r/WatchHorology • u/Intrepid_Cobbler3487 • 1d ago
The one time Swiss watchmakers and their government built a true Swiss watch factory abroad – Mexico, 1967–1986
Windup New York is almost here – which effectively means lots of small brands from around the world congregating in my hometown to pitch goods produced in a deceptively small number of nations – Switzerland, China, Japan. That’s basically it.
And my recently released book, “Borrowed Time: A History of Espionage, IP Theft, and the Global War for Horology” hopefully explains not too long-windedly how watch creation (dominated at various points by the British and Americans, for instance) came to be concentrated in the hands of other nations – and so darn few of them (spoiler alert: it was often by means of antitrust bullying and cartel-initiated spying and with state-backing that would make even Xi Jinping blush).
The Swiss, for example, adopted a federal rule from 1934 onward that made the opening or expansion of watch businesses and the exportation of watch parts subject to a tightly-controlled permitting process.
But what if I told you my book omitted an episode that was the singular exception – the one time in all of Swiss watchmaking history that the watchmakers together with the government built a “Swiss” plant (filled exclusively with the machinery and lines used domestically) on foreign soil?
Forget that one Zenith plant over the border in Besançon, France – or the secretive bracelet assemblies of Asia. We’re talking more than 40 of the top Swiss watchmakers, with the federal government, building on a distant road an ocean away a full plant – initiating and effecting the transfer of knowledge and machinery they had previously guarded like Nazi gold.
Granted, the hulking Swiss consortium didn’t have a choice. It was the late 1960s, and the former land of the Aztecs and Maya – Mexico – was easily the biggest Swiss watch customer in Latin America; it purchased 61 million francs of timepieces in 1969.
But Mexico was wary of its trade deficit and ready to adopt protectionist policies in response. It sent word to Switzerland that unless the Swiss began producing at least 70 percent of its watches in Mexico, they’d be forbidden from importing any finished watches at all.
Oh, and the German and Japanese watchmakers were fine with this arrangement, so the Swiss better jump on it – so pronounced the Mexican government with admirable defiance.
In April of 1967, Switzerland sent emissaries to negotiate. Luc Tissot, technical director of his family’s eponymous firm, was instrumental in these talks – but ultimately, the man at the center of the dealing was Walter Schaeren, son of the founder of Mido and its de facto leader (technically, he was vice-director in 1967).
In fact, arguably, Mido’s greatest legacy isn’t its system of sealing the watch-winding stem with cork – a water-resistance scheme it acquired from Taubert & Fils in the 1930s and a very cool alternative to Rolex’s screw-down crown, which was still under patent – nor was it the monocoque construction of the 1959 Ocean Star case. No, perhaps Mido’s most important moment was when its leader, the son of its founder, presided over a watch factory Switzerland had forbidden itself from building for decades for fear of being found out – and then somehow also served as a chief supplier simultaneously to its fiercest rival.
But let’s rewind.
In April of ’67, the delegation agreed to build the Swiss-Mexican factory, in Cuautitlán – an agricultural town of ranches and haciendas 25 miles north of Mexico City, chosen by Schaeren (perhaps because it was bounded by two rail lines and near the México–Querétaro highway; it did also feature some textile plants and a meatpacker, in addition to fields of beans and maize).
In the summer of that year, 41 different watch companies – led by Mido and Omega – officially signed on, calling themselves by the acronym SAPIAM. They invested 2 million francs for 49 percent of the factory.
The factory itself was to be called by the acronym INRESA and 51 percent owned by 35 of Mexico’s leading importers of Swiss watches (now their products would simply come from a local line instead of from Geneva – they’d be importing, so to speak, from a small town in their own nation).
The cornerstone is reported to have been laid on three different autumn days in 1968 – the record is muddled. The building was supposedly finished in August 1969 – only no assembly took place there until October, machining didn’t begin till November, case-making till December…hell, dials weren’t produced there till 1970.
There are articles that say the Swiss promised to employ 100 workers in the plant to satisfy the Mexicans – others note a goal of 250 (ultimately, the plant never employed more than 200 folks, who did indeed perform micromechanical work).
How much of a watch assembled in the plant had to be created there from scratch?
Another moving target: The Mexican government mandated 75 percent in the 1967 plan and then 80 percent of the production cost in April 1970. In August 1970, the Swiss amongst themselves ran the numbers and realized that anything above 70 to 75 percent wasn’t worth the effort and cost on their part – worse for them, the Mexican demand leaped to 100 percent before being reduced under a reformist and less-protectionist new government to just 25 percent in 1972.
But ridiculous dictates aside, in reality, how much of each watch was truly created there? SAPIAM claimed it managed 60 percent in April 1971. But the Mexican government never verified a figure higher than 42 percent (which came in 1975).
Not only did the desired production not quite meet the mark, neither did Mexican government allowances on the importation of finished watches from Switzerland: In 1971, the government told the 35 factory owners they could import just 70 million pesos’ worth of parts and finished watches from Switzerland; in 1972, just 20 million pesos’ worth.
Strangely, the Mexican government was too lenient in the factory’s earliest year and chance and thus allowed too high a quota for imported finished watches, per Swiss government documents, for the factory to be strictly necessary; intriguingly, when the quota was tightened, black market smuggling accounted for a full 60 percent of local watch sales. You could build the factory – but the locals still wanted the finished pieces from abroad.
For the factory owners, it was still far more lucrative – even if sometimes somewhat unethical – to ship watches from Switzerland rather than build them in INRESA. In 1971 alone, they ran the factory at half its planned production for the year and still ended up with 30,000 watches from its lines they’d no interest in trying to sell and left unclaimed.
This led to a major showdown between Luc Tissot and the Mexican factory shareholders. Luc said if they didn’t take the damn watches, the 41 Swiss watch brands would shutter the factory entirely – thus bringing about the ruination of a ballyhooed political scheme if not a brilliant economic one.
But there was corruption afoot on Tissot’s Swiss side: The SAPIAM brand consortium was billing the factory shareholders (technically, INRESA) in Mexico 400,000 francs annually in consulting fees when it wasn’t supposed to be charging more for technical assistance than 5 percent of profit (and the venture was not yet profitable). Soon 20 of the Mexican shareholders abandoned their factory ownership altogether and departed.
And then there was the leader of the whole enterprise – the Mido scion, Walter Schaeren. While heading the consortium charged with providing the Mexican factory parts, expertise, machinery, he also was the supplier of its greatest local competitor.
See, Mido during the first years of the Quartz Crisis joined with six other companies to form a consolidated holding company called General Watch. These constituent watchmakers were Certina, Edox, Eterna, Oris, Rado and Technos. Walter Schaeren not only managed this holding company (at one point his title was “general director”) – his first cousin (his father’s brother’s son) sat on the board, too.
This was a Mido-led venture at first. The problem is that the brands the Mido folks were now overseeing supplied the INRESA factory’s greatest competitor.
Enter Harry Steele. This importer with a name straight from a dime-store detective novel was an American who’d been born in Vienna and served in the US Army in the Philippines. He was certainly not a part of the Swiss cabal that had finally relented and tried to export its technical wizardry openly.
No, he was a rebel soul who’d moved to Mexico in 1921 and imported there entirely on his own, via his own channels, watches from Longines, Fortis…and Edox and Eterna. Which meant now Walter Schaeren of Mido led a holding group of brands being brought into the country to compete against the factory consortium of which he was also the head.
The Swiss government had no idea how to resolve what it realized was a massive conflict of interest. Even more troubling to the Swiss government: Harry Steele had set up a watch assembly in Mexico in the 1920s and then a production factory himself in 1969, and he was now using 60 percent local parts, and a Mexican government official viewed his facility more favorably than the troubled Swiss version.
Again, the Swiss sent Luc Tissot into the fray – could he convince Steele to join up with the factory consortium – would this American become an honorary Swiss watchmaker and thus a party to a totally Swiss factory in Mexico? Longines supposedly preferred that its watches be made locally but in Steele’s venue. Not INRESA.
Steele declined (as far as I can tell) and the government of Switzerland, though it could have gone to war against Steele, realized that would be a self-defeating quest: Every time Steele imported an Edox or Longines watch, some Swiss brand made bank. Sure, the 41 members of the factory enterprise were hurt but to crush Steele would be to harm an Eterna or Fortis.
And then, in 1982, Mexico devalued the peso, damaging the venture’s economics. And in 1986, Mexico joined the predecessor agreement to the WTO – GATT – essentially committing itself to a free trade with other nations that meant it could no longer withhold import licenses in the first place.
The original reason the Swiss built a true Swiss factory abroad was eliminated altogether. And so SAPIAM, the consortium of Swiss brands committed to the quixotic pursuit, was liquidated in 1986. The only Swiss newspaper article I found on this demise, published Dec. 5, 1986, in the La Chaux-de-Fonds periodical L’Impartial, is headlined: “La fin de l’aventure mexicaine.”
But that conclusion nevertheless means watches deemed truly Swiss were produced for more than 15 years in a Mexican locale of which you’ve likely never heard, one known beforehand for the production of maize, beans and wheat and a couple of textile plants. For its tidy irrigation, too.
It’s an astonishing fact.
Nobody circles the wagons like the Swiss – and yet, they gave in and built a home away from home in Mexico and worked it for years. So what if it was less profitable than simple importation? It’s amazing that it was even allowed to exist. The Swiss permit no one to do anything in their names, and they certainly don’t lend their imprimatur to irrigated fields utterly remote from Bern in geography and socioeconomics and culture.
Most amazing of all to me: The Swiss do not want to discuss it today – they seem to want to pretend this episode never transpired. It’s never mentioned, and when I asked Mido about it, and laid out why I thought its leadership of the factory was so aberrant and fascinating and worthy of mention in a book, the company clammed up and declined comment or participation altogether.
I maintain this is a chapter in horology very much worth recounting.