I’d been to Mexico eight, maybe nine times, not counting border towns; spots like Puerto Vallarta, Manzanillo, Zihuatenejo, Oaxaca, and Cancun. I had seen the sprawling Federal District, Ciudad de Mexico, itself, only once, for about three hours. Yucatan-bound, facing a long layover, we’d hired a cab (charged $1.85 or so), requesting a rolling tour of the capital.
We’d glimpsed memorials to martyrs and revolutionaries, the opulence of the Zona Rosa, the squalor of the slums, elegant architecture and landscaping at Chapultepec Park, devastation from the most recent ferremoto. Reboarded Mexicana, escaped.
Now, however, I was assigned to spend four days there, attending an international trade conference, right after NAFTA had gotten ratified. New York-born, I’d lived and worked in a town of eight million. Forced often to visit L.A., whose environs counted at least as many. Taken two Tokyo trips, the metro area of which easily housed twice that.
A colleague told me right before departure, though, that Mexico City’s population currently stood at 24 million. Was he certain? Those were some serious numbers. The place had gotten so out of control, my co-worker reported, basureros (garbage dealers) offered “good” trash from better neighborhoods to unfortunates in the truly sorry sectors.
“Blade Runner flashbacks,” he recalled.
“In what way?”
“A really frightening vision of the future. When are you going? Not on Tuesday, I hope?”
“Why?”
“That’s Mardi Gras, man.”
“They have a carnival there, like New Orleans?”
“Sure, except with automatic weapons, high-test cactus juice, and heavy body-counts.”
“I’m flying the day after.”
“Ash Wednesday?”
“I guess.” Wasn’t raised Catholic.
“You should be okay. Don’t wear anything flashy — not that you’re the Rolex/pinky-ring type. Don’t take any leisurely evening strolls. And of course...act natural.”
“Real fan of the city, aren’t you?”
“It’s unique. There is a lot to see — got to make it to the Archaeology Museum, for instance. I’m not saying this to put the people down. Big welcome, without fail. But consider what happens in the labs when they force too many animals into a cage.”
Thus encouraged, I flew south. Remarkably, I arrived nearly on schedule, and my luggage had accompanied me.
I stepped out of the partially-cooled terminal, inhaling what passed for air in Mexico City, a humid concoction comprising sulfurous fumes and noxious, nitrogen-rich particulate compounds, constantly replenished by black bursts belching from vehicles that still burned leaded gas.
I chose a cab based on its more professionally-executed logo.
In childlike Spanish, I gave the driver our destination. As far as I could understand, he proposed we take a faster side route, rather than the congested highway. Waving agreement, I said he was the pro (or he had goat-legs, who knew?). A particularly grisly crucified-Jesus icon was lashed to his rear-view mirror.
He asked if I’d come for pleasure. Stifling a chuckle, I replied, no, strictly business. Nodding approval, he declared that Americans traveling to Mexico was always good, whatever the reason; the two countries ought to act as partners, not squabble like big and little brothers.
I attempted to express the notion that los Estados Unidos should respect Mexico more while exploiting it less. He shrugged, indicating either my brutal butchery of his language, or unwillingness to endorse some left-wing gringo’s political agenda.
Within minutes, at twilight, we had entered a beaten-down, failed industrial area, blown-out suspension offering no protection from ditches and massive potholes. Wondered how autos could endure days, much less years, of such torture.
My chofer was used to it, weaving down narrow alleys, past barely-surviving businesses, which specialized in mofles and tubos and obscure vulcanizing processes.
Suddenly, we were paralyzed, caught in the midst of an anarchic celebration. All around the taxi appeared costumed revelers — brujas, cadavers, hechiceros, esqueletos, jorobados, espectros, soldatos con piel de plata, aranas, sirenas, lagartos, lobos, arlequinos, y murcielagos — swarming and dancing, Surrounded by masked characters, immobilized by the ecstatic throng.
Only the smallest children were undisguised, and they peered through the cab windows. It had grown misty, and their faces — swam, yet I was the captive fish in this aquarium.
Coyotes and conquistadors launched black-powder missiles, charges powerful enough to thud within your chest. The situation looked like it could easily go anywhere. My driver seemed neither fearful nor festive. He exhibited nothing but ennui.
I asked if the partying extended throughout the city, or solely this barrio. What I took him to respond was that, “Where you go, it will follow you.” Like all fine rites and rituals.
He leaned hard on his horn, starting a slalom through raucous celebrants. Finally, we got onto an unobstructed street, mirth and menace behind us. My mind struggled to process what had just been presented. Meanwhile, sulfur and water conspired, firing up an acid burn among the bronchioles.
Interesting location, so far, I mused, reminding myself that two dozen million called it home.
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