DON'T BELIEVE ALL THE BAD THINGS THAT ARE BEING SAID ABOUT MEXICO

The sentry's challenge startled me. I halted, uncertain and confused.

At a subconscious level, I knew something was wrong. The guard's
voice did not sound human and his call wasn't your standard "Halt!
Who goes there?" but "What you want?"

I tried to spot my interlocutor. I couldn't. I had just turned a
corner, dusk was falling, I was tired, and the only feature visible
in the gloom ahead was a thick patch of tropical bush, a perfect
ambush point. Sensing he was there, I stepped forward. That provoked
an even louder demand: "WHAT YOU WANT?"

It hadn't dawned on me yet that this watchman was questioning me in
English. Spanish would be more appropriate, given my location on the
edge of a 400-year-old hacienda on the outskirts of Merida, one of
the great colonial cities of Mexico's Yucatan province. But before I
figured that out, someone had answered for me -- in a voice
reminiscent of the first and again in English: "Nothing!" And then I
was engulfed by a hubbub of wolf whistles and laughter, including
"That's funny! That's funny!"

Nonplussed at being on the receiving end of a signal customarily
reserved for particularly attractive specimens of the opposite sex I
thrust my way into the bush. There I made my first acquaintance with
my teasers -- three parrots comfortably inhabiting a cage tucked
just inside a copse of native vegetation. Their chore was not much
different from that of the greeters lodged near the front gates of
Wal-Mart or Blockbuster Video.

This particular chorus line -- comprised of Ruby, Buzz, and Big Baby
- -- wanted me to know I had arrived at the Hacienda San Pedro Nohpat.
At first alarmed, I now found myself charmed.

As so often happens, those first few moments on the ground in a
foreign land set the tone for the rest of my visit to a country
that, contrary to media reports, is not being overwhelmed by crime.
Certainly Mexico has its poor. Yet they do not seem as disabled by
poverty as the indigents of our home and native land. Maybe it's
the weather, although I suspect their Roman Catholic faith plays a
crucial role. For many Canadians, the notion of finding strength in
religion is considered archaic. Perhaps so, but the Mayans I
encountered -- short of stature and gently shy -- treat you with
smiles as long as they are little if only you smile first. Penniless
they may be, poor they are not.

I also discovered a culture of inclusiveness. During Carnaval, in a
crowd of tens of thousands lined up along the city's main boulevard,
I watched an evening parade of dozens of floats festooned with
everything from nearly naked showgirls flogging beer to marching
bands of seniors, the disabled and young children shepherded by
their parents. Each ensemble paused to receive encouraging cheers.
Kingstonians will likely marvel that anarchy does not have to erupt
at a street party. Queen's University might even strike another
committee of eminent persons and dispatch them to Merida (next
winter, of course) to determine how this is done. And while there
was drinking -- copious amounts, actually -- I saw not a single
drunk. Meanwhile, the police, out in numbers, enjoyed the parade
like everyone else.

Of crime there was no trace. So I asked about it. Obviously, it
exists. Yet, without exception, every expatriate interrogated, male
or female, told me the same thing: You can walk on Merida's streets
at night without fear. And what about staying well? In Canada,
despairing tales about long waiting times, doctor shortages and
inadequate hospitals are as universal as good health care was
supposed to be. Meanwhile, in Merida, every expatriate said the same
thing -- you can see a general practitioner without an appointment.
You just walk in. Of course there's a fee, $35 on average. If you
then need a specialist, you can usually see one that very day, again
for a modest payment. The doctors, often trained in Europe, are
competent and caring. Some will object that such a system favours
those with money. Yes it does. But since it's your money, why allow
the government to dictate how you spend it?

The country has problems. The pollution over Mexico City smothers
more than 20 million people packed into a basin roughly the same
size as Prince Edward County -- by comparison, home to 25,000 souls.
There is corruption and a race-based caste hierarchy, and violent
drug cartels are disrupting life in some border regions. But let us
remember why. The winner gets to feed our demand for drugs. Ours,
not Mexico's. That brought to mind a 1968 Steppenwolf song,The Pusher:

"Well now if I were the president of this land you know I'd declare
total war on the pusher man. I'd cut him if he stands, and I'd shoot
him if he runs, yes I'd kill him with my Bible and my razor and my
gun. God damn the pusher."

If we waged a real war on drugs instead of mollycoddling addicts and
pushers, our southern neighbours would be genuinely grateful.

While I wouldn't claim Mexican society is perfect, any more than
ours is, watching the news these days could mislead you into
thinking Mexico is disintegrating. As Ruby would say: "That's funny."