The rise of Jesus Malverde reveals a downside of Mexico's drug war

By David Agren
The News

Six months ago, Cesar Moreno was flat broke. His paycheck was already three days overdue. Desperate and hungry, he visited a sidewalk shrine in the Colonia Doctores dedicated to Jesús Malverde, the patron saint of narcotics traffickers, where he asked for a miracle. While walking home, he stumbled upon a 100-peso note.

"It wasn't much ... but it was something," he recalled while clutching a green candle during a monthly celebration at a Mexico City Malverde shrine.

Today, Moreno regularly prays to the figure. Dressed in western clothing with pale skin, a full mustache and a thick shock of dark hair, Malverde is a pseudo saint beloved by some of Mexico's most unsavory characters.

Moreno is one of a growing number of believers in Malverde, a stagecoach bandit, who supposedly carried out his misdeeds in the hills of Sinaloa a century ago. In spite of his notorious handle – the patron saint of narcotics traffickers – or perhaps even because of it, Malverde's appeal has spread in recent years from the narco heartland of northwestern Mexico and spilled into the nation's capital, immigrant communities in the United States.

The surge in Malverde's prominence coincides with an escalation in drug-related violence in Mexico, which claimed more than 2,500 lives during 2007. Since taking office, President Felipe Calderon has sent more than 30,000 federal troops and policemen to various states throughout the country to crack down on organized crime.

Experts say Malverde's rise to prominence is no coincidence, directly attributing Malverde's appeal to the growing influence of the drug business and the culture that surrounds it.

"The phenomenon of Malverde has been promoted in other parts of Mexico thanks to narcotics traffickers. There's no other explanation for this," said César López, a history professor at the University of Guadalajara.

"Narcotics trafficking is a growing industry in this country and the saint's popularity has been growing along with it," he said.

In a country where drug culture has spawned celebrities, perhaps Malverde's popularity really isn't that surprising.  Sandra Avila Beltran, otherwise known as "La Reina del Pacifico," was known to dine in some of Mexico City's swankiest restaurants. Before her 2007 arrest – the cops tracked her down through her usual eating haunts – her rise to power in the male-dominated world of drug-trafficking had created a cult of personality embraced by feminists around the country.

Narcocorridos,  a subgenre of Nortena music featuring lyrics about kidnappings, drug deals and local narco bosses, are sold in markets throughout the nation's most drug-plagued states.  Various YouTube sites are dedicated to drug-traffickers like "Chapo" Guzman. Just as gang culture is celebrated by some in the United States,  narcos are increasingly admired by many in Mexico.

But the Malverde phenomenon currently appears to be in a league of its own.

For one, it has become big business. Guadalajara brewery Cervecería Minerva recently launched a pilsner with the label, "Malverde," and a chain of "kitsch" bars in the capital region has adopted the unofficial saint's name. (The Condesa branch features one of his busts inside.) Malverde's entered the art world too: a Malverde-inspired piece won acclaim at a recent national exhibition. Even the Mexican military has placed a Malverde bust in its Mexico City museum.

THE FAITHFUL
Most Malverde followers insist he isn't just for narcos. Alberto Jiménez, a vendor in the Mercado Sonora – a hub for witchcraft-related items, dubious miracle cures and folk saints unrecognized by the Catholic Church - said Malverde images began appearing at the market about five years ago and became popular with people going through rough spells.

"Jesús Malverde is who you turn to when things are tough," the market veteran explained. Jiménez, like many Malverde followers, acknowledged the narco saint's murky background as a bandit, who, like Robin Hood, reputedly stole from the rich and gave to the poor. And while most adherents also identify themselves as Catholics and profess a belief in the Virgin of Guadalupe, few express misgivings about Malverde's unrecognized status as a saint.

"[The Catholic Church] doesn't like him," said Sabino Martínez, a musician playing guitar at the shrine, who referred to Malverde as "a saint for the poor.

"They won't make a saint out of someone who robbed to help the poor."

Thief or not, no solid proof of Malverde's existence has ever surfaced, although his image resembles famed actor and Sinaloa native Pedro Infante.

THE MAN MALVERDE
The story has it that Malverde was born JesúsJuárez in 1870 and was hanged from a tree on May 3, 1909. His legend, however, lives on, especially in Sinaloa, a western state with a long coastline, some of Mexico's most abundant agricultural regions and a rugged sierra. Sinaloa officially lives for agriculture and the state license plate boasts an image of a tomato. But with the advent of marijuana and other smuggling activities, Malverde's fame grew throughout the state.

"He might not have existed before, but he sure exists now," said James Griffith, a retired University of Arizona professor and expert on Mexican folk saints.

A shrine built in Malverde's honor was moved in the 1970s, but only in order to accommodate the construction of a new state legislature. Maps provided by the Culicacán tourism board give directions to the new shrine. Outside, vendors hawk Malverde trinkets – wallets, key chains and pendants. Bands milling around the exterior play narcocorridas.

Inside, people wait patiently to enter a dimly-lit central room adorned with wood paneling and red carpeting that houses a venerated Malverde bust, which most followers kneel in front of and gingerly touch with an outstretched hand.

The narco saint's adherents fail to fit any one stereotype, according to an elderly woman named Doña Tere, a long-time vendor, peddling Malverde paraphernalia-like busts, necklaces and belt-buckles in a corner.

"All sorts of people come here ... famous people, important people, poor people [and] rich people," she said, pulling out a stack of photos featuring banda musicians and famous actors who had paid a visit.

Some followers leave Polaroid photos taken at the shrine. Others leave notes. Consider one from Daniel, Alejandro and Miguel. "Jesús Malverde, help us with our objective and care for us on this road we have chosen and permit us to return to give thanks for our fortune and health," wrote the trio.

Those returning with cash sometimes pay for plaques, which speak of "favors received" and "success in business." Visitors also leave behind donations that fund the shrine, charity projects like burials for those who lack money and an annual party on May 3. At the bash, bands play narcocorridos and the attendees are showered with giveaways, including toys and household items.

A similar, but lower-key scene plays out at the Colonia Doctores shrine on the third day of each month, when some 30 to 70 adherents gather. At dusk, a life-size statue of Malverde – with a noose around its neck and dollar bill tucked in its shirt pocket – is loaded into a pickup truck for a spin around Doctores, a tough barrio known for chop shops and Arena Mexico, home of the Lucha Libre.

María Alicia Pulido Sánchez erected the shrine last fall after her teenage son recovered from an automobile accident more quickly than expected. She turned to Malverde at the recommendation of a friend. But with growing commercialization, it's not only the disenfranchised who are turning to Malverde. Fresas, or snobs, are increasingly indulging in the naco – the tacky or low class, side of Mexico's popular culture.

At Bar Malverde in Mexico City's hip Colonia Condesa the house specialty is an 80-peso Martini Malverde, a mix of vodka, melon liqueur, Cointreau and lime juice.

Apparently ignoring narco-saint Malverde's bust right next to him on the bar, bartender Luis Mondragón insisted the name "isn't about glorifying narcos."

Cervecería Minerva, which leveraged the narco saint's name, branding its newest pilsner "Malverde," claims that sales are doing well.

Malverde was mostly unknown outside of Northwestern Mexico a decade ago, according to sales manager Alejandro Orozco, but now he's "known by everyone." He attributed Malverde's popularity to the national trend of embracing "kitschy" things rather than the tendency to glorify criminals.

But he did compare his brewery's feting of Malverde to marketing efforts north of the border that have leveraged the notoriety of gangster Al Capone and other nefarious characters.

"[Malverde] isn't just liked by narcos, but by honorable people too," he said.

The Legend of Jesus Malverde, Patron 'Saint' of Narco Traffickers, Grows in Mexico

The Legend of Jesus Malverde, Patron 'Saint' of Narco Traffickers, Grows in Mexico

David Agren | Bio | 28 Jun 2007
World Politics Review Exclusive

MEXICO CITY -- Alejandro Ruiz Rodriguez, a Mexico City law student, lost a stack of important legal documents last year. Despite searching everywhere imaginable, they never turned up. As a last resort, he asked Jesus Malverde, an unofficial saint beloved by narcotics traffickers, for intervention. Inexplicably, the documents surfaced shortly thereafter.

"I don't know if it was just by chance or if Jesus Malverde was responsible," the 26-year-old said at a monthly gathering of Malverde adherents in Mexico City.

"Either way, I'm here every month to give thanks . . . it was absolutely miraculous."

Like an increasing number of Mexicans, Ruiz believes in the legend of Jesus Malverde, a mustachioed bandit from the hills of Sinaloa state that, like Robin Hood, reputedly stole from the rich and gave to the poor until his death by hanging in 1909. Narcotics traffickers claim him as their own and donate heavily to maintain a shrine in Culiacan, the capital of Sinaloa, a western state notorious for smuggling activities and home to a powerful drug cartel of the same name. Even with narcotics-cartel violence flaring across Mexico, Malverde's legend is growing and seeping into the broader popular culture. In addition to the Culiacan shrine, a smaller shrine was recently built on a sidewalk in Mexico City's tough Doctores neighborhood. A martini bar in the capital's chic Condesa district adopted the narco saint's name and a piece inspired by Malverde recently won acclaim at a major art fair.

In Doctores, Maria Alicia Pulida Sanchez, who makes a modest living by running a mom-and-pop store, erected the Malverde shrine after her teenage son recovered from an automobile accident more quickly than expected -- something she credited to her praying to the unofficial saint, who she insisted "wasn't a narco.

"He was a thief, but at the same time, he was a thief who helped his community," she said.

Like Robin Hood, "He was a thief who would steal from the rich and give to the poor."

As dusk fell on a quiet Sunday in Mexico City's Colonia Doctores, a group of men in blue jeans loaded a life-size statue of Jesus Malverde along with a similar statue of San Judas, the patron saint of lost causes, into the bed of a Ford pickup truck for a spin around the neighborhood. On the third day of every month, some 30 to 70 adherents gather at the sidewalk shrine to pay homage to the bandit-turned-unofficial saint, whom they attribute miracles to and in many cases ask for intervention.

A similar scene is carried out in Culiacan on a regular basis at the Jesus Malverde shrine, which stands near the state legislature and a McDonald's restaurant and appears on maps distributed by the municipal tourism board. On May 3, the supposed anniversary of Malverde's death, the shrine throws a party complete with banda groups playing narcocorridos -- songs glorifying narcotics traffickers -- and despensas (giveaways) of food, household items and toys. Throughout the year, the shrine reportedly funds charity projects -- like paying funeral expenses for those lacking money. According to some of the shrine's visitors, narco donations underwrite almost everything.

"Narcos pretty much sponsor this place," said Alfredo Aguilar, a sugar cane farmer from rural Sinaloa.

Like many at the shrine, he insisted Malverde was for all people -- not just narcos.

"All sorts of people come here . . . famous people, important people, poor people, rich people," said Doña Tere, an elderly woman, hawking Malverde busts at the shrine.

Visitors to the Malverde shrine often leave Polaroid photos with pithy notes. Wealthier visitors, including some from the United States, sometimes pay for permanent plaques, which usually give thanks for "favors received" and "success in business."

Drawing on Malverde's notoriety is now becoming a good business for entrepreneurs beyond Sinaloa. The Malverde Bar in Mexico City attracts the fresa crowd (young monied set) with $7 martinis and an ambiance drawn from the tacky side of Mexican pop culture. Bartender Luis Mondragon insisted, "This place isn't about glorifying narcos."

Beyond the trend of Mexican youth indulging the naco (low class) side of their pop culture, researcher Arturo Navarro Ramos of the ITESO university in Guadalajara described most of Malverde's followers as marginalized people.

"He makes it possible to live life on the margins," he said, pointing to narcotics traffickers as prime examples.

"Malverde facilitates the view that people can be saved while not giving up their improper activities."

Due to the sketchy accounts of Malverde's life -- even details of his death are disputed -- Navarro figured Malverde would never be recognized as an official saint by the Catholic Church, which only in the past few years promised to start better scrutinizing the sources of large donations that may or may not be coming from narcotics traffickers.

Regardless of Malverde's shady reputation, law student Alejandro Ruiz Rodriguez, who insists he'd never engage in illegal activities, said he would be returning to the Doctores shrine every month.

"It's pure faith," he commented.

And now: Malverde beer

Jesus Malverde inspires an odd following; he's better known as the patron saint of narcos. He's also fairly popular in Sinaloa, a state notorious for narcotics trafficking, but lately he's been creeping into the country's broader popular culture. In Mexico City's trendy Condesa neighborhood, a bar named for the unofficial saint opened recently. And now Cerveceria Minerva, a Zapopan-based microbrewery just registered the label: Malverde. There's nothing like cashing in on the cachet of a notorious figure, something Minerva's head brewer acknowledged in an interview with the Mural newspaper.

Cerveceria Minervia makes great craft beer - something rare in Mexico, where the big two breweries have a stranglehold on the market and hawk rather watery suds. Thus, this offering should be good - even if the name is a bit naco.

The low-rent correspondent goes "naco"

A DJ friend in Mexico City commented recently that "the style in Mexico is to be naco (slang for tacky or lacking taste) ." The Malverde bar in La Condessa would be a prime example. Named for Jesus Malverde, the patron saint of narcotics traffickers, the bar sells a 75-peso "Martini Malverde" along with a heaping dose of all things kitch - lucha libre figurines, raunchy comic-book pages covering the table tops and Virgin of Guadalupe icons. Of course, it's a voyeuristic and pricey experience and not the real thing - there are plenty of cantinas and pulque bars for that - but it's damn good fun.

3 de mayo: a day for bricklayers, journalists and the patron saint of narcos

Everyone in Mexico is feted for at least one day on the calendar and on May 3, albañiles (bricklayers) receive their due. Additionally, the country observes press freedom day - a rather grim event in 2007 - and up in Culiacan, Sinaloa, a bizarre mix of narcos and the clases populares (working classes) celebrated the unremarkable life of Jesus Malverde, the patron saint of narcotics traffickers, who was reputedly hanged on May 3, 1909.

Santa Muerte offers hope to those on the fringes of society

By David Agren
The News

Alberto Jiménez considers himself a good Catholic.

The third-generation vendor at Mexico City’s Mercado Sonora, where stalls hawk everything from miracle herbal cures to witchcraft paraphernalia, believes in the Virgin of Guadalupe, Mexico’s patron saint. He also professes a liking for San Judas Tadeo, the patron saint of lost causes.

But perhaps more strongly than any other saint, Jiménez believes deeply in Santa Muerte, or Saint Death, a scythe-wielding skeletal figure that is not recognized by the Catholic Church as a saint.

“She isn’t a sacred figure for the Catholic Church, but for people that believe in her, Santa Muerte is sacred,” Jiménez said.

The Archdiocese of Mexico urged Catholics to reject Santa Muerte and has branded the figure as dangerous. And the Interior Secretariat still refuses to officially recognize a Santa Muerte-centered church, despite members’ recent efforts to make her appearance more angelic and less skeletal.

Yet despite the objections, Santa Muerte’s popularity has grown throughout Mexico in recent years – Director Paco del Toro, who in September released a the fictional movie “La Santa Muerte,” estimated she has two million followers nationwide.

And according to experts, those followers are most likely to be people who have been marginalized by the greater society or who operate outside of the law.

Death has been an accepted theme in Mexican culture dating back to pre-Hispanic times – the colorful Día de los Muertos festivities each November being perhaps the most vivid example.

But according to Sylvia Gutiérrez, an anthropologist at the Universidad Iberoamericana, the Santa Muerte phenomenon began much more recently – in the 1980s, and among prison populations. Then, as the inmate adherents were released, Santa Muerte worship expanded into the larger society.

“It began spreading and is now often found in poor barrios, where the locals sell drugs or produce pirated products,” Gutiérrez said.

Pilgrims to Tepito

Tepito, a run-down area in the capital’s historic center famous for its street markets brimming with pirated and stolen merchandise, serves as a sort of Mecca for Santa Muerte followers.

Vendors in the barrio, the setting for sociologist Oscar Lewis’s classic work on urban poverty “The Children of Sánchez,” peddle bootlegged CD’s, yet-to-be released Hollywood blockbusters and porno flicks, as well as stolen merchandise ranging from car parts to designer handbags. Legend has it Tepito has been the domain of outlaws since Aztec times, and a commonly told joke in Mexico City advises robbery victims to search Tepito’s markets for their missing belongings.

Tepito is also home to a popular Santa Muerte shrine, which sits outside a simple home. On the first day of every month, the shrine fills with followers who come bearing statuettes of the gruesome saint.

Some who arrive via the Metro subway system pass by a stall operated by Rocio Hernández, where they purchase chocolate coins, pink marshmallows, cigarettes and red apples dipped in honey and cinnamon. The items are then left as offerings in front of the Santa Muerte statues that line Calle Alfarería, the street leading to the shrine.

Hernández, a non-believer who acknowledged a purely economic interest in the death saint, also sells Santa Muerte candles, lotion and perfume, which adherents spray on their statuettes as they wait patiently for their turn to enter the small shrine. Others splash the figurines with liquor, and one follower placed a lit cigar in the mouth of his life-sized statue.

While much of Santa Muerte’s popular with current and former lawbreakers, not all who come to the Tepito shrine are seeking spiritual assistance for nefarious activities. Many are simply looking for intervention in their daily lives, Hernández said.

Followers often dress their figurines in colors corresponding to the type of help they are seeking. White generally represents spirituality and requests for protection, while red represents love and yellow or gold is used to attract wealth.

Black, however, is for harming an adversary.

Gloria Franco, a hairdresser from the Doctores neighborhood, stopped to buy an apple for her Santa Muerte figure. She said she hoped the apple would absorb the bad vibes that had been plaguing her salon.

Franco turned to Santa Muerte for help after police officers detained her son several years ago for what she believed to be dubious reasons. The youth spent some time in a holding cell before he was released without harm, which Franco attributed to Santa Muerte, whom she had discovered by chance on a trip to Tepito.

Borders and barrios

Beyond Tepito, Santa Muerte shrines have popped up in other parts of the Federal District, including three in Doctores, according to Franco. The saint’s appeal has also spread to the northern border region, where both migrants and drug runners ask her for help before crossing illegally into the United States.

In recent years, elaborate shrines dedicated to Santa Muerte have sprouted up along the lonely highways leading toward the border.

“It’s the narcos that are putting up the money for the roadside chapels,” said James Griffith, a retired University of Arizona folklore professor and author of the book “Folk Saints of the Borderlands.”

U.S. immigration officials report noticing an increased number of smugglers bearing images or tattoos of the Santa Muerte.

“Often times when we bust a smuggled load, we’ll see a Santa Muerte image,” said Vincent Picard, a spokesman for U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) in Phoenix.

Despite Santa Muerte’s increased popularity in Northern Mexico, many narcotics dealers still believe strongly in Jesús Malverde, a pseudo saint that reputedly stole from the rich and gave to the poor a century ago in Sinaloa.

The Catholic Church has condemned the worship of both Malverde and Santa Muerte, but that hardly matters to Julia Huerta, a resident of the capital’s gritty, working-class Ixtapalapa neighborhood. She still brings her meter-tall Santa Muerte statue to Tepito every month.

“The [Catholic] Church asks you for money. The Mormons ask you for money. The [evangelicals] ask you for money,” she said. “Santa Muerte doesn’t ask for anything, only what you want to give.”

Like many Santa Muerte followers, Huerta attributes miracles to the unofficial saint, whom she discovered eight years ago after kidnappers abducted her son. She credits Santa Muerte for his safe return, although he was both beaten and robbed.

Ironically, said Gutiérrez, the Iberoamericana researcher, many kidnappers also request intervention from Santa Muerte.

“She protects those that fall into the hands of kidnappers, along with the kidnappers too,” she said.

Many Santa Muerte followers also believe in the Virgin of Guadalupe, but Gutiérrez said that for people working in the informal economy – essentially outside of the law – Santa Muerte covers large parts of their lives that official saints can’t.

“You have the Virgin of Guadalupe to help you with the part of your life that’s regulated, but in addition, Santa Muerte helps you with things that are outside of that,” she said.

Tourist tragedies do not reflect the true Mexico

Photo by Steven H. Miller


Here's the dispatch from Ajijic, published in today's Calgary Herald: http://www.canada.com/calgaryherald/news/story.html?id=e1080d06-0d51-448d-88cf-24a14cf34a0b

Tourist tragedies do not reflect the true Mexico

David Agren, For the Calgary Herald

Published: Friday, May 18, 2007

Chris Wilshere left Toronto several years back for an orchestra job in the sweltering heat of Culiacan, Mexico, a prosperous state capital north of Mazatlan famous for a baseball team called the Tomateros (Tomato Growers) and a shrine to Jesus Malverde, the patron saint of narcotics traffickers.

Some of his colleagues never understood his motives for heading south, but he found a steady paycheque, appreciative audiences for classical music and a pretty young lawyer, whom he married six months ago.

He now promotes one of Western Mexico's largest music festivals, which showcases young Canadian talent.

Wilshere lives in a "glorified dust bowl" that even Mexicans consider dodgy. Narco-gang violence flares often.

Virtually everyone can recount stories of their brushes with narcos -- like the Hummer dealership employee who witnessed someone paying for three new vehicles with a thick wad of cash.

While acknowledging, "Mexico doesn't come without its problems," he considers his adopted home "safe" and expresses few misgivings about his personal security.

"I think that as First World (residents) we get paranoid over the tiniest, insignificant things that may threaten our health or safety."

Before arriving in Culiacan, Wilshere initially began visiting Ajijic (pronounced: Ah-hee-heek), a sedate lakeside village near Guadalajara, where his grandmother had retired. Ajijic attracts Canadian retirees in droves with its perpetual spring-like climate, access to good health care and affordable prices. (Property tax bills run about $100 per year.)

Canadian licence plates are ubiquitous, a Canadian Club chapter meets monthly and a local supermarket peddles Moosehead beer for $3.25 a six-pack.

Ajijic is one of the largest enclaves of Canadians outside of Canada.

The Canadian Embassy in Mexico City estimates some 8,000 expatriates winter in the region.

Approximately 3,000 Canadians live there year round, although with high-speed Internet, VoIP phones and satellite TV, many closely follow affairs back home.

And what they're seeing nowadays -- a spate of tourist misfortune stories -- dismays virtually everyone, including Dan McTavish, the former Canadian Club president in Ajijic.

"Everyone down here can watch City TV, which they get through their satellite systems, and see crime and shootings back in Toronto," he comments.

Crime happens in Ajijic too. A Vancouver man in a neighbouring municipality was shot dead in late 2005 for unknown reasons, although rumours abound about a water dispute. A London, Ont., couple was struck in a January hit-and-run -- an incident that reportedly happened after an evening of drinking.

The story made the front-page of a national newspaper -- as if such calamities never happen in Canada.

The incidents unfortunately blemish Ajijic and Mexico's image, but hardly sour any Canadians on their adopted country, which is generally placid -- spare parts of the northern border region -- and populated by law-abiding people.

Many Canadians express feelings of hurt and embarrassment over the provincial viewpoints streaming out of Canada these days, along with the eagerness to malign Mexico for tourist tragedies that often stemmed from irresponsible or disrespectful behaviour.

"I can't help but feel (these are) individual situations that the media have run to sell papers," says Allan Rose, the former honorary Canadian consul in Guadalajara and a 20-year Ajijic resident.

Rose was consul during NAFTA's advent, a time when "Mexicans actually discovered where Canada was."

He frequently promoted Canada to Guadalajara-area universities and business organizations, which perhaps considered the diplomat "something of a novelty . . . a new-found interest."

Mexicans discovered Canada and now travel north in sizeable numbers for tourist and study excursions, but Canadians never reciprocated to the same degree.

"I'm personally aggrieved and hurt by some of these (negative) references," he says mournfully.

Rob Parker, a former Conservative MP living near Ajijic, also objects to the unflattering portrayals of Mexico, saying,

"If it were that dangerous, Canadians wouldn't be here."

Petty aggravations are rife in Mexico -- like early morning fireworks, discourteous drivers and abusive monopolies -- but it's a fascinating, complex and culturally rich country. Canadians here accept the shortcomings, even if they don't like them, and find it unnecessary and disrespectful to scold Mexicans for how they order their affairs. "It's their country to decide. It's our decision to live here," Parker says. "We like living here."