The uncapped spew of “expert” blarney and scientific blather about the mega-disaster in the Gulf of Mexico just injects another dose of slime into the killing stream.
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Billions, trillions, even kajillions of dollars can’t resuscitate one single shrimp. Death is spreading across the ocean floor. The pathetic containment effort amounts to dragging a fork through the thin “sweet” petroleum oil as it passes through booms only to come out better emulsified with the saltwater and continue on its smothering way.
Like an underwater Vesuvius, the oil coats and chokes everything in its path. From the bottom up. Rockefeller/Exxon, Bush/Cheney and Anglo-Persian/British Petroleum oil men understand only the bottom line. Anything else living beneath their concern is doomed.
Under that water are the reefs formed of white brain coral. The conquering Spaniards carved building blocks out of it to construct the colonial city of Veracruz. There’s a saying in Mexico, “Solo Veracruz es bello.” (Only Veracruz is beautiful.) Not any more.
Although Veracruz is a major port, the water off the downtown pier was always transparent enough for young men to dive into and catch coins tossed by tourists from Mexico City.
Well-kept boats owned by independent fishermen line the breakwall where souvenirs made of shells are for sale. “A la Veracruzana” is a nationally popular way to prepare fish from Veracruz with olives from Spain. The strong relationship to Afro-Cuba and the rest of the Caribbean is reflected in the culture and music. The oil is swirling outwards to all these maritime neighbours.
Veracruz holds a famous Carnival every year. Like its sister city on the Gulf, old New Orleans, Veracruz knew how to take it easy and dance – before oil invaded the sea blood in her veins. The veins of Veracruz run through Alvarado, down the coast, celebrated in song for its seafood cuisine. Small canneries provide work, for women especially – so they don’t have to leave home for the killing fields of Ciudad Juarez or other equally miserable destinations.
The rivers around Veracruz City support family farms. Old ways are still known and practised, the slow flow of the undammed waters determining the pace.
The Papaloapan River is renowned for its butterflies. No telling what the viscous stoppage of the rivers will do. No one knows. But it sure won’t be “bello.”
Halfway up the Gulf of Mexico, between Veracruz and Brownsville, Texas, is Tampico, where gas flames shoot from stacks and big old Ford LTDs serve as taxis. But even Tampico, until now, had a deserved reputation for seafood. The whole Bay of Campeche, south of Veracruz, is likewise famous. It’s been seafood and oil for years.
On up through the Yucatán Peninsula and Quintana Roo, where cenotes, aquifers and hot springs percolate up to the edge of the sea. The gusher will taint the turquoise Caribbean for snorkellers as it cancels all the sea life, sacrificed forever to the insane arrogance of oil-fed “progress.” On to Central and South America and the waters of the world. No more U.S. and them. All in the same greasy boat now.
It was years ago that I had the waking nightmare coming to everywhere. I had been walking miles amid the throat-burning highways of Mexico City when I saw up ahead a vendor beneath an overpass with a pyramid of containers on a table. Intent on slaking my thirst, I hurried.
I reached the mirage of fruit juice only to have it dissolve into a horrifying reality. Motor oil! I can’t drink motor oil. And neither can fish or birds or dolphins or sea turtles.
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