By Erin Sherbert
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"Not long after our boat made it out into the water, a friendly whale nestled up next to the boat where the president and his family were. You can imagine the excitement -- everyone was yelling things like, "Come here, little whale,' to "Give it a kiss! A kiss, a kiss, a kiss!' Everybody had their arms in the water, touching and caressing the whale. The president was in the boat's bow taking photographs. He was enjoying the moment, taking photos," says López as he further describes the beautiful, light-bathed scene:
A group of boats nods gently over the waves at Laguna San Ignacio, Carabias in one of them, President Ernesto Zedillo, the final heir of the modern era's longest political dynasty, in another. Zedillo's wife and children are in the boat with him, and a glistening, mottled gray whale nuzzles alongside. One of Zedillo's daughters leans over and kisses the whale. Passengers cheer. The president smiles; he takes photographs. His wife pets the whale. Zedillo snaps another photograph. A few feet away Carabias sits in her boat with her own children, smiling, serene.
Carabias, to the rumored chagrin of Trade Minister Herminio Blanco, had succeeded in inviting the president to see Laguna San Ignacio for himself. Zedillo and his family are enjoying a moment of bliss. Carabias, in her fashion, also seems pleased.
In New Times' special project "Shades of Gray," reporters from several of our papers have traveled from Siberia to Mexico to tell the complex tale of a creature whose annual migration -- at 12,000 miles round trip -- is the longest by any mammal.
"She had her own way of enjoying the moment," says Kuyima's López. "She didn't put her hands in the water -- she was just watching. She seemed at peace."
Zedillo returned to Mexico City and promptly canceled the Laguna San Ignacio salt beds.
"I believe this was a factor in allowing him to begin to understand, to listen, to involve himself, to feel, and to live what this place is about, no?" Carabias later said. "It was a very personal moment, a very human moment."
It was a very fin del siglomoment: Ernesto Zedillo Ponce de León did what Mexican presidents always did during the country's 20th century of perfect dictatorship -- he canceled plans to build a salt plant at Laguna San Ignacio because, well, he wished it so.
A year and a month later, Homero Aridjis stands awkwardly for a photo opportunity at the Metreon movie theater complex in San Francisco, flanked by a U.S. television star, a U.S. political scion, and hundreds of wealthy U.S. environmentalists.
The occasion is the National Resources Defense Council's Forces of Nature Awards Ceremony, a $200-per-head fund-raiser. Aridjis is being honored along with television star Julia Louis-Dreyfus and Kennedy scion Bobby Jr. for vanquishing a salt-manufacturing plant near the Mexican birthing grounds of the California gray whale. In the NRDC's script, these people have become protagonists in La Leyenda de Laguna San Ignacio. This fund-raising event is intended as the final chapter in the U.S. environmentalist version of the Mitsubishi/salt plant tale. Accordingly, there is a bit of surreal disjuncture between this event and reality as it is ordinarily experienced.
Louis-Dreyfus tracks the attendant knot of photographers with Larry Bird-like peripheral vision, lest one of them lose track of her most attractive profile. Kennedy holds forth to a throng five fans thick. Homero and Betty Aridjis, meanwhile, sip tea and chat amongst themselves. Homero is both of this jet-setting world -- he's a diplomat and internationally renowned poet -- and not of this world: Unlike the others present, he actually had a meaningful role in the cancellation of the Laguna San Ignacio salt project.
This is an ethereal Hollywood moment constructed to accompany a bit of Los Angeles fantasy.
The tale scripted by NRDC President John Adams is fictional. The salt plant's cancellation was a Mexican affair. The less globally romantic but far more accurate version of the tale goes like this: Latin America's most prominent environmentalist, Homero Aridjis, brings a faulty environmental assessment report to the attention of the Mexican press. A sympathetic Cabinet minister declares the document illegal. A half-decade of bureaucratic wrangling ensues, and the plant is ultimately canceled by presidential decree.
This wouldn't be the first time First World people took credit for Third World struggles. And this wouldn't be the first time events of an isolated, local nature were ascribed momentous historical portent.