Corona Cero

The shadow does not always fall behind the coach northwards and I only rarely receive free water before departure. The tricolour with the eagle and the serpent in its mouth waves oversized in the tropical wind of Cancún. I appear small in the context of this nation. 

Broad streets, deep potholes, American billboards and the forthcoming Formula 1 Grand Prix in D.F. It is more than just a race, Heineken says about it. Everything green-red-white. Of course.

The young man on the pick-up is leather-dark-brown tanned. The valley of Jalisco stretches to the smog-laden horizon. I must eat less meat and consequently also remove the ham from the Oxxo sandwiches. The cold aluminium of the Corona can feels refreshingly masculine in my hand. 

The bus driver in his Perspex cabin three rows ahead of me listens to reggaeton at full volume, the hard beats mixing with delicate Little Feat in my ears. German midday rest conventions do not count here, lawless the wild nature does what it will. It trembles even when the 32nd anniversary of the Terremoto is. If only we had listened to the Mayas, they knew everything already before we invented the wheel.

The Norwegian from the day before yesterday found herself on her journey. She was now stronger, but could not tear herself away from Instagram at dinner. Globalised digitalisation simply gets one going and so she forgot her bra for the Fiesta. The starry sky rolls over my hand-rolled cigarette. I feel dizzy, I lean against a VW Touareg. 

The Cantina vibrates and from every song I hear "Despacito" in it. The dark malt of the house ran down our throats. I feel like I'm in a jolly beer advert. Did not know that such parties really exist. I see a Mexican in the red-black away shirt of the German national team. In this garb we swept over the Brazilians 7-1 back then. Summer rain, car convoy, such a beautiful day. I congratulate the Mexican on his good taste. How great it is to be German. 

The meat in the tacos falls out of both openings. The head rests on the left shoulder whilst eating and all ten fingers are used. Once I finally know how to eat tacos, I am Mexican. Disinfectant I spray later after the meal of course on my hands. The Foreign Office has explicitly recommended it. 

If it's not spicy, it doesn't taste good. Breakfast must be "picante". How could one have butter on bread for breakfast then? Two cowboys in denim jackets shuffle past me in the bus terminal. They are looking for a proper Mexican breakfast, no pumpernickel with chives then. I could offer them "Carnelitos". These are cinnamon biscuits, sweet little sisters of speculaas. I eat them really only because they remind me of Christmas in Germany.

The hospitality of the country is boundlessly generous, I feel at home with them. Because just like us, they know how to grill. The hot grate over the brawny embers they grasp with their bare hand and the flames blaze like a lusty bull. The meat sweats itself in the orgasmic hell of the Weber grill and the sweat is reflected in their hungry dark pupils.

An evening Mariachi procession through the old town of San Miguel—protagonist: an eccentric Mexican. He had the crowd of 40 spectators firmly in his grip, sang, entertained and made jokes at the expense of others. He was the Mexican reincarnation of Don Juan paired with Matthias Opdenhövel. His black horn-rimmed glasses impressed me deeply, whilst in his shouting pauses he smoked Camel and drank Corona. For his jokes he chose bearded, dark-blonde and fair-skinned people, that is me and one other German. Of course I did not speak to my countryman before and after, too uncool is the average of our shared nationality. In the depths of our race, however, the common enemy united us: the life-loving loudmouth who provided good cheer. 

Mexican police officers do not differ particularly from normal passers-by. They wear uniform and shotgun and sleep with their mouth open in the car when Lupita is strangled by her husband on the open street. Proudly, however, they stand on every street corner and write on Facebook Messenger.

Smartphones with loudspeaker function are a marvellous invention. When I turn up the volume, I can torture my fellow human beings so wonderfully with them. Mexicans do it always and everywhere and so I have adapted. "Spanish Moon" is now running at maximum volume and no one on the bus minds. Mexicans are simply incomparably laid-back.

On bus journeys there are free films. A little Hollywood culture whilst riding through the prairie does no harm. My seat neighbour, however, is catching Pokémon. Pidgeot and Arbok fly above the internet radar, below the deep cloud cover. The prairie is wide and the grass is lush. The WhatsApp jingles chirp in the brave new world.

I paid surprisingly little for the coach, Coordinados. All seats are occupied here and some people are standing in the aisle, we are fish in a tin. But I had not yet been on the metro of the capital at that time. So this is what overpopulation feels like. 

The bus cinema runs on the screens, Daniel Radcliffe and Woody Harrelson in the lead roles. Their Spanish dubbing voices sound quirky, Querétaro passes by. Lonely Planet says there's nothing to see there and so I do not get out either. A Spanish film begins and I identify a fishing village in Galicia. I long for the European Union and its regulated procedures. 

If Trump now starts an atomic war, I will fetch my backpacking friend with a bamboo raft from Iceland. I would use the trade winds and otherwise find my way with the compass on my iPhone. If I am thirsty, I drink my urine. If I am hungry I simply catch passing fish. Eventually then I will arrive in Reykjavík, tanned brown and happy. 

Glossary of terms:

1Oxxo: retail chain in Mexico, similar to 7-Eleven

2Little Feat: US American rock band

3Terremoto: Spanish for "earthquake"

4Cantina: bar with live music

5"Despacito": reggaeton summer hit by Luis Fonsi

6Spanish Moon: song by Little Feat

7Coordinados: Mexican coach company for budget travel

Cian Hartung