British General Election

Parliament has just agreed to hold a general election on 12 December. The government claims that an election is necessary to “get Brexit done” and blames Parliament, and in particular the Labour Party and, in very personal attacks, its leader for the delay. Since this is the principal explanation of why we need an early election, it bears some scrutiny, which will in turn throw light on the real motivation for an election.

To begin at the beginning, the Conservatives have been the principal governing party since 2010: 2010-2015 in coalition with the Liberal Democrats, 2015-2017 with a small overall majority, 2017-summer 2019 with a majority formed by a pact with the Democratic Unionist Party (DUP), and since the summer of 2019 a minority government as a result of the Prime Minister’s own actions.

The Conservatives loathed five years of coalition and, rather to their own surprise, won a small majority in 2015, partly by inflicting a heavy defeat on their coalition partners. However, the Conservatives entered the 2015 election terrified that the new UKIP (UK Independence) party would erode is electoral base. Therefore, Prime Minister Cameron included in his election manifesto a promise of an “In or Out Referendum” on EU membership after he had negotiated new arrangements with the EU. To his surprise, Mr Cameron won the election with a small majority. Mr. Cameron advocated remaining in the EU, but, much to his surprise, in the 2016 referendum 52% voted to leave. Mr Cameron had made no plans for a Leave majority. Although he had promised to implement the result of the referendum, he promptly resigned, leaving his successor to devise a plan. The lack of planning suggests hubris, if not incompetence, perhaps both.

The Conservatives then chose Theresa May, the Home Secretary, to be the new Prime Minister. At this point there was no definition of what leaving the EU meant, no evaluation of what the implications were, nor how to achieve it. In short, the Conservatives had invited the electorate to make a decision of momentous import, but had not thought to work out how to implement the decision. Mrs May faced a party divided into two broad camps: the pro-EU MPs, most of whom decided to put to one side their personal judgement and support leaving, and those fiercely opposed to EU membership (many of them members of the blandly named European Research Group).

At this stage Mrs May’s task was to devise a plan and persuade her own party to support it. Now, the EU treaty stipulates that a country that wishes to leave must first give two years’ notice of its intention. Rather than devise her plan, give notice and then negotiate the terms of withdrawal, Mrs May chose to give notice with no plan whatsoever. She therefore wasted part of the two years’ notice period working out a plan.

Then, in 2017, she had a clever idea. The Labour Party and its leader were so unpopular that she would call an election and win a large majority. Mrs May turned out to be incapable of mounting an effective election campaign and Labour’s Mr Corbyn proved to be a much more effective campaigner than Mrs May expected. The election gave her the largest group of MPs in Parliament, but not an overall majority. She remained Prime Minister, but had to agree a pact with the DUP to secure a majority in Parliament. She had by now wasted more time, first devising a plan, then halting negotiations with the EU to call an election, then negotiating a pact with the DUP.

Mrs May succeeded in negotiating an agreement with the EU, but then found to her great dismay that the ERG wing of her party was opposed to it, so was the formerly pro-EU wing, and so was the DUP. In short, Mrs May failed to win the support of her own side. In this situation, the opposition of the Labour Party was neither here nor there. Mrs May was the author of her own fate.

Mrs May resigned as Prime Minister earlier this year. The Conservative Party then elected Boris Johnson as leader. Mr Johnson vowed that the UK would leave the EU on 31 October “do or die” and with or without a deal. In short, he allied himself with the ERG wing of his party even more firmly than Mrs May had done. He also expelled from the government (unless they resigned first) any members of the government who would not support his approach. This created a group of 20 or more opponents on the formerly pro-Eu wing of the party. His plan can be summarized as follows:

·      Initially, to to make a show of refusing even to talk to the EU so as to convince them that he fully intended to leave without a deal, and to show those opposed to the EU that he was one of them

·      To suppress opposition in Parliament by proroguing (suspending sittings) for five weeks. This was subsequently ruled unlawful by the Supreme Court

·      Then to negotiate an agreement with the EU in such a way as to leave minimal time for Parliament to scrutinize its content

·      In the event that he were unable to secure approval for his agreement, to call a general election on the argument that Parliament was frustrating the will of the people

This plan immediately took a turn for the worse. Before it was prorogued Parliament passed a bill requiring Mr Johnson to write to the EU to ask for an extension of membership if an agreement with the EU had not been approved by 19 October. Despite declaring that he would not do so, Mr Johnson sent the letter but refused to sign it. Twnety one Conservative MPS from the formerly pro-EU wing of the Conservative party voted for this bill. Mr Johnson expelled them from the party. Thus, even with the support of the 10 DUP MPs, Mr Johnson had destroyed his own majority. In short, both Mrs May and Mr Johnson themselves took decisions that deprived them of a majority in Parliament.

Mr Johnson succeeded in negotiation a modified version of Mrs May’s agreement. The revised agreement won the support of the ERG, but the DUP fundamentally opposes it because it requires an internal customs border between Northern Ireland and the rest of the UK. Mr Johnson had previously stated that no British Prime Minister could ever agree to such an arrangement. He now promptly agreed to just such an arrangement. Essentially, by choosing to expel members of his own party, and by negotiating an agreement that the DUP was bound to reject, he guaranteed his inability to pass his own agreement, and then blamed the opposition for his impotence.

Mr Johnson then put his agreement to Parliament. Parliament agreed the deal in principle by a majority of 30 votes, but Mr Johnson insisted that the House be allowed only three days to consider the most important change in the country’s constitution, social and economic arrangements in a half century or more. Parliament refused to accept this expedited timetable. Mr Johnson then withdrew the agreement from further consideration. In short, Parliament did not oppose the agreement, but rather asserted its duty to scrutinize it.

At this point a brief aside concerning minority governments is useful. Minority governments and/or coalitions are the norm in many other European countries. The British system assumes that a single party wins a majority of Parliamentary seats and that the leader of that party becomes Prime Minister. However, it is perfectly possible to rule with a minority of MPs. This requires political skills, negotiate and compromise, as previous minority governments have shown. A Prime Minister is not obliged to call for an election simply because (s)he lacks a majority.

However, Mr Johnson’s response to Parliament’s insistence on scrutinizing his agreement was to demand an election. In the past, the Prime Minister was able to call a general election at will. However, since 2011 when the Conservative-Liberal coalition government passed the Fixed Term Parliament Act, elections can be held every five years or at an earlier date provided that 66% of MPs vote for an election. Mr Johnson attempted to call an election but the Labour Party refused to vote in favour. In essence, the opposition had him where they wanted him: powerless to proceed as he wished, unwilling to negotiate and at the mercy of other parties. You might ask how it is that we are now to have an election on 12 December. The answer is that the opposition was not united. First the Scottish National Party, and then the Liberal Party, both for their own reasons of electoral advantage, proposed a one-time bill to call for an election by a simple majority vote. Labour then concurred.

Until we have heard what each party proposes, we cannot decide how we will vote. The commentators predict that the outcome is extremely volatile and uncertain. However, I think we can confidently state that Mr Johnson’s argument that the Labour Party and its leader are solely responsible for his failure to achieve Brexit by 31 October is untrue. The failure is the result of years of poor decisions and incompetent political leadership on the part of three Prime Ministers, all of them Conservative.

Day of the Dead in Mexico

When we returned to our hotel in Mexico City, we found the lobby decorated in preparation for the Day of the Dead on 1 November. The receptionist joked that the skeletal couple were guests who had not paid their bills.

 

Hotel La Casona, Colonia Roma, Mexico City

Apparently, the phoney Day of the Dead procession with which a recent James Bond film starts, has been adopted in Mexico City as a tourist attraction. In 1975 I was taken to a more traditional celebration in Mixquic, a small town within the modern Mexico City. Mixquic was full of visitors and sellers of food and drink. In the churchyard families sat  by the graves and enjoyed a meal with their dead. The highlight of the day was a competition of skeleton puppets. Skeletons might rise from their coffins, dance or perform other exploits. One acknowledgement to modernity was a skeleton that performed the antics of a popular TV game show of the time, called Sube Pelayo, sube (roughly “Climb Mr. Nobody, climb”). Contestants climbed a greasy pole to grab money and other prizes from the top of the pole. In Mixquic, Pelayo was a skeleton.

The Day of the Dead celebrations are a hybrid of prehispanic and Christian traditions. The many and varied societies of Ancient Mexico shared a preoccupation with death and the underworld. Shamans entered caves (thought to be the entrance to the underworld) to receive trance-induced messages from the gods. Powerful people were buried with offerings, and sometimes sacrificed humans, to accompany them in the afterlife. Sacrificial victims, drugged to facilitate sacrifice, were considered honoured beings who would receive rewards in the underworld, once a priest had removed their hearts: a dubious honour to be sure. The Spanish clerics abhorred human sacrifice, but shared a preoccupation with death and the afterlife. Faced with the task of converting thousands of indigenous people, most of whom understood not a word of Spanish, it suited priests to merge the two traditions.

Near our hotel is the famous Pastelería Suiza (“Swiss Patisserie”), which had on offer an array of death-related goods.

Pan de muerto

A breakfast treat is a pan de muerto (“bread of the dead”), often filled with cream. There are, of course, the brightly coloured skulls made of sugar or of sweet potato or chocolate. Another delight is huesitos de santos (“saints’ bones”) made of white marzipan filled with egg yolk, or tumbas (“tombs” or “coffins”) of chocolate or sugar with lids open to reveal the skeleton.

Día de los Muertos treats at the Pastelería Suiza

The Dolores Olmedo Museum, famed for its collection of Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo works, organizes an annual themed display of skeletons (known in Mexico as calacas). This year’s theme was the triumphs of Mexican engineering and architecture.

Mexico City's Metro c.1970

Calacas at the Dolores Olmedo Museum

 

Pilgrims at the modern Sanctuary of Our lady of Guadalupe

The altar, honouring victims of the 1985 and 2017 earthquakes

The 1968 Olympic Stadium

 

La Heróica Escuela Militar ("The Heroic Military Academy")

 

Exit only

Los de Abajo: The Underdogs

Perhaps the most famous novel of the Mexican Revolution is Mariano Azuela’s Los de Abajo, usually translated as The Underdogs.

Los de Abajo, cover design

Underdogs are a frequent theme of Mexican arts. A famous director of early Mexican cinema is “El Indio” Fernández. His film La Perla (The Pearl) is a tale of love, poverty and greed, with the dénouement of one of the great operas. The action takes place on a tropical coast that could well have been the coast of Nayarit where we have been staying. A humble pearl fisher, married to a beautiful young woman, with a new-born baby, finds an enormous pearl, so valuable that it can transform the life of his family. As he puts it, his son would now learn to read and write.

The pearl fisher and his family

Alas, the local landowner is determined to own the marvellous pearl. The fisherman’s wife entreats him to give the pearl to the landowner to save the family, but her husband cannot abandon his dreams. They flee, clutching the precious pearl. They are pursued by the landowners’ armed thugs through mangrove swamps and tropical forests. The new-born baby succumbs to the hardship of the journey. Finally, the fisherman heeds his wife’s entreaties that their love is greater than riches and throws the pearl into the sea. He and his wife return to their home, poor but wiser and in love.

San Angel Inn gardens

In Mexico City we lunched one day at the San Angel Inn, a famous restaurant in the former home of a wealthy landowner, with carefully tended gardens and a large staff to pamper the diners. When one visits the baños, an attentive man in a white coat opens the cubicle door, later squeezes soap on to your hands and hands you a length of paper towel. In return he receives a modest tip. I find it hard to calculate his daily income, but his home life must be far away from that of the diners in San Angel. In contrast, the table next to ours was occupied by four young businessmen, probably in their early 30s. They ate heartily and consumed a number of rounds of tequila and sangrita, a traditional spicy tomato accompaniment sipped after each sip of tequila.

Main street, San Pancho

I am writing this in San Francisco (popularly known as San Pancho), in Nayarit state on the Pacific coast. Had we come here around 1940 we would have found a tiny remote settlement which formed part of an ejido (a collectively-owned farm) created by the government’s land reform programme. The peasants who farmed, tended cattle or fished here may have sent their children to one of the new state schools teaching the “socialist education” in vogue at the time. There may even have been one of the new government clinics, dispensing rudimentary healthcare. Urban services such as potable water or sewage would have been unthinkable: even today in tourist San Pancho water is delivered to homes by tanker trucks. San Pancho boomed briefly from 1970-1976 when President Luis Echeverría built a holiday home for his family there. He channelled money into the town. The government improved housing, established a school, a teaching hospital, an agricultural university, and a fruit-processing factory. However, after Echeverría left office funding stopped and some of the president's projects failed. The modern population of 1,600 souls lives almost entirely from tourism or associated trades, such as construction, taxi-driving and so on.

We arrived just before the tourist season gets into full swing. This part of the coast caters to visitors who escape the cold winters of North America or Europe, or who come from Mexico City or Guadalajara, who arrive at the airport of Puerto Vallarta, served by airlines from Alaska to Mexico City. We have seen a few visitors driving past our rented villa in golf buggies, favoured by the less mobile or those whose accommodation is in the golf club or polo resort just outside town. On the highway to San Pancho we had passed a rather less luxurious form of transportation, a cargo truck, typical of remoter parts of Mexico. The cargo area is enclosed by white wooden slats. Three men sat in the back nursing a trompa, a large doner kebab wrapped in sturdy plastic for a long, but perhaps not very hygienic, journey. As we ate lunch on Friday a similar truck carrying a large refrigerator parked across the street. The truck had no mechanical ramp or other lifting aids, so the driver and his mate lowered the refrigerator carefully from a height of some five or six feet, and carried it quite a distance along the street. The delivery was made in a very humid temperature of some 33^o. Given the distance they had travelled, the financials rewards for the men’s labours must have been very modest.

 

San Pancho beach

We had lunch the next day in a restaurant on the beach. We talked to one of the sellers of tourist goods. His was a story of how, at its best, the Mexican state protects the less privileged. He has a four year old daughter born five months prematurely. The little girl spent four months in intensive care and required intensive physiotherapy to learn to walk. She has now developed further mobility problems, but only private physiotherapy is available, which is far beyond the income of a beach salesman. Her father had heard of Pasitos de Luz, the charity where our son works, but had been unable to make contact. Fortunately, Chris was able to give him the contact details.

Taquería el Arbolito, kitchen

Our first night here we were caught in a violent tropical storm. The owner of a taco restaurant, Taquería el Arbolito, who had closed for the night, offered us shelter, refreshment and pleasant conversation as we watched water pour down the street. Pedro runs a sizeable business, where we had dinner the following night. He must be one of the more prosperous locals who cater to the tourist trade. Pedro’s wife runs the open air kitchen, assisted by two local ladies, one of whom makes the tortillas.

Taquería el Arbolito, living accommodation above

Two young men serve. A dinner of tacos, quesadillas, volcanes (an open taco on a crispy tortilla), or pellizcadas (a taco equivalent of an Italian calzone) filled with ingredients of our choice, additional flavours added at a sauce bar, washed down with cold drinks, costs about 200 -230 pesos (about £10) for three people. Pedro shuts his business for two weeks in August for a holiday in a larger Mexican resort. He makes most of his money from late October to early May and carefully husbands his cash for the rest of the year. The family lives in a modest structure above the restaurant. One of his sons works night shifts in the laundry of the town hospital.

San Pancho, hospital

San Pancho offers some essential facilities to its residents. There is a state pre-school a block from the beach and a hospital two or three blocks further. The centre of town has a variety of restaurants and cafés, a grocery store (tienda de abarrotes) or two, and an art gallery. On the highway is a petrol station and an Oxxo convenience shop. Beyond the highway, the hills, covered in tropical vegetation, rise steeply. These facilities would have been completely lacking in the 1930s. However, friends tell us that those who can afford private insurance (such as the diners at the San Angel Inn) escape the long waits, shortage of medicines and dated equipment and facilities of the public health care system. Health care in Mexico can be as good as any in the world. Indeed, there is a good deal of health tourism from the USA. Foreign citizens can enrol in the public system for a very modest annual contribution (a generous concession, given the demands on the system of Mexico’s own citizens), or can access cheaper private care.

 

San Pancho, community centre and library

Education also tends to be divided in similar fashion. Much public education is part-time (four hours per day). Our driver in Mexico City sent his two children to private schools for a better education and access to university education. They found work in technology businesses in Germany and Estonia. Mexico produces international-class scholars and professionals, and supports a lively cultural scene. The country has come a long way since the era of Los de abajo and La Perla, but limited employment opportunities, enormous inequality and unequal access to education and other essential services are issues that are still far from being solved. Most jobs are poorly paid and terms of employment would be considered very harsh in Europe: a 46-hour week, no holidays at all in the first year, six days in the second year. Even after ten years in the same job, our usual five weeks of holiday is beyond the dreams of a Mexican worker. Salaries, even for middle-class management jobs, are very modest by European standards, and working-class salaries are low indeed. The low-wage economy is precarious. Life outside it (juggling or cleaning windscreens at traffic lights, selling chewing gum on the street) is even more so.

Child care, disability and poverty in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico

Our son Chris continues his work supporting Pasitos de Luz, a charity that offers day care for children with disabilities whose families lack the resources to care for them during the day. We met a young mother who had applied for day care for her son Héctor. Héctor’s mother has been struggling against the impossible challenge of earning a salary while caring for her son. The young mother was thrilled that Héctor had been accepted.

Pasitos provides a safe environment, good food and therapy for children whose conditions range from Downs syndrome or cerebral palsy to learning difficulties. One little boy was born without eyes, is on the autism spectrum and had to be taught to walk. Jan and I helped with feeding at breakfast and lunch and with play for children who cannot participate in classroom programmes.

Here are some photos from our day. The first two are the charity's current list of needs:

Breakfast with Mia:

  César after eating his banana:

Manuel in the air-conditioned playroom. Air-conditioning is expensive and beyond the means of many parents:

Enrique, aged six, after a hearty lunch. Enrique loves his food and dances in his seat to a tune with a good beat:

Xochi, aged five on the left. She has three siblings. Xochi loves to talk, ask questions, and can be quite bossy in a way that is impossible to resist. She has palsy so her mobility is very restricted. To the right are Manuel and Mateo:

Lunch for (left to right) Axel, César and Kaleb. Axel and Kaleb are twins:

In the classroom with new books donated by Thames & Hudson. More are needed as are other learning materials:

In the footsteps of presidents

When General Lázaro Cárdenas was elected President of Mexico in 1934-1940, he decided that the country’s leader needed a suitable residence. A landowner gave to the government an estate on the edge of Chapultepec Park called Rancho de las Hormigas (Ranch of the Ants). Lázaro preferred to name the new residence after the farm of his wife’s family, Los Pinos ("The Pines".

For more than eight decades, Los Pinos was the private space from which the most powerful men (no women yet) governed their people, who were never allowed a glimpse of the  whitewashed buildings and carefully kept gardens. A Mexican president governs for six years (his sexenio). Under the regime forged from the struggles of the 1910-1920 revolution the president was not quite all powerful, but he received absolute deference and lived in splendour in a large private retreat sheltered from the bustle and near-chaos of the capital city.

No more. One of the first acts of President Andrés Manuel López Obrador (“AMLO”) was to open the gates of Los Pinos to the public. This was in part a populist gesture to show Mexicans how their rulers had lived. The longer term objective is to create a cultural centre with exhibition spaces, a concert hall and a theatre. AMLO now lives in an apartment in the National Palace in the centre of the city.

Casa Lázaro Cárdenas

There are four residences in Los Pinos. The first is the Casa Lázaro Cárdenas, a large art deco-style structure. Since the building was converted to offices after Cárdenas left office, very few traces of the president remain except for his office, a room for receiving guests and a meeting room. The next residence, that of Adolfo Ruiz Cortines (1952-1958), is now a children’s reading centre: we were not allowed in without a child.

In 1946 President Miguel Alemán ordered the construction of a residence that he considered fitting for a president to receive other heads of state.

Casa Miguel Alemán

The building, said to be in a French style which I found hard to detect, was not finished until the end of his term, so Alemán never occupied it. However, all but three of his successors have spent their six-year terms there. The information panel outside promises the visitor “French furniture, Bohemian lighting and other examples of luxury popular in the middle of the last century”. However, there is  no furniture except for a library and the presidential office.

Casa Miguel Alemán: main stairs

I was told that each president brings his own furniture and takes it away at the end of his term. Our driver, Jorge, hinted that the furniture was stolen by the incumbent. The residence now functions as an exhibition space for a collection of modern Mexican painting specially commissioned in 1993.

The Presidential football pitch

There are several other structures: for example, a conference room now used as a theatre at weekends, and a large building in which concerts are now held. There is also a five aside football pitch, converted from a horse-riding area, complete with a small stand for spectators, complete with a large presidential seal. A stage for musical performances now occupies a manicured lawn.

The extensive gardens are divided into thematic areas in which to display busts and statues of important men (alas, all men) in Mexican history.

Bust of Luis Donaldo Colosio

Themes included Democracy (for example a bust of Luis Donaldo Colosio, a presidential candidate assassinated in 1994, shortly before his expected election); the 19^th-century Liberal Reform (busts of Melchor Ocampo, Sebastián Lerdo de Tejada, and, in pride of place, Benito Juárez); heroes of the 1910-1920 revolution (Francisco I. Madero, the “Apostle of Democracy”, the peasant leader Emiliano Zapata); heroes of the War of Independence (Father Miguel Hidalgo and José María Morelos).

Bust of Francisco I. Madero

From 1934 onwards, each president is marked by a statue, clearly designed to project what he considered to be his significance or major achievement.

Statue of Lázaro Cárdenas

Lázaro Cárdenas (1934-1940) strikes a fatherly pose.

Statue of José López Portillo

José López Portillo (2976-1982), who promised to “defend the peso like a dog” and then devalued it, ever after to be greeted in public by the sound of barking, strikes a dignified pose, his hand resting on a book.

Statue of Carlos Salinas de Gortari

Carlos Salinas de Gortari (1988-1994), whose promise to make Mexico a modern global economic powerhouse came to grief, holds a copy of the Free Trade Treaty signed with the USA and Canada, and recently torn up by Mr Trump.

Statue of Vicente Fox

Vicente Fox (2000-2006), the first president of an opposition party to be elected since 1920, gives a Churchillian victory sign, and stands next to a young girl with long braided hair who clutches a book (the only presidential statue to include a second figure).

Statue of Enrique Peña Nieto

Enrique Peña Nieto (2012-2018), possibly the last president to be commemorated at Los Pinos, stands out because he alone holds the national flag. his left hand on his chest as a salute. His plinth announces that “My commitment is Mexico”, an ironic slogan for a president notorious for presiding over notorious corruption.

Students protesting in 1968

Perhaps the highlight of our visit was an exhibition to commemorate the student movement of 1968. On 2 October, the students were ambushed in the Square of the Three Cultures, in the district of Tlatelolco, by the Mexican army. An unknown number died that night, hundreds were arrested, and many (including my late friend Alfonso Landera) were forced into hiding.

Students arrested on 2 October 1968

The exhibition looks at antecedents (railway strike, tram workers’ strike, strident anticommunism, relations with the USA and the tacit approval of the American ambassador) and subsequent events (attacks on student groups by government thugs (halcones: “falcons”) in 1971; the insurgency of the schoolteacher Genaro Vázquez in the mountains of Guerrero, where I would arrive a few years later) . The narrative of the exhibition is taken from the writings of the Mexican intellectual Carlos Monsiváis. Illustrations are contemporary photographs, propaganda posters, artworks, video of an address to Congress by President Díaz Ordaz who ordered the attack, graphic designs for the 1968 Olympic games and a video of the opening ceremony. The games were intended to announce Mexico as a modern international power. Instead, Mexicans remember 1968 for the dreadful “Night of Tlatelolco”.

The optimism of the ceremony, culminating in the lighting of the Olympic flame by a female Mexican athlete, contrasted with the tragedy of the massacre ten days earlier. In 1968 I was probably hardly aware of where to find Mexico on a map, but I remember clearly a BBC broadcast during the student movement. The famous sports broadcaster Harry Carpenter commented that it was so sad that the students were disrupting preparations for the games.

Rius: Special Number about the Cocolazos ("Banging of Heads")

Particularly nostalgic for me was the liberal use of artwork of the political comic author Rius (the pseudonym of Eduardo Humberto del Río García: 1934-2017). I was an avid reader in the late 70s of his weekly Los Agachados (The Downtrodden). His witty, biting satire and evocative drawings, poked fun at the government and the USA. Rius also used his comic as a platform for educational messages. He paid a price for his work in 1968. Government agents kidnapped him, took him to a rural location and subjected him to a mock execution. He continued to draw and write.

Rius: What the Devil is Homeopathy?

"Isn't it a great sacrifice to be mayor? Hic!" "Of course: it's not even good business...I have been mayor for 20 years for the love of my people..."

 

Mexicans have had a complicated relationship with their modern presidents. At one level, they are revered and accorded enormous respect as the holders of the greatest office in the land. At another, most Mexican believe, not entirely without foundation, that presidents use their office to enrich themselves, their family and cronies. Nevertheless, some are admired, or at least given some credit, for some achievement or other: Lázaro Cárdenas for distributing land to the peasants and nationalising the petroleum companies, Ernesto Zedillo for managing the crisis caused by the murder of Colosio and managing the final transition to a greater degree of democracy, Fox for winning that election (but achieving little else, alas). On the other hand, Gustavo Díaz Ordaz (1964-1970), and his Secretary of Government and successor as president, Luis Echeverría Álvarez (1970-1976), are generally reviled as authors of the 1968 massacre. As one tours Los Pinos, one understands how six years as the most powerful man within Mexico’s borders (but inevitably bowing more often than not to American demands), living on a luxurious estate, his every wish met with a “Yes, Mr President”, was an intoxicating episode in a president’s life. Those six years defined one man and gave each term of office (the sexenio) a very personal character.