A Narco History tells the history of the narcotics industry in Mexico, and by default the USA, from the early days of the 19th century, when Chinese immigrants were early pioneers of what was, at that point, a legitimate narcotics trade, through to the savagery of the 21st. The book opens with a detailed account of the murder of 43 normalistas in Ayotzinapa in 2014, an event whose pointlessness and barbarity finally started to provoke a political reaction at a grass roots level to the intertwined violence and corruption which has devastated the country. The book then uses Ayotzinapa as a point of reference, one it builds towards during the course of its narrative. The book is particularly concerned with the relationship between Mexico’s politics and the drugs trade, something which ensures it also investigates the links with politicians from the USA. The authors, one a Mexican novelist, the other a North American historian, establish clearly the degree of political collusion between the two countries that suits various interests, but leads to bloodshed and civil chaos in the towns, villages and countryside of Mexico. In spite of the terrible nature of much of what the book documents, it resists any instinct to sensationalism, ending with a considered overview of the feasibility of legalisation and the possibilities of de-escalating the narco-wars.
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An aside: when Mr Amato and I were traveling through Michoácan in 2015, we visited a small pueblo, not far from where we were staying. It was a Sunday on the weekend of the Dia de Los Muertos. It was about eleven in the morning. People had gathered outside the cemetery, filing in with flowers and offerings for their dead. There was a festive atmosphere. It’s a day for celebration as much as mourning. The nearby pueblo we had been staying in had felt completely safe and untroubled by the issues that plague Mexico, which A Narco History talks about. Our travels around the area were similarly untroubled. This nondescript place was only part of our itinerary because we needed to catch a bus there. A large, friendly fellow, wearing a broad straw hat, came over and started talking to us. We talked a bit about the day of the dead. Then he said something along the lines of, they’re going to be watching us. We weren’t quite sure what he meant. He explained. He said that anyone from the pueblo who was seen talking to strangers would be noted. They’d be watching us even now. He said that this particular pueblo was controlled by someone, whose name meant nothing to us. That nothing happened here without their say-so. They controlled everything. They’d know that he’d been talking to us, it was obvious, anyone could see. He talked breezily, hurriedly. As though he was making the most of what he knew was a very brief opportunity to explain something very important. Eventually, after less than ten minutes, he said he had to go. We walked away, towards the bus stop, which was on the edge of the pueblo. Everything looked so normal. The townspeople were out and about doing what townspeople do. But that brief chat had torn the veil off this normality. And for a moment, everything looked frighteningly different.
An aside: when Mr Amato and I were traveling through Michoácan in 2015, we visited a small pueblo, not far from where we were staying. It was a Sunday on the weekend of the Dia de Los Muertos. It was about eleven in the morning. People had gathered outside the cemetery, filing in with flowers and offerings for their dead. There was a festive atmosphere. It’s a day for celebration as much as mourning. The nearby pueblo we had been staying in had felt completely safe and untroubled by the issues that plague Mexico, which A Narco History talks about. Our travels around the area were similarly untroubled. This nondescript place was only part of our itinerary because we needed to catch a bus there. A large, friendly fellow, wearing a broad straw hat, came over and started talking to us. We talked a bit about the day of the dead. Then he said something along the lines of, they’re going to be watching us. We weren’t quite sure what he meant. He explained. He said that anyone from the pueblo who was seen talking to strangers would be noted. They’d be watching us even now. He said that this particular pueblo was controlled by someone, whose name meant nothing to us. That nothing happened here without their say-so. They controlled everything. They’d know that he’d been talking to us, it was obvious, anyone could see. He talked breezily, hurriedly. As though he was making the most of what he knew was a very brief opportunity to explain something very important. Eventually, after less than ten minutes, he said he had to go. We walked away, towards the bus stop, which was on the edge of the pueblo. Everything looked so normal. The townspeople were out and about doing what townspeople do. But that brief chat had torn the veil off this normality. And for a moment, everything looked frighteningly different.
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