For the past 18 years, Enrique Acevedo Salas has sat himself at 8am every morning behind his small wooden writing desk in the historic centre of Mexico City. And waited for customers.
He's an "escribano" -- a professional letter writer, composing and typing all sorts of letters, both official and personal. "My work is that of a secretary and of a psychologist," he says.
Customers range from professors wanting something typed up quickly to ordinary folk wanting an official letter written.
A straightforward letter costs around 20 pesos (about US$2), but for long or complicated letters, Enrique often charges double.
Love letters cost 30 pesos.
The 41-year-old is a third generation letter writer. Enrique and his 71-year-old father have one of the oldest trades in the Mexican capital.
The writing desks of the escribanos have stood for more than 150 years in the Santo Domingo Square, a few blocks from the central Zocalo area.
Santo Domingo Square was once the throbbing heart of colonial Mexico. At the beginning of the 18th century, the Dominican monks erected their second magnificent monastery in the spacious square.
After Mexico gained its independence in 1821, the square lost its lustre as liquor sellers and other small tradesmen took over.
At the western side of the square, the first professional letter writers offered their services. Today, about 20 escribanos, including several young women, still tap away at their bulky typewriters.
Opposite, hand-printed cards offer "services catering for all writing needs, for weddings, christenings, birthdays". Those who ask will be shown forged university certificates.
The one-time impressive colonial buildings are now shabby and grey. The homeless sleep in the square and the archway seems to sag.
"Business has been slack for a couple of years," says Enrique. He winds blank paper into his typewriter only five or six times a day.
There are simply too many computers now. "Before, we had twice as many customers," he says.
Enrique's next customer haggles the price down. He dictates a few sentences of a letter to the Mexican President Vincente Fox.
Fox promised to help all the unemployed, and this man has been waiting for his hand-out for the past year. Three minutes later, the unemployed man leaves with a word-perfect letter of complaint.
A man with arms covered in tattoos pushes a few handwritten pages towards Enrique, asks him how long it will take, and clears off.
"Querido Amor -- My Love," the letter begins. The writer uses no commas or full stops, and many of the words are misspelt.
Enrique reads aloud to try to decipher the letter and sighs. "El pobrecito -- poor guy" he says as line after line lists proclamations of undying love.
"How lovely it would be to be always by your side and to make you as happy as it is possible to be in this life," reads the finished product. The customer returns, eyes concealed behind dark glasses.
Towards evening, about 4pm, Enrique makes his way home. An hour on the overcrowded underground takes him to Iztapalapa, one of the poorest and most dangerous neighborhoods in Mexico City.
RSS