Carne viva

In Tijuana, on the Mexican border, men and women try to escape solitude and lurking death.
“Muerto (Death)… Muerto… Muerto!” David, the gringo, rolls the “r” of “Muerto” as he has been taught by his girlfriend, a local prostitute. “Muerrrto!” she screams… She then lifts up her skirt and urinates into a tinplate bucket while threatening David with a strange knife whose handle is made out of a few canine vertebrae. In Tijuana, it is said this knife was used for satanic masses in which dogs were sacrificed and drained of their blood; a little like the bloodless corpses of drug traffickers that Tijuana comes across each morning on the roadside. Tomorrow, the knife will again change hands to live another life. David the gringo, a cop, a bar girl and even the mayor, all of them – as if swept up by some musical piece played in a downtown brothel – take a few dance steps hugging this bone, which whispers in their ears that Tijuana is holy because it is free.