Mexico danger discourse

Mexico and Mexico City have a bad reputation right now. No doubt about that. American media coverage, with titles like "the war next door," perpetuate the stereotype that Mexico is not a safe place when, in fact, sensationalized news stories usually refer to only a small, Northern part of Mexico, including the nefarious Ciudad Juarez. So how dangerous is Mexico City really?

In my opinion, the most serious crime a gringo may face in the city is a "fast-food kidnapping." This type of kidnapping occurs when you take a street cab. Once inside, the cabbie will drive you a few blocks, stop and pick up two or three armed men who then escort you from ATM to ATM to withdraw cash and possibly hold you overnight to keep playing the same game the next morning. Jewelry, cameras and other valuables (such as my acquaintance's computer, which was stolen at gunpoint after he hailed a street cab a few weeks ago) are also fair game.



While unpleasant, this process is not usually violent. Also, it seems to me that once aware of the danger, one can avoid this unfortunate adventure by not carrying around ATM cards and/or taking official cabs. Literature on the subject also suggests the number of street cab robberies has gone down. Hearsay in general indicates that the city is a much safer, more pleasant place than it was a decade ago.

Ah, but still. My American countrymen are, for the most part, wary of Mexico though according to a recent article in Reuters:

"The most common crime suffered by tourists in Mexico is robbery, while deaths are more likely to be attributed to a heart attack, drowning or falls from balconies."

Aiming for swimming pools from balconies can be tricky business when you have consumed a whole bottle of tequila in 5 minutes. Not having a heart attack on the way down is another battle, and even if you make it, you still have to worry about the whole drowning thing. As for robbery (or what I would call petty muggings), it is a potential problem but mainly in dodgy areas. Plus, this type of crime is endemic to urbanity, not Mexico City. Sure, you may also be robbed in any part of Mexico, especially tourist destinations, though I have yet to have this problem nor have I encountered others who have been robbed blind the second they enter, say, Acapulco. This again, is true anywhere the gringo goes. While I have not been robbed in Mexico, I did have have my phone pick pocketed in Rome. This turned out to be unfortunate, indeed, as the bloody thing was never properly replaced, and I put myself at the mercy of abandoned phones, mostly heavy square shapes from the 90's.

I have had my fair share of assaults and attempted/successful robberies in both Atlanta and Mexico. In the case of the former, they were almost always home invasions (why hello there man breaking into my bedroom window, front door, back door, car door....) In the latter case, they have always been on foot. Rather than robberies, Texcoco was home to all different flavors of assaults, including a particularly nasty broken nose. It was not even my nose. Walking home from Doppler my friend and I took note of a few teenagers lingering in the beerlight. One walked over to us and punched my buddy in the nose without saying a word. I had no idea how much blood resulted from a broken nose. His white shirt soon turned red and the sleeves of my cardigan dripped the warm liquid as I held them against his nose. Blood covered and still trying to make sense of the random violence, I fell asleep on a hospital bench.

My only tale from Mexico city is of an "almost" robbery at knife point. It was my first solo visit to the daunting metro Insurgentes, with its 6 or so exists, and decided to just "go for it," (this exist looks good enough, right?) The passage was empty (which I later read in Lonely Planet means pick again) save one young man walking in front of me. He gave me a bad feeling, "the willies" I told one friend, but I wrote it off to paranoia up until he grabbed me, said something in Spanish and showed me what I assumed to be a knife. The ninja that I am, I yelped like a dog, which came out quite operatic, and jumped/fell away from him, landing on my bag, and effectively squishing a banana. It must have been the banana but whatever I did worked because he ran away. Witnesses helped me up and handed me my red scarf that I had unintentionally left behind in my scramble to escape the almost crime scene.

More recently, my stories are more of amazement at the lack of danger I have faced considering my behavior. For better or for worse, I have been coming home quite late in the night. The first time I was out past my bedtime, I had to take the last metro car operating. Coming from a concert in Lunario, I had to make a change at Tacubaya to get onto the pink line. When the doors opened, everyone on the train started running. I joined in. It was thrilling. Mothers holding children, men in suits clutching their briefcases and other concert goers all dashed through the underground tunnels hoping to avoid the extra fare (and maybe danger?) that missing the train would induce.

The next week/concert, I walked from Roma Norte, down Orizaba, to Insurgentes and along Liverpool, during which I was met by three groups of people:

1. Drunk kids peeing on the street
2. Middle aged bar goers
3. Old couples walking their dogs...at 3 a.m.

Yet another time, my friend Luna and I walked from the Centro Historico to my apartment at 2 a.m., and I was, again, amazed at how safe I felt. I mentioned this emotion to her and then pointed to a nearby, posh-looking historic building crawling with people in suits and ties. "See Luna. Mira! It is safe! Those are respectable people awake and socializing this late." She pointed out that the building was a funeral home...



Not convinced about the safety of Mexico City? You can visit a shop in Calle Hamburgo were you can buy lip stick knives, pepper spray filled pens and other goodies for the paranoid/cautious at heart.

Clownin´ around

On a Sunday amble through Chapultapec park, I decided to stop and watch a street clown performance. I have oft seen these acts in the city but have never stayed for more than a few minutes. With nothing pressing on the agenda for the day, I staked out a place in the back of the crowd. No more than one minute in, the clown, one Pepino Dicaprio, spotted me. "Hola güera."

Oh shit.

I said hello back. He asked me where I was from. I said Georgia (my first mistake, as I should have just said the States or maybe Canada). Pepino signaled for me to leave the crowd and come speak with him. I ducked behind a nearby Mexican. This did not trick my clown friend, who came for me, microphone in hand and speaking a mile a minute. Before I could make a quick get away, before I even realized what was happening, I was center stage facing a crowd of laughing Mexicans and their children, sucking on lollies and playing with toys purchased in the park that magically break the second you pass over the cash to the vendor.

After asking me my name and making fun of me a bit for saying a State rather than a country, ("Eres de Georgia. Soy de Xochimilco") he parted the crowd on the permanent concrete benches and escorted me to what would be my seat for the next hour or so. To assure that I would stay put, he took my bag with him, meaning I would have to make a scene if I wanted to leave. I looked longingly at the brown leather, cooking in the sun of his street theater, and thought about my camera, thought of making a run for it, but soon I became too distracted by the entertainment to care.

Children, ranging age 8 to 10 (though I am shit at telling the ages of kids, and for all I know they may have well been from ages 4 to 13) were dancing. I was sitting next to the mother of two of the stars, a young girl and boy. The little girl desperately wanted to stand by her older brother, who, as any older brother would do, perpetually forced her from his side to that of a nearby child in the line of young volunteers. The same little boy was soon to be seen dancing to Michael Jackson. Well, I do not know if it was dancing so much as thrusting his groin towards the crowd a few times, resulting in loud, full-bodied laughter from onlookers. The dancing was mediocre. Logically. That being said, one young boy, whom I seriously suspect to be part of the show, did take me by surprise as he threw his hat at Pepino and stripped off his shirt to wave it above his head as his body gyrated in ways unimaginable to me at his age of what could not have been more than 9(though again, who can really tell these things?).

I expected the show to continue with the child-centric focus but little by little more adults entered the stage. Having faded into the background for a bit, I assumed I was free to watch the show from my seat. But alas, the clown would call on me again. He would chuckle to himself as he said he had forgotten about me and that it was time to dance. He had already paired up the adults with partners so who was I to dance with...wait a minute. He dislodged me from my seat and again I was in front of more eyes than I dared make contact with. He took my left hand and placed it on his shoulder while putting my right hand in his. "Yo tengo miedo," I told him and the crowd and that, further, I did not know how to dance. "I will teach you." I was relieved that the moves were not so complicated; a few basic steps that I had, indeed, picked up during my time here. "Eso," he said but this time with the microphone in his pocket.

After each dance, when Pepino was done with me, he would yell at those who had filled my seat while I was away. The people would promptly move, provoking the crowd's laughter. Once in my seat, he would pause, look at me silently and then tell me and the crowd of my beauty and how he had fallen madly in love with me. This continued off and on from 1:00 pm to 2:30 pm.

"Ah, mi amor ¿En qué idioma prefieres hablar?," he asked before one of our dances.

"No me importa," I said back, not so much to illustrate a preference but to show I could speak (some) Spanish.

To this he said something too fast for me to understand and probably for the best, judging from the crowd's reaction.

Everyone who participated in the show - the Germans, the Mexicans, the children, the man from Thailand who Pepino kept telling to open his eyes - received balloons shaped like flowers, except the top was not adorned with a tulip- or rose-shaped balloon but that of a heart. Pepino did not give me a balloon. "No te vayas," he said as he explained there was a change (of what sort I did not know but I assume in the show?) and that he was not through with me. I waited for a moment hoping for one of the red noses I had seen him handing out, the kind that projects water at the wearer's will, but then I got kind of scared of what this special gift might actually be or that maybe I was a weirdo for waiting around.

The classic Mexican middle schooler approached me, crumpled piece of paper in hand, and asked for an interview in English. I am so very tired of doing these interviews (how like you parts Mexico?) but I agreed and absconded empty-handed.

Life without the internet

It is kind of great, actually. The reader may ask, if your life is so internet free how are you writing this? The thing is my computer broke. In Mexico. My expectations are low. Let's just say I will be thrilled if it is fixed within the next year.

Therefore, when I want to use the internet, it is guided and constructive. For example, I am currently sitting in an internet cafe outside of Zona Rosa for the purpose of sending my new cell number to a Mexican friend and now, to write this. I do not lay around my apartment, computer in lap, mindlessly surfing the internet. Without my computer (and TV) I read, I walk, I explore, I write, I take pictures with my new Canon FTB and most importantly, I watch people dance in parks.



One of the highlights of my Texcoco life was watching the older couples slowly dance in the centro on Sundays. A German friend-for-a-day commented that having traveled Mexico for two months, he was convinced Mexicans live their lives more fully than in Germany and in fact, if people, en masse, started dancing unannounced in a public German square, they would probably be arrested. Watching a couple in their 70's, eyes closed and holding each other like it was their first embrace, I concurred.

Mexico City is full of people dancing in parks. Just today I came upon 3 dozen youngsters dancing to Kinky´s "Twisted Sister". With my first cup of coffee finally downed at the impressively late hour of 11:00 a.m., I stumbled upon the dancing in the art deco, open-air auditorium of Parque Mexico. The usual suspects in the park - that is, dog walkers, families and expats of all shades with Superama bags in hand - took delight in the display as they paused by my side.

By far the most impressive dancing occurs in the park of Balderas. Here you will find Mexicans from all walks of life dancing together. Most notable, however, are the middle-aged couples learning danzón from a man who I would have assumed to be a blue-collar worker. These teachers are almost always macho men in their 50's wearing jeans and a nondescript t-shirts or button downs that expose hairy chests. The teacher stands aside his small speaker, competing for airwaves over traffic and other nearby speakers, and occasionally corrects the couples in an unannounced fashion by taking the female partner and showing the man the correct steps.

Sundays, again, are the day of action but these classes take place nearly every night of the week, from what I can tell. Occasionally you can also find groups practicing large, coordinated dances composed of people ranging from age 12 to 60. For what, I can only assume.

Old pictures

Picture from the Attaway vaults: A young Phyllis. Aren't our family histories fantastic?

Until recently, I was not aware that my great grandmother was a full-blooded Cherokee and that my grandfather was a train-hopping hobo. What I would give for their memories. Sometimes thinking about all of our rich pasts is overwhelming. Too much has happened to us to ever capture and recount. Even if I had these two relatives in front of me for questioning, our memories are merciful. We forget, for better and for worse. Personally, I try to capture my past with photos and videos and journals that can feel more like a chore than a hobby. But if I have learned anything it is that it is just as easy to forget as it is to convince myself I will remember every detail.

No love for the past

Is that true?

Walking through the streets of Texcoco today I could not stop thinking about how much I despise the place and how Mexico City is superior in every respect to the dingy, fat, dirty streets of the periurban hinterland city that is 40 km East of my new home. But it was my home. For too long. Self-blame starts to surface as I think of how I stayed too long, like a lover afraid to leave an abusive partner. I convinced myself it was not only habitable but good and beautiful.

But was it all as bad as I remember? An acquaintance recently challenged the basic nature of narrating the past.



We (or at least I) tend to narrate unhappy spells of the past by major events. Maybe your parents got a divorce and then you were in an accident and afterwords your partner dumped you. Sucks, no? The problem with this narration is that the side stories get lost by the bitter and bigger points of your story. You overlook the good that happened during the same time period: the great connections with friends or co-workers; taking up an instrument; or learning to bake bread.

There is no doubt that the streets of Texcoco are haunted with my past, some parts quite hellish, but the past was not all as bad as you and I might think.

From a letter sent 2/2/09

Picture 1:

No explanation is needed.



Picture 2:

Explains the reason why mp3 music players are evil. While walking down the highway with said mp3 player in hand, I had an undeniable urge to hear "Half a person" by the Smiths. For me, this required exclusive concentration on fumbling with the small device, so much so that I walked straight into this large pile of gray dirt and dust and ruble. The world tumbled unexpectedly as I confusedly fell, skinning my elbow,

causing my hand to bleed and significantly damaging my pride. I jumped up and quickly looked around to see if anyone had witnessed this puerile action; concluding that I had only made a few truck drivers laugh, I strode ahead. It was not until the hoots and hollers past the gas station that I realized my sui generis sunglasses had come unhitched from my shirt during my descent. Restively, I spun around, sure some lucky passerby would see the florescent pink on the ground, screech to a halting stop and take them out of my life forever. Upon returning to the scene of my tomfoolery, I took picture 2. Let it also be stated for the record that I never wanted an mp3 player, never asked for one and should not be allowed to operate electronics, writing utensils or heavy machinery when walking.

Picture 3 & 4:














Upon arriving in La Puri, I was met with a massive, flower-filled celebration outside of the town's church. The celebration, no doubt for some saint I have never heard of, was being led by a priest, microphone clutched in his hand and saying "espiritu" every other word or so.

I wandered away from the church and up the hill for my planned hike to the cross when I was met by picture 4. I had heard the music from afar and finally reached a scene of dance in a local's yard (the bobbling movements will live in immortality on my external hard-drive). I watched the group with a plastered smile that joined me on my hike long after the hatted children and men and musicians played and danced their way down the cobble stone street to the church.

No pictures:

I bushwhacked the mountain, not because I necessarily wanted to but because I have a knack for making things more complicated than they should be. Let us leave it at that and say that I survived. I did, however, take the trail on the way down.

After finishing my trek I decided to try to find Amy's old route to work, which involved scaling a fence. Somewhere. Full of endorphins I seemed to ignore the fact that I had no idea of where this gap in security might be located. I walked and walked and walked around the perimeters, too tired to turn around and give up and sure that if caught, the owner of whatever field I was in would shoot me on the spot.

But all I could see were triple barbed wire fences in every direction. Hungry and enervated I was just about to give up when I assuaged myself with hope and promised myself a taxi if I had to retrace all of my steps. And then there it was: a tree that had grown into the fence and lowered the barbed wire. This had to be it.

I hung my bag on the fence as I experimented with my break-in, but of course my bag fell - now I was committed. Like a kitten jumping off a roof I finally went for it and landed smoothly. Feeling very happy with myself, I noticed that something was amiss. I was, no, still fenced in? I had broken into the fenced in reservoir. How could this be? Feeling completely disheartened by my mistake and afraid of getting caught in the restricted area and with shoes to big to climb even the non-barbed wire part of the fence, I considered digging my way out. I circled the perimeter of my cage to find a locked door that did, however, have an x shape metal covering and to my surprise was located next to a fence missing barbed wire. I propped myself up on the x and stealthy sat on the fence, not yet ready to jump for it. After 15 seconds of fear I gracefully fell, unscathed by the break-in and walked away nonchalantly. To this day, the fence has not recovered.

If you love someone let them go

I have always thought this saying ridiculous. If you love someone, you want them near you. You want to laugh and chat and eat and sleep and travel and play chess. Right? Quien sabe...

Expectation is a bitch

A friend candidly said so earlier this year as he nonchalantly pointed out all of my flaws. I listened to all of the gentle but firm criticism and tried to stay positive about the random tirade. One observation that I recognized as irrevocably true (the others took self-reflection and time to digest): "Have realistic expectations," he said.

BBQs

One preamble: This is an abandoned post about summer BBQs that I will try to salvage. Therefore, the memories are not as sharp as they may have once been.

My pre-Mexico summer days witnessed many grilled vegetables, fruits and burgers, of both the meat and bean type. I loved the smell of the burning charcoal mingling with the food. As a child, I use to purposefully, perhaps ingenuously inhale this smoke and exhale as if it were cigarette smoke. This always failed to make me look cool but did make me cough just like my first real cigarette.

Having lived in Georgia, a place with four distinct seasons, my entire life, I find the Valley of Mexico's two seasons a bit disconcerting and slightly stingy. But a weekend overflowing with grilling meet and cold casseroles brought the South to, well, even further south of the Mason-Dixon Line. I attended two BBQs, utterly different from each other but equally entertaining.

BBQ 1: Friday night. American Embassy compound. Me + 1 Canadian.

What happens when one Canadian is present at an American Embassy party? The reader can guess. We decided to make fun of her, in particular, for the show "Degrassi." It just so happens that a few days before in said Canadian's apartment, the show appeared during a channel surfing session. I lingered on the channel, remembering watching the show in my old house, late night, but always thinking it strange. Never being able to put my finger on what was so different. This particular day the mystery of the Degrassi High was solved: The show is from Canada. Upon hearing this I responded genuinely, "Really? I always knew there was something a bit off about that show."

Having lived on a research station, the actual grounds of the Embassy did not strike me as odd, though I imagine the average Joe may find it to be as bizarre as it is. Instead, the people and their lifestyle intrigued me. To start, they move every two years to new countries. For example, Nicole's next post will be in Bulgaria (though she has no previous experience with the language) and truth be told, she looked less than thrilled. And another, a woman I had met before on numerous occasions, who I admired for her guttural voice and seemingly inflated self-confidence, let on to her loneliness, now late into her 30's.

The party ended with Embassy workers admitting that they are compromised mostly of Mormons, with Jesus Jammies under their clothes. Mormons, you may not realize, are the perfect candidate for the foreign service. They have squeaky clean records and thus, have no problem passing the State Department's semi-Draconian background check. And they are away from their parents, who have forced their stringent belief system that does not allow for an inch of indulgence. So what drugs do the these kids do? They drink coffee like there is no tomorrow.

BBQ 2: La Puri. Saturday afternoon. People from work.

It was a German House party so I remember sausages. It is a shame I did not write this post when intended. Eloise also made an excellent cheesecake and if I am not mistaken, this was the first time I tasted the German version of taco salad. This taco salad consists of: minced meat, canned corn, iceberg lettuce, crema galore, and chips. I also vaguely remember speaking with an Argentinean, oh Moises (was this the night we spoke of the Mexican beer Noche Buena and whether it is possible to buy it year round?)

Hmm. So what?

I am always so sure that I am a super-being that can remember all. Now, months later, I have no idea what was so special about this gathering that it warranted half a blog entry. The problem with parties from La Puri is that they all blend together. This is partially due to the same settings and partially due to the same people. All of those people are gone now, save a handful of stragglers that will soon depart.

Happiness

is a funny thing. It can be achieved by such big or little things. Coming out of a serious slump induced by sickness and a lack of nutrients, I now feel as if I have achieved a contentment above all other. Where I live is so different from anywhere I have and may ever live again and I socialize with people I would usually not have the chance to schmooze around with under normal circumstances.

Walking home from the raffle rincon (having finally got my coveted dance), the entrance to La Trinidad and the new farmacia similares neon sign sent odd pleasure signals to my brain. I have not blogged for quite sometime and I am simply doing so now to record this moment of happiness caused by little, mundane things.