Culture : Enthronement or Election in Mexico? : E<i> l destape </i> tradition lets the president name his successor every six years. But that royal approach may be headed for a fall.

Even the august Fidel Velazquez, dean of the Mexican labor movement, venerable pillar of the long-dominant Institutional Revolutionary Party, says it’s time.

After more than six decades of national preeminence, Velazquez cautions, his beloved party must belatedly begin choosing its presidential candidates in a more democratic fashion--perhaps even adopting U.S.-style political conventions.

“Political times have changed,” the 93-year-old labor czar--not exactly a wild-eyed radical--told reporters last week.

While party insiders tended to dismiss the old warrior’s pronouncements--”You have to take Don Fidel’s comments with a grain of salt,” one young technocrat sniffed--Velazquez touched a nerve.

El destape (literally, “the unveiling”), that hallowed icon of Mexican political culture that has efficiently churned out future presidents every six years for more than half a century, may be experiencing its last hurrah.

This is traditionally the season when President Carlos Salinas de Gortari should be “unveiling” his choice to become the ruling party’s candidate in next year’s national elections. Because the party--known by its Spanish acronym as the PRI--has won every presidential contest since its creation in 1929, el destape in practice has meant that incumbents, limited to one six-year term, have the privilege of naming their successors.

It is a prerogative more characteristic of a medieval monarchy than a supposed democracy. All would-be successors are beholden to presidential caprice.

So peculiar is the myth-shrouded, long-inviolate rite of succession that it has its own vocabulary and scholarship.

Traditionally, the would-be candidates-- los encapuchados (“the hooded ones”)--maintain a studied public aloofness from the fray until the president designates his choice. And then only the winner emerges publicly.

For generations, el destape has served as a kind of recurring national soap opera. In a nation lacking a tradition of competitive national elections, it is the drama of el destape that has provided political theater.

Along with national diversion, the practice has brought distress for the majority who are inevitably passed over--the ones who aren’t on the receiving end of the president’s pointed dedazo (“big finger”).

Losing out often signals the humiliating end of public life for would-be candidates and their coterie of aides, all of whom have inevitably staked their careers on their mentors’ potential ascendancy to the ultimate post in Mexican politics. In a cutthroat game with no second place, the aftermath can be brutal.

“It is not a very edifying spectacle,” Lorenzo Meyer, a well-known political historian and columnist, noted recently in the newspaper El Financiero International. “The majority of Mexicans . . . are merely spectators of a process over which we do not have the slightest control even though it will, in good measure, determine our collective political future.”

Ostensibly, party leaders agree on a consensus candidate after broad consultations. When the time comes for el destape, a key party functionary typically discloses the candidate’s name amid great solemnity. Leaders then rubber-stamp the selection, all agreeing that the best man (for it is always a male, and he is always the best one) has been found after an arduous search.

But the facade of consensus conceals a privately acknowledged truth: It is the president alone who makes the final call.

That’s not to say that the chief executive fails to seek counsel from party wise men and others. Indeed, with the prospect of Mexican presidential contests becoming more competitive--Salinas was elected in 1988 by a bare majority amid charges of fraud--it is essential that the candidate have the confidence of party loyalists who get out the vote and that he display some charisma on the campaign trail.

Six years ago, faced with a troubling “democratic current” within the party, then-President Miguel de la Madrid began to open up the destape regimen. Six “pre-candidates” including Salinas--then a somewhat-obscure budget and planning wonk not considered among the top two contenders--were named publicly and tasked with strutting their stuff before the party’s many interest groups.

The ensuing pasarela (“catwalk”) was a fiasco. The ever-present political infighting, always intense but usually suppressed, intensified and sometimes spilled into the public realm. Dignified it was not.

It is generally believed that De la Madrid pointed to Salinas as the aide judged best able to carry out the nation’s desperately needed economic reforms. But, as always with destape , precise reasons are obscure.

This year, six more “pre-candidates” have emerged, all key aides to Salinas. Most, like their Harvard-trained boss, sport fashionable U.S. degrees--an almost-sure sign of membership in Mexico’s elite.

Custom dictates that none publicly acknowledges his interest in the post; that would be a breach of protocol, and potentially fatal to one’s electoral hopes.

Luis Donaldo Colosio, the Social Development secretary who is considered the current front-runner, smiled tensely and continued shaking hands when, during a recent trip to the countryside with the president, curious observers asked him how the “campaign” was going.

Presidential wanna-bes must dance a delicate two-step: projecting an image of leadership-in-waiting while simultaneously ingratiating themselves with their would-be benefactor.

“Prospective candidates are forced to play the part of pale reflections of the presidential image,” wrote Meyer, who speaks of the “politics of humiliation.”

Indeed, conventional wisdom has it that presidents eschew those perceived as peers in favor of more obsequious son-figures. That scenario currently poses quite a challenge, because all six pre-candidates, like Salinas, are in their 40s. (Indeed, Salinas’ selection six years ago signaled a generational shift in Mexican power.)

The lively press enthusiastically chronicles every step in the process as if it were a championship chess match. Commentators chortle about the blunders and commendations of the hopefuls, duly noting public appearances, overseas trips, gaffes and other indicators. Hooded figures are a staple for biting caricaturists.

Currently, there is much speculation that one leading aspirant--Manuel Camacho Solis, the mayor of Mexico City and a longtime Salinas confidante--is too much a presidential peer and therefore negotiating a treacherous path. Yet he has also developed an admirable reputation as an able conciliator and administrator.

Traditionalists reportedly distrust Camacho and favor Colosio, a former national party chairman. To many, Colosio is seen as being groomed for the presidency, overseeing Salinas’ pet “Solidarity” program--a massive public works initiative.

Education Secretary Ernesto Zedillo, a budget whiz with a doctorate from Yale, didn’t help his cause when revised national textbooks produced on his watch sparked an outcry of criticism.

Treasury Secretary Pedro Aspe Armella, the favorite of the influential banking community, must overcome an unfortunate sobriquet, “Hood Robin”--backward, just like his alleged practice of taking from the poor to give to the rich.

On the other hand, Aspe’s impeccable fiscal reputation abroad is a distinct advantage at a time when the nation is desperate for international investment. Indeed, the specter of the North American Free Trade Agreement has hovered over this year’s destape, injecting additional uncertainty.

When the ruling party announced last week that it is postponing el destape until January, many immediately assumed the delay was designed to buy some time until the pact’s fate is decided in Washington.

With Salinas’ prestige and the nation’s economic blueprint on the line, many believe that the free trade pact’s future will greatly influence whether the president is free to select a perceived maverick (like Camacho), or must opt for more predictable continuity (Colosio or Aspe).

In truth, though, much of this “analysis” belongs in the tenuous category of informed speculation. And the only person who really knows--Salinas--isn’t telling.

Musical Chairs?

Only President Carlos Salinas de Gortari knows which of these six men will succeed him. Meanwhile, speculation is rampant.