At 7:30 in the morning, half an hour before the polls officially opened, a small line of voters had already formed at the polling station on the Cozumel boardwalk, between 7th and 11th avenues South. There were ten or twelve … people of all types and backgrounds, from the hardened diver in Bermuda shorts, barefoot, with a tattoo of Shiva on his arm and a surgical mask on his face with the symbolic flag of diving, to the taxi driver in a guayabera, a lifelong islander, or the Yucatecan cashier under the shadow of a black umbrella more typical of London than a tropical island. The sun, despite it not yet being eight in the morning, was already shooting the thermometer above 28 degrees and threatening to go above 32 under a relative humidity close to 70%.
To the left of the candidates to vote, the Caribbean, turquoise and indifferent, appeared flanked by imposing patrols of police and soldiers armed with submachine guns that pointed downward, as if they were not afraid of ending up shooting themselves in the foot… To their right , on the esplanade of the post office, a pair of enormous white awnings like tents sheltered the polling stations where a flow of accredited people assembled as best they could fragile plastic ballot boxes, foldable, disposable and supposedly recyclable, while others organized thick piles of ballots (they call them here) sheet-sized or they were delivered directly to the DIY, installing a kind of camping-like fitting room designed to hide the voter (up to the knee) behind some white laminated awnings that proclaimed the main motto in huge black letters. of the day: “The vote is free and secret.”
Free and secret, you can. But punctually, no. It was already eight thirty and they had not yet opened the polls, which did not manage to unnerve the spirits of the members of the queue, who were already over thirty… With a level of Caribbean stress close to absolute zero, the majority chatted animatedly with their neighbors as if the lack of political efficiency and the infernal heat were perfectly acceptable daily inclemencies. «Hello, Piliqui, how is your daughter, she’s grown up now? Oh, does she work? It’s good that she already settled in… »
At that time, Karina Morales, the person in charge of collecting each voter’s voter ID card, justified the delay with an unappealable excuse: “I’m sorry, we are newbies.” Dressed in an elastic T-shirt that proclaimed ‘Game over’, the morbid obesity of the charming Karina contrasted with her sweet smile. Mexico as a country also has something of that, a mixture of monstrosity and good vibes.
The first thing that surprises the European is that the long-suffering Mexican is made to vote so many times in a single day. In Cozumel this Sunday there were five translucent plastic ballot boxes where the gigantic ballot had to be inserted, with difficulty and folded into four parts. Each ballot box with a different color and its corresponding sign: Local Councils, City Council, Federal Councils, Senators and President. Little compared to the situation in states like Jalisco, where there were half a dozen ballot boxes.
As is customary in Mexico, once the vote was cast, each voter had the thumbprint of their right hand painted with an indelible ink marker to leave it marked and incapable of voting again… (at least for two days). ). Mexican social networks were filled this Sunday with photos with their thumbs up stained with ink. It was the way of reaffirming that in this troubled country, today divided and polarized like so many others, and where all kinds of incidents were recorded, the vote must continue to be free, secret… And, at least, in places like the Caribbean island from Cozumel, almost a party.
#Argentina
