and as devoted as my father was in his belief of Nirvana and reincarnation in his worship of Bal Krishna (infant-playful Krishna), he never had anything denigrating to say about other religions. The person with that kind of tolerance and accepting of the other faiths is in my eyes a true Vaishnava.

Just as the Spanish inscription carved in the most modern typeface on the large marble plaque on the wall behind us says:

 NADIE HA VISTO NUNCA A DIOS

PERO

SI NOS AMAMOS UNOS A OTROS

DIOS PERMANECE ENTRE NOSOTROS

***

NO ONE HAS EVER SEEN GOD

BUT

IF WE LOVE EACH OTHER

GOD RESIDES WITHIN US (AND SO DOES HIS LOVE)

Atheist or not, I certainly can say Amen to that.

© Haresh Shah 2014

Illustration: Celia Rose Marks

SISTER SITE

http://www.downdivision.com

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Next Friday, January 31, 2014

LET IT BE A SURPRISE

Not sure which one of the ones I am working on will be ready to go over the weekend. Just let’s wait and see, because I am afraid that’s how inspiration works! I promise whatever comes out on the top will be GOOD:-)

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Categories Culture, Food & Wine, Mexico