Mexican Peso Quotes

The Great Chicken (Gallus gallus maximus): His breast is already very tough. He's very old. That's the reason why they decided no to kill him, his flesh would be of no use. He began to study like mad and became a lawyer. He abandoned all that he had and went to pontificate in a foreign hen-coop. After some years, he realised that he could tell what he knew and he couldn't stop talking. Now he has the appearance of a typical Mexican. He even speaks like a Mexican. But at heart he is an Indian chicken from Cuilapa. The only thing that he doesn't forget every night after talking and talking all day is to eat his tortillas and beans. Then he shuts himself away to read so he can continue talking. He doesn't understand a bloody word of it, but no matter, he talks and talks and reads and reads. On Saturdays he drinks Castillo rum. Only that brand because all others disagree with him. As he doesn't like whiskey because it cracks his tongue and in Altillo Universidad there's no Indita hooch, he's into Castillo rum that he drinks with Macaw. Shit-faced, the two birds talk for hours on end. There's no way Gallus ditto maximus will cough up any cash, sometimes he takes out a knotted handkerchief, undoes it and says I'll put one peso, then, afterwards, he makes a great fuss about it. When he's alone he becomes honest with himself, nostalgic for his old hen-coop he plays Luna de Xelajú, dresses like an Indian with a cloth on his head and starts to dance to the beat of the Guatemalan Son. Then he goes out like a light.

There was over five thousand U.S. dollars, as well as large wads of Canadian dollars, euros, Russian rubles, Mexican pesos, and six other currencies I couldn’t even recognize.

As in politics, there are huge areas of overlap in “left” and “right” media, between MSNBC and Fox. Both channels, despite seemingly opposite politics, need you to be identically receptive to advertising. So neither channel will gross you out with stories about the maquiladora where Mexican workers are earning 70 pesos a day making your kids’ toys. They won’t scare you about the forests we’re clearing around the globe to feed the cattle we turn into cheap hamburgers advertised in between segments.

Thirty pesos,” he said—a quick thinker. It was $1.50. I handed it over and the other men laughed at this man’s enterprise, or his impudence, or perhaps at my gringo acquiescence.

hidden from the pedestrians who wandered across to buy discount Viagra; it was deeper into the town, the disorder, the ruinous buildings, the litter, the donkeys cropping grass by the roadside. Reynosa was not its plaza, but rather another hot, dense border town of hard-up Mexicans who spent their lives peering across the frontier, easily able to see—through the slats in the fence, beyond the river—better houses, brighter stores, newer cars, cleaner streets, and no donkeys. At the first stoplight at the intersection of a potholed road of Reynosa, a fat, middle-aged man in shorts and wearing clown makeup—whitened face, red bulb nose, lipsticked mouth—began to juggle three blue balls as the light turned red, and a small girl in a tattered dress, obviously his daughter, passed him a teapot which he balanced on his chin. The small girl hurried to the waiting cars, soliciting pesos. At the next light, a man in sandals and rags juggled three bananas and flexed his muscles while making lunatic faces. A woman hurried from car to car with a basket, offering tamales. Farther on was a fire-eater, a skinny man in pink pajamas gulping smoky flames from a torch.

The woman went to a table at the side and selected a ghoulish picture the size of a playing card. “How much?” “What you wish.” I gave her some pesos, saying, “I’ll come back.” “This”—she tapped the picture—“will keep you safe.

But Potosí was poor, and Potosinos were oppressed by the weakening peso and the high cost of living, and in such a situation—I had noticed this all over the American Deep South on my previous road trip—people hold on to their culture.