11 November 2008
Another hotel, a new day… This one’s not bad actually – the Marquis, about ten clicks outside Los Cabos. Five star, palm trees, infinity pools hanging over the Pacific. My room has a whirlpool bath, which is nice. It’s everything a rich American looks for in a luxury break. And there are plenty here to confirm this. There was one “helping out” the unfortunate girl providing the Karaoke on the lounge deck. His arm was wrapped around her in a vicelike grip as he bellowed flatly to the strains of “I will always love you”, while his mate (why do I suspect he was called Brad) clicked and flashed away like David Bailey. I crunched my way through four ice-cubes before the cacophony ceased amid violent bouts of hearty backslapping and of course bear hugs and wet slobbery kisses for the in house entertainment. I think my problem is that despite such fearless displays of bonhomie I find these big hotels a bit soulless. Given the choice I’d prefer Fawlty Towers. Every whim is catered for however, and the Marquis served as a good place from which to explore Southern Baja California.
We’d arrived the day before on the overnight ferry from Topolabamba (sp). – a surprisingly painless experience but for the ten minute walk with all the luggage which left me with a pulled shoulder. We were met by Francisco, our new driver who delivered us to the offices of Fun Baja (shame about the name), a eco-tour outfit that had agreed to escort us scuba diving and snorkelling on the Sea of Cortes. We took a speedboat out to Espiritu Santo Island where team leader Joel promised us a glimpse of a Jaw Fish – the Staffordshire terrier of the marine world. It lives in an immaculately constructed, shell encrusted burrow on the sea floor and waits, lidless eyes and down-turned mouth peering from the darkness until something soft and juicy strays within striking range, in this case Joel’s finger. We’d brought the handheld Sony A1, rechristened the Bickercam by my friend Nick, after spending a few days filming Al and I on location in Peru. Its water resistant casing – no one has enough confidence to say proof these days – legal implications – continued to resist down to fifteen metres below but visibility was such that we weren’t able to get usable footage. The sea lions however were a different story. We moored next to a huge colony and Al got some fantastic shots of me snorkelling in the midst of a writhing sea of grey bodies. Of course we’ve done the swimming with sea lions before but these were practically tame. The last lot were so flighty we had to throw buckets of giant squid into the water to entice them near me – which resulted in my eyes swelling up to such a degree we had to cancel the rest of the day’s filming.
This time round it was easier. There were dozens of pups playing together in a churning, twisting mass. One brushed against me, another swam right up and hesitantly touched my face with its whiskery snout. Ahhhh… Well it was, sorry. Except they stank, like Labradors that have been rolling in fishmeal. Or perhaps it was the tons of guano that encrusted the surrounding rocks. Fine until you take your mask off. Al was attempting to get a good presenter shot from the boat when a solitary seagull flew overhead and crapped all over him and the big lens of the stills camera. I don’t think it’s likely to work any more so we may have to use my phone camera from now on.
The next day we set sail from Los Cabos Harbour aboard a tall ship for fishing and sightseeing along the Cortes/Pacific divide. The tourist board had chartered the whole yacht 
exclusively for us. I felt almost embarrassed as I bounced up the gangplank and shook hands with our Captain and four-man-crew. The dish of the day was lobster burritos. Our chef Luis was a tad monosyllabic but his recipes were practical and the lobster can always be substituted for prawn or crab in a credit crunch.
After lunch we dropped anchor in a scenic bay next to a palm peppered beach so the lads could take Al ashore for some externals of the boat – sailing past shots etc. A wind blew up and the water started to get choppy. By the time the launch returned to pick him up it was nearly impossible to clamber in. Al staggered through the breakers clutching sixty thousand pounds worth of kit as the launch bucked and yawed in the surf. While handing over the camera bag, a particularly caused the boat to rear up, knocking it from his grasp. It was only with a desperate lunge that the noble crewman caught a strap as it fell and disaster was averted, once again.
Our last day in Los Cabos involved touring the bone dry countryside in an air conditioned Hummer, getting more GVs and doing an introduction to the area. What a preposterous vehicle. It weighs over a ton, gets stuck in the sand, takes up the whole of any small road and costs a fortune in gas.
We touched down in Tijuana that evening and were driven to Ensenada to film a feature on Mexican wine at Santa Thomas, the country’s second oldest winery. I must admit I’m not crazy about Ensenada. Being just below the US border and an easy drive from San Diego it’s packed with strip joints and drug stores selling cut price, prescription free Viagra and diet pills to a constant stream of visitors, most of whom totter off passing cruise ships in search of quick distraction.
There was a semi-dead cockroach about the size of my thumb, lying on its back on the bathroom floor. Its antennae twitched. On the plus side, the end of the loo paper had been meticulously folded into a pleasing fan shape. What is it with Mexican hotels - four in the last week have done strange origami things to the bog roll. Nowhere else have I encountered this phenomenon. Are you seriously telling me that the quality of someone’s day is going to be even slightly enhanced by finding doily shapes in the dunny. And what’s the point? Surely hotel staff would be better employed doing something useful like removing infestations of vermin than wasting long minutes carefully folding and tweaking something that faces imminent and undignified destruction.
The winery was good, as was the wine. Ultra modern additions have put it at the forefront of viticultural design – almost everything has been made of recycled stuff, the underground corridors are redolent of a bond villain’s mountain retreat. Much wine was drunk, I tried to sound informed and unpretentious. Not sure if I succeeded – I mean I love wine and have a reasonable nose but there’s only so many times you can mention black fruit, citrus undertones, molasses/burnt sugar, smooth finish with a hint of chocolate and not sound like Jilly Goulden.
On the way back to Tijuana airport from Ensenada, the road catches up with the new Berlin Wall. By this I mean the no man’s land between George Bush’s America and the country much of his economy relies upon. Commercial necessities like oil, silver and gold make their way effortlessly across this great divide but the greatest commodity of all, human beings, are failing in large numbers. The lucky ones get herded back into Tijuana with a slap on the kneecaps. Then there’s the Minute Men, a group of yee-haw ex-viet vets and “patriotic” vigilantes that arm up and hunt the hills on the US for those few who manage to evade the infinitely preferable ministrations of officialdom.
The fence is impressive, in the same sense as the Congress Hall in Nuremberg is impressive. Maybe I’m being a little unfair. I mean border controls are necessary, it’s just that there’s something deeply shocking about mile after mile of tangled razor wire and giant floodlights, not to mention the high steel barriers hung with the countless crosses of those who’ve failed to improve their lot. The problem is a complicated one because it’s not only Mexicans who want to cross over. Much of South and Middle America looks to the States as a land of Coca Cola and Honey and it’s understandable that the more adventurous are tempted to breach it. So thousands flood up into Mexico, which doesn’t have such Draconian border controls only to reach George’s fence where they stop. This does not engender good feeling between anyone. The result is that America resents, but needs Mexico, Mexican’s loathe but need Gringos and the poor South Americans get a hard time from everyone.
We are back in Mexico city, in Oscar’s flat, about to set out for Morelia and a weekend filming the legendary Day of the Dead Festival. Al’s just interrupted me by informing me that we need to get some superglue because the handle has broken on the loo. It’s the phraseology I like. “It has broken rather than, “I have broken it.”
“That was inconsiderate”, I reply
The plan is to pick up a hire car from the airport and drive ourselves to Morelia in time to film dinner in an artesania restaurant. After an hour in traffic and no real progress, I ask Al if he knows how to get to Morelia once we take delivery of the car and whether we have a map. The answer is no. I suggest we ask the taxi driver. He informs us that the road to Morelia is on the opposite side of the city and we need to drive back through to get out. There ensues an animated discussion about planning after which to my relief, Al decides to pay the cab driver to do a u-turn and take us all the way there instead. I am hugely relieved. While driving in Mexico city in the rush hour could be described as an extreme sport, it is not a gratifying one. By the time we reach the restaurant we are almost two hours late.
Too tired to film, we decide it can be postponed until Sunday and we’ll just have dinner instead. Our guide Araceli from the tourist office is there to greet us as is owner Sylvia, an entrepreneur with shops and businesses all over the state. The walls are covered with St Anthonys – paintings, statues and carved images. They are all upside down. The idea is that if you want to find a wife or a husband, you turn the unfortunate saint on his head and pray to him. Apparently this provides necessary motivation for him to answer your prayers. As it would, I suppose. There was one particularly spooky image of St Anthony on a cross holding the baby Jesus. Tactfully the young Christ and the crucifix were the right way up, but the whole thing was still a bit Aleister Crowley. Oh, and there’s also a book. You can put your requests in writing, and many people come here to do just that. Like one lady from Mexico City who Sylvia draws my attention to. Three pages of demands – wanting someone good looking, kind, patient, sensitive, caring, funny, artistic, sporty, rich, athletic…(and perhaps long suffering) the list goes on. It strikes me that this is one of the many universal hypocrisies – that lonely people are far more concerned with what they want than what they are prepared to give. 
Next morning we are up fifteen minutes late, struggling into a large ford people carrier loaded with bags. Our chauffeur is Guillermo (but you can call me Bill). He’s about seventy and his style of driving is a terrifying combination of reckless impulsive and ultra hesitant. He keeps asking where we want to go. “I don’t know, isn’t there a schedule?” We reply. I mean Araceli seemed to have a fairly good idea of what we should be filming. After some deliberation it is suggested we invade the privacy of a mother and a sister who are setting up a shrine to commemorate their brother who passed away two years ago and then on via the bakers, to another indigenous family who are building a floral tribute to their dead child.
En route to the first location we get a couple of GVs of the surrounding countryside. I make Guillermo stop the car beside a field of purple flowers and we walk across the road to an old stone wall beside a large cactus tree. “What we didn’t realise,” to paraphrase Beadle, is that the tree is full of poisonous spiders. Dozens of them, big as my thumb and all sporting go faster (to the hospital) stripes on their back. They are also quite well concealed. The first thing I know about them is a shriek from Al who leaps two feet backwards as one brushes against his fly.
The first shoot is not my finest hour. I just found it very hard. They are incredibly lovely people and it is the Day of The Dead - a public celebration for those who have “moved on” - but I still feel uncomfortably voyeuristic. Luckily the daughter Victoria is angelic and barely winces when Al asks her to place the bottle of Coca Cola on the altar for the fourth time. I better explain that last bit. Basically the family honours the deceased by preparing a literal and symbolic feast featuring their favourite things. In this case Victoria’s brother Juan was particularly partial to Coke and nice fish stew.
A neighbour holds and lights three firecrackers to mark the beginning of their vigil and we leave them to it. The second family is a bit easier, and makes me feel weirdly vindicated when the wife comes out at the end and charges us around two pounds fifty for filming the construction of their floral angelito, “little angel”. This leads to another heated debate between Al and yours truly as regards paying people for allowing them a glimpse into their lives. His attitude is that if we give hand-outs to everyone who accommodates us we would quickly exceed the budget and possibly compromise editorial integrity. My take is that these are some of the poorest people in the world and it is a small price to pay for a remarkable and genuine insight into their lives. It’s not always necessary but now and again, when they donate hours of their time, it seems churlish not to reward them. This also applies to tipping. Given how many hotels we frequent during the shoot, paying everyone that helps us with our bags would cost a small fortune. But despite my best attempts to manage everything so the bellboy doesn’t get put out, the issue still rears its ugly head on a regular basis. Al is commendably immune to the guilt trip. I find it more difficult. They stand by the door for that long moment waiting with growing irritation while you thank them profusely and eventually disappear into the bathroom and shut the door. Only once, in Peru, have I emerged from the smallest room several minutes and a faux flush later to find the guy still standing there expectantly.
Anyway, the point is, it’s a long day. We get back at around seven in the evening and retreat to our air conditioned lairs to recuperate. Ten minutes later there is a knock on my door. Al is clearly distressed. “Charlie,” he says, “There’s a bit of a problem..” I haven’t seen him looking this nervous for a while.
“What is it?”
“It’s the back focus…it’s out.”
“Ok”, I say. “How bad is it…” At this point I should explain, that with our previous 3 series the back focus was set, because the camera we used was a Sony Z1 and it was fixed. The downside, if you upset it, is that the camera has to go back to the factory. However this is not easy to do. On one occasion, in Spain, Al left it on the roof of the car, jumped in and we drove off, stopping only after hearing a crash and tinkle on the road behind us. It still worked. Our Sony HD XDCam is a different beast. You have to check the back focus on a regular basis, including every time you take the lens off. Otherwise, when you zoom in, focus and pull out, you still have a soft image – perfect for a 1970s Jackie/Joan Collins flick, but not what we’re looking for, thank you.
“It’s bad…”, says Al.
When Al says something is bad, I start to panic.
And it is in fact not good. Most of the indoor stuff with Victoria proves completely unusable, which after all the hassle of getting it is somewhat irritating. He reassures me however that it was not the best presenting I have ever done either so that’s okay then, plus we can probably get through it, although it will be a shorter scene than planned.
Saturday morning marks the start of the main Day of the Dead. We are due to go up a Volcano called Paracutin. Once again we’re running late, the traffic is horrendous and Guillermo (call me Bill) is driving more erratically than ever. We get there late again. Ariceli and her assistant Senor Chavez are waiting for us. They weren’t tapping their feet, but they might as well have been.
The first scene is another helping of indigenous gastronomy with the smoking Volcano in the background. It is supposedly dormant, and I’m told the smoke is only steam, but in 1943 it was a very different story. The ground opened up and with no visible provocation whatsoever, great clouds of smoke and ash rose up and eclipsed the sun. The subsequent lava flow swallowed several villages, including the one we are due to ride to in order to film the miraculously intact ruins of the local church, the tower of which still juts priapically from the surrounding sea of grey.
My horse turns out to be a donkey in disguise. I suggest that it might be knackered. Our local guide Juan Luis tells me it is used to fat Americans and could not possibly be tired. I conclude then it is merely stubborn and attempt to galvanise the beast with a few slaps on its rear end and a flick with the rope. It stoically ignores me. Alas My John Wayne moment of riding past the camera through the lava encrusted wilderness is, in terms of momentum, more akin to Blackpool Beach. 
Have you ever walked on a lava flow? Ok, well for those of you familiar with the experience, now imaging filming on one. You are shouldering heavy equipment, there is no smooth floor to put the tripod on, and one slip and you tumble down some crack or ravine smashing the camera, and breaking a limb or two in the process. An added difficulty en route is the number of people riding past as I attempt to do my piece to camera. Being a public holiday the trail is well trodden and Al is constantly shouting “Cut” as more tourists hoof into view.
By the time we get back and ditch the donkeys the sun is starting to set. Naturally we are running late. The local town of Uruapan is preparing to decamp to the cemetery by the time we arrive in the tiny square. Ramshackle stands are selling local cornflower concoctions and soft drinks. We wolf down some food and join the procession. It’s starting to get cold so I buy a handmade wool poncho for a tenner at one of the roadside stalls. Firecrackers are going off every minute or two. Beaten “Utes” are being driven round at breakneck speeds by young kids wearing Halloween masks, who whoop and shout, along with their twelve friends clinging to the back. In one pick up I counted sixteen kids. It is typical of Mexico that you can receive a hefty fine for not wearing a seatbelt but there is no law against riding shotgun in an open truck.
The cemetery is beginning to fill up. Families sit in deckchairs and on rugs beside the extravagantly decorated graves of their loved ones. Orange marigolds, thought to represent the sun are laid across every stone and around each dusty mound. Thousands of candles flicker like were-lights across the whole vista, people are talking and laughing, and there is an air of gentle revelry.
It’s rather wonderful. I walk past smiling faces, they nod and allow us to film them. After all, the day of the dead is a public celebration of the lives of those you have loved and lost. It’s not about being sad or private. I’m handed a plastic cup of something that tastes like over proof tequila. Al tries to film my benefactor but he’s already had a few too many and can’t keep still. I think we get something, but don’t know whether it’s useable. The next cemetery we film, close to the banks of lake Patzcuaro, has a very different vibe. It’s full of sightseers, mainly Mexican with a few Americans. They weave between the tombstones and townsfolk with cameras and expressions of wonder and amusement. It’s all very un-European yet I can’t help thinking we would all benefit from having something like this back home. Imagine the social solidarity – families convening for a whole night to remember their lost relatives and friends, cracking open a nice bottle of sherry and some cucumber sandwiches - and spam, because it was great Uncle Albert’s favourite. Except it would probably rain, and we’re not very good at death, it gets swept under the carpet whenever possible – which is strange considering it’s the biggest thing that happens to us after life (sorry rubbish pun).
At about one in the morning we head out to a little town called Uanaco where they have a local tradition involving horses. Not real ones, but miniature Trojan ones, filled with presents. There is a horse for every family who has lost an unmarried child of whatever age (as such they are considered pure and thus have angelic status). Followed by assorted friends and relatives, the children of the town carry the horses to the houses of the bereaved where they are greeted with food, flowers and drinks. There is often a street party laid on for them outside their door, with a disco or live band belting out tunes into the early morning. Again this is about celebrating, remembering with joy, not the time for sorrow or tears. We follow one of the horses to a house filled with light, flowers and brightly dressed people. Food is handed out, as is more tequila and in minutes we are all in the street dancing to the strains of a dodgy pop group as Al tries to film my two left feet while fending off the violently matey blandishments and gesticulations of a guy whose clearly had too much fun. He keeps trying to hug us as he staggers around bumping into people - sadly an all too common sight in this area of Michoacan – the indigenous people are very bad at dealing with alcohol. Many just keep drinking until they collapse. It’s two o’clock as we drive away. In the rear view mirror I catch a final glimpse our biggest fan lurch into a wall with a belch and sink to the floor like a crumpled marionette.
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