Mexico City: Where your sanity is for sale, just like everything else

Chapter 3: Walking with cars, witchcraft and dancing in the metro station


Another thing that makes Mexico City very interesting are its typical bustling markets. They are found everywhere, in every city and village, but here they reach a higher level in size, merchandise and multitude. The most common known example is Tepito, a tianguis or open-air market near the center of city that sells literally everything, either counterfeit goods or robbed originals. The neighbourhood is sprawled with stands from the moment you step out of the subway station. Everywhere where the eye can see there's motion, where the ear can hear there's noise, where the nose can smell there's odour. An enormous amount of people are concentrated in the small streets where vendors try to fit their ramshackle stands next to others and shoppers walk next to cabs, motorcyclists and buses who in their turn squeeze through the mass, with miraculously little casualties. Tepito runs almost independently their own community with small-time organizations electing their own leaders. More than a neighbourhood in the great city of Mexico, it has the likes of a communal society found in remote, indigenous villages.

The market is well described by the following saying: "En Tepito todo se vende, menos la dignidad." (In Tepito everything is for sale, except dignity). Most of the things for sale are likely to be of very poor quality. For instance, you can buy pirate CDs for as cheap as 2.5 pesos (0.15 euros), Armani t-shirts for 30 pesos (1.85) and a pair of Levi trousers for 300 pesos (18.50 euros). Obviously, the shopper can't go out without having a little snack here and there. A delicacy found in this market neighbourhood are steamed chicken legs and mollejas (the chicken's stomach). Usually you'll find a guy pushing a cart around with two giant plastic bags, each one filled with both chicken parts. If that's too exotic, you can always buy three hotdogs for 15 pesos (not 1 euro). But don't ask where the meat has to come from to cost that little. Further there are basket tacos that have the reputation of sending you straight to the hospital beds, sincronizadas (ham and cheese flour wraps) and grilled hamburgers. Eating here has a strong negative reputation that, according to the bad tongues, make you either vomit or shit straight fluid. As for me, I didn't encounter any of that. Although I have to admit I've been training my poor stomach for a while now.

A similar but more rough market neighbourhood is La Merced. Just as with Tepito, once you step out of the metro station you're completely disorientated for stands of various merchandise install themselves starting from the metro entrance/exit all the way till the eye can see. In order to orientate one has to find the main avenue crossing through La Merced neighbourhood which is found by litteraly walking towards daylight at the end of the collection of stands. However, once you're standing at that avenue you're further quizzed because the stands take up the whole sidewalk so that people are forced to walk on the street next to racing cars and buses. That's the case on both sides. It's an image on repeat. An interesting aspect found in this neighbourhood and not in Tepito is its large population of pleasure ladies. They parade in line next to the stands waiting for costumers. And honestly, they look horrible. Your appetite for sex would vanish instantly. I'd say they lack a bit of style... and a diet. Because many of them have flubbery flesh surpluses. Those interested in young green leafs can find an extended gamma of under-aged prostitutes who are not easily seen in public, but are arranged to you by specialized pimps. Since La Merced is a tolerance zone for sex business, rarely police shows up.
This part of town hosts a number of different markets such as the Flower Market, an enourmous traditional food market and Mercado Sonora. The last one deserves a closer look. It is in vox populi known as the market of witchcraft. As the word says, the market sells everything you need to heal mental illnesses, skin ailments, a crushed heart, diabetes, bone infections, etc. in the form balms, herbal medicine, incense, talismans and teas. Some of the products reach the level of absurd such as incense for diabetes and depression, and dead colibris on a leash for prosperity. Not only to cure illnesses, but also all sorts of objects are sold for practicing santeria and other syncretic religious practices. A venerated saint who is very popular here and also in Tepito is La Santa Muerte (The Holy Death). This figure is the product of syncretism between Mesoamerican and Catholic beliefs and represents a deep affection of Mexicans for the afterlife. In Mexico there's always been a more intense and complicated relationship with the defunct as proved in Dia de Muertos (Day of the Dead) celebrated on November 2nd. However, La Santa Muerte goes beyond its representation of death and serves as common saint who is venerated with the intention of requesting prosperity, safety, health and even justified harm to others. She is most popular in lower working classes and criminals.
Beside alternative medicine there's also a large section of exotic and endangered animals. For instance, you'll find a flock of peacocks crammed together into a cage, large turtles that are supposed to be swimming in the sea soaking in a small rectangular bathtub and stirred up cocks destined for battle. Ultimately, you can even find interesting concious-alternating products such as salvia and peyote.

After visiting those two frenzy, crowded market neighbourhoods it was time to descend into the subway station. The metro never ceases to amaze me. While changing from one line to another I first heard a band playing a variety of Latin American genres and later another one playing fast-speed ska/punk/rock. The bandmembers of the first one seemed all to be closing their eyes, but it was not until after I looked closely that the entire band was blind and/or visually impaired. And they played smooth. There was at least one person dancing from the entire audience. The ska band really amazed me with the huge audience they attracted. So many people were listening to the feel-good uptempo rhythms of the band that they litteraly obstructed an essential passage for commuters. Once a dozen of men started a moshpit (!!!) it got worse, and the whole subway station filled up with people trying to get a glimpse of the scene and others pushing their way through towards their connecting lines. It's all in a day's work. You're never bored in La Gran Ciudad...

San Francisco: from three days to three weeks

In that little town outside the capital I eventually ended up staying three weeks, a lot more than I had planned. Besides learning how to bake cookies and pizzas I broadend my array of handwork with knotting belts and preparing tamales (A mexican delicacy of cornmeal dough filled with various things like meat wrapped up in corn husks). I also further specialized in Mexican humor, to that extent that everyone of the family was saying I had been forged a monster. Maybe, maybe. One thing is certain, I understand when anyone is trying to pull my leg with sexually charged jokes and if fast enough I can counter-attack. The difference with my preference for dry, direct humor is quite big, though. Mexicans don't seem to understand or appreciate when I launch an in-your-face comment. Most of them say it's not fun. Cultural differences, I guess... Another difference I noticed was the cultural gap between them and me. During those three weeks I observed how Alfredo, the only cultural aware of the clan, in vain attempted to convince the others of at least learning a few words in English, appreciate their own historic heritage or read the newspaper. It was poignant to see how the others stubbornly rejected his failed sermons. For instance, once, in Victor's workshop we were all working on an order when Alfredo walks in and starts talking about traveling, or at least exploring own country. That ended up in a discussion about spending your money only weekly drinking sessions or saving it for greater purposes like traveling which was ultimately ended by Tisho who told Alfredo: "You continue dreaming and let the rest live." With that strong message the defeated one walked out with yet another disappointment. I never took the opportunity to tell him, but if certain people are not interested in leaving their safe haven to explore other lands or to maintain a minimum level of culture that's their decision and most of all they won't be tempted to change their way of thought. Alfredo tried (and probably still does) to impose his ideas onto the rest, with poor results. If some of his family members are satisfied underneath the ceiling of their neighbourhood, close to everything familiar, that's their decision. Poor guy. It is said that wisdom comes with the years, but not in his case. As for me, I felt the same frustration as he about the same matter, but I tried to accept their way of life and put aside mine. Surprisingly, that wasn't too hard and it created some very nice moments. However, now and then I couldn't withhold a criticizing remark. An example: On a Sunday Alfredo and I visited the ruins of Teotihuacán, an impressive archeological site that dates back more than a thousand years. Although I had been there two times before, it never ceases to amaze me. When we returned Tisho asked me what I had done that day and when I informed him his reaction was: "What do wanna go there for? It's just a pile of stones. They won't leave. It'll always be there." Completely outraged and filled with incomprehension, I raked him over the coals, unable to hold myself in. I had endured a lot, but his rejection for his own ancient historical heritage lured out the loud, angry boy in me. I don't repent it, but I tried to keep those reactions to a minimum. Adaption is a strong virtue...

Meanwhile the days flew by and after two weeks I started thinking it was time to move on. When I mentioned that during one of our meriendas (late evening snack), I was met with concerned eyes and confusion. "Why do you wanna leave?", they asked me. "Aren't you at ease here?". I tried to explain my need to move on, but I was shut up after they said: "You'll stay here until Saturday for the Posada and leave the next day, what do you think?". Much debate was out of the order. They pretty much decided the period of my staying instead of me. In fact, that's when I realized I had started to become part of the family. I had felt it in the previous weeks, but that night I was certain I had created strong family ties. They're not family in the real sense of the word, but strong friendship relations almost fill up the definition of that word. Anyway, time passed by like nothing and quickly Saturday came around the bend.

The Posada is a traditional Mexican pre-Christmas celebration which can be celebrated up to nine days before December 24th, wherein the wanderings and requests for shelter of Joseph and Mary are commemorated. In its essence it's just another excuse to get together to drink and eat joyfully, albeit with a religious character. The guests have to divide into two groups, one of them who stands outside representing Joseph and Mary requesting shelter, the other one who stands inside the house representing the landowner. According to the tradition the owner rejects twice their requests, but ultimately concedes and lends them a place for the night. This dialogue is sung by both parties with fixed lyrics and melody. When the 'pilgrims' enter the house it is time to eat. After dinner it's customary to break the internationally known piñata. The Padilla family pretty much followed this tradition and it helped me to remind the significance of the celebration which I had forgotten over the years. When we started singing I thought about how many typical Mexican customs were unknown to me while I, as a half Mexican, should cherish them. I had stayed for too long in Belgium, I felt. This is the dilemma: I can't have a four-year hiatus after every visit to Mexico, but at the same time I want to explore other parts of the world too. Whether I come over every year or stay away for decades, after I leave this country I'll have to try to keep up my Mexican identity. No doubt about that. Anyway, I had a lot of fun that night. After we had all eaten the piñatas were brought up. While I was documenting how the kids joyfully were trying to break it, one of the guests called my name. Rapidly the whole gang were shouting that it was my turn. As much as I tried to refuse it, I was forced to take the stick and hit the piñata. Well, I wasn't really forced to, moreover I wanted to participate in the tradition. So before I knew it I was blindfolded - this in representation of my blind faith to god, *ahum* - and started swinging around, trying to hit cardboard star with seven points, which stands for the seven cardinal sins. It had been ages since the last time I had had a piñata. As a little kid I would often have one on my birthdays, but instead of being happy for it I would always cry and/or turn mad because I didn't want the beautiful cardboard creation to be beaten to death. At the posada I didn't cry or anything, but laughed like a hyena while the rest was doing likewise. For a brief moment I felt young again. After that part was over I was called yet again to the center of attention with Carmen, on of the daughters, asking me to dance. Refusing was futile, almost letting her walk away empty-handed, so I thought "Fuck, why not?". Again, everyone was laughing at me or with me. My dancemoves were horrible, maybe even embarrassing, but I guess that's my style. I like to make a fool out of myself on the dancefloor. First there was some salsa music playing and, despite I took one class in Belgium a while ago, I had forgotten the basics. Luckily Carmen was very patient with me and helped me out on my moment of glory. It's interesting to see how a lot of people here dispose of a minimum ability to dance according to the rhythm, as if they were born with it, while in Belgium they all move like tree trunks. That's why in my country I can boast so-called 'latino' moves whereas here I can't, consequently falling in embarrassment. I've been thinking a while about taking some salsa classes...

The rest of the night slowly transformed into a drinking party. The Padillas wanted to organize a little goodbye party, so Alfredo supplied those who didn't let their hand off the bottle constantly with beer and 39 pesos tequila. Our merry band of drinkers was expanded by Jonathan, an ex of one of the family's daughters, and an almost midget whose name I have forgotten. From that point on the alcohol haze turned into a loud bacchanal with me urinating against the neighbour's car while they walked out of the door and the midget man singing beautifully rancheras about getting drunk, etc. We had to carry the poor man home, he was done for the night. And then there was Jonathan who had arrived with two kids whose origin is unclear who obviously had to be brought home. The poor kids had to wait for hours while we drunk bottle after bottle, which now in retrospect makes me feel a bit ashamed. Jonathan said to them: "Just wait a little bit more. The thing is, I don't understand. I'm trying to finish it [the beer], but it won't. It just keeps coming! I don't understand!". That's one hell of an example for those kids... Anyway, I helped to carry one of them home. Afterwards I just remember crawling into my bed with my shoes on. I had already forgotten it was balls-freezing cold.

And so the last day of my stay at the Padilla family had arrived. While I was sitting at the table for breakfast I received a last lesson in the hazards of water. I had forgotten to mention that they believe so strongly in Holy Soda that they're actually convinced that water harms your inner system. I knew Mexicans and water didn't really match, but they really scared me. They tried to convince me that drinking water during or after inebration is the worst you can do and that a beer or a carbonated softdrink does you more good. Discussing was completely impossible with these people. They invented a medical term to scare me from drinking water for the hangover, looking disappointed while I was filling up my glass with delicious, fresh H2O. Fuck that, you believe in La Santa Coca. Don't come crying if you're diagnosed with diabetes because I will point my finger at you and laugh. But no, I shouldn't insult their veneration for Mr. Cola, they were much too nice for me. I said my goodbye to everyone and left for the busstation to catch the next bus to Guadalajara, where another family had been waiting for me. Honestly, I was quite sad to leave San Francisco. I really enjoyed it there. But on the other hand I was relieved to finally move on. At this tempo I won't get to Buenos Aires by August. Last thing worth mentioning is a djembe player on the bus who was singing about transitoriness of life, how everything comes to an end. "Todo tiene su final/Nada dura para siempre/Tenemos que recordar/Que no existe eternidad." (Everything has its end/Nothing lasts forever/We have to remember/Eternity does not exist). With those simple words I melancholicaly reflected on my three weeks in San Francisco and all other places I had been. If there's one sad thing about traveling, it's leaving things behind. So to share this temporary state of melancholy, here's the video of the lyrics:

Mexico City: Where your sanity is for sale, just like everything else

Chapter 2: Holy Flag Of The Wicked


One of U.S.' many unfavourable stereotypes is its heavy, sometimes ridiculous security measurements at airports and public buildings. To my surprise, a similar behaviour exists in Mexico. An example of this is the Museum of Anthropology and the National Palace. In the first tourist magnet, first you have to walk through a metal detector and take everything out of your pockets. Then, useless "security officials" - simple-minded people who are given an "authoritarian" function - oblige you to drop your bag at the bag deposal. After you dropped your bag, these people guide you further towards the entrance which is difficult not to see. It felt kind of ridiculous undergoing the whole security process for only a museum visit. That wasn't that bad. El Palacio Nacional's secured entrance was a notch higher. To visit, first you have to queue up through a ridiculous long barred-off corridor. Your bag you have lose compulsory. Then, you pass through the first metal detector followed by a second one (!!!). From the beginning not "security officials" but armymen watch every step you take, ready to blast your head off with their M16s and Cal.12 shotguns. Once you think the burden is over, inside your forced by the same armymen to follow a fixed route trough the museum. Personally, I was only interested in Diego Rivera's famous murals that decorate the palace's walls. Instead I was forcibly guided just as everyone else like a herd of brainless sheep as if not able to walk your own route. Already slightly annoyed, the other visitors and me were guided into what seemed like a gas chamber. It was a 360º cinema room, where on all four walls and ceiling a nationalist propaganda movie was shown, with the apparent intention of reminding the visitors of their blind patriotism. With that over with, we continued in group all the way till the end. Luckily it was interesting, but the whole security thing is kind of blown up. Later I was told it is part of the whole Bicentenary of Independance and Centenary of the Revolution, which was intensely celebrated in the month of September, but still is visible in daily life. Another example of the celebration of 200 years Mexicanidad (Mexicanness) is the light and sound show at Mexico City's main square El Zócalo. A myriad of citizens showed up for the heavy patriotic-inspired event. Actually, the whole show recounted the country's history from the early Mesoamerican civilizations till today. Again, it seems the government put a lot of effort, and of course a lot of money, into ways that remind the people of their supposed love for the flag.

Before the light show there was an interesting contrast on the same main square. Two Jebus-like figures exclaiming the true nature of the government and its wretched practices, with other words, their version of the Truth. Among their topics were the discriminatory behavious towards 'El Pueblo' (The rural people), the false battle against the drug cartels, electoral fraude, misleading and embezzling humanitarian actions from the government, the political circus covered in nepotism, misspent money into the celebration of the bicentenary, etc. Both urged the need to evolve towards a new era of enlightenment to end the wicked state of the country that affects many unfortunate Mexicans. The two messiahs shouted clamorously, filled with frustrative anger, and seemed completely convinced of their declamations. While the main square was slowly filling up, interested listeners gathered and quietly listened while seated on little kindergarten-style stools, applauding occasionally after strong, critical comments. One of the two messiah's final quote was an exclamation to the emphasis on money and not on people, and how it should be vice versa. Right after he was done and applauded his accomplice who had been standing idle during the whole rhetoric rattled a poorly-filled can around asking the audience for 'cooperación' (cooperation), i.e. a few coins to support the "revolution". How about the contradiction?

A day in the life: a photo report

Finally, here it is, a selection of the most interesting pictures of my trip so far. I know, it took a while, but anyway, here it is. Enjoy!


===>>> http://picasaweb.google.com/diegofaes/OffToTheRootsAndFURTHURDown?authkey=Gv1sRgCLDNi-CAp-71gwE&feat=directlink <<<===

(you may have to download a small google application. Don't be afraid, there's no virus.)

...All is well...

San Francisco: painting walls and baking cookies

The past week I've been staying with some friends of my parents in a small town called San Fancisco near Tecamac, about half an hour from the capital. Past Sunday I took the liberty to suddenly pack my bags, say thanks to my patient hosts in Mexico City and continue to my next destination. A rare privilige of arbitrary displacement I've been enjoying very much so far. Getting there involved yet again an interesting occurence. Once I found the bus towards San Francisco in one of Mexico City's many shady neighbourhoods, I was told it woud take around 25 minutes to get there. Stupidly enough, I trusted the busdriver and his sidekick - the fee collector - to warn me in time when we got there. A mistake I've made on several occasions on this trip is to think that by my foreign appearance people would automatically help me out on finding the way. On a certain moment, long after those 25 minutes had passed, the bus stops and a number people get off. I thought a bus with fixed destinations would of course stop everywhere where its designated to stop in order to let people off or to pick people up. But, because asking never hurts, I informed to the bus driver after my stop, to which he jokingly responds: "Oh, we already passed that one." "What? How? What do you mean?", confused. "Well yeah, nobody stood up so I thought no one was gonna get off at that stop." What the fuck? Do I have to smell when we get to San Francisco? It was fucking dark and obviously I wasn't from around there. Apparently, now I learned, people don't just get up before the bus even comes to a stop because they're impatient Mexicans. If you don't get up, the bus doens't stop and you can go fuck yourself. There you go, another example of Mexican logic. However, that was just a minor incident worth blowing up. Eventually I met up with those friends who I hadn't seen in seven years and all was good.

The friends are Alfredo and Leti, a couple who lived with their two daugthers for a year and 15 days in Antwerp, Belgium. Back then I was rather young and didn't much care for their presence. Even worse, I had cultivated a ridiculous antipathy towards Carmen, the younger of the two sisters, for the sole reason of her voice. In those days she had quite a high-pitched, almost lamentable - and to me irritating - little girls' voice. At that age, I was kind of a cumbersome, tiny bastard capable of hating people for no apparent reason (Nowadays, I try to substantiate any dislike towards certain people). That period of my life still ashames me till this day. Much interaction with those people was not really interesting to me. So after a while they left back for Mexico, disappearing from my memory. In the course of the years after their departure my parents and I went to visit them twice, on occasions we traveled to Mexico. By then I had grown a little bit more mature and put aside my indifference. I met Alfredo's older brother Victor, who lost most of his sight as a result of falling on his head while working as a mason, and his younger brother Manuel AKA 'Manolo', who lost his parents on a critical moment of his young manhood. Of both, Victor inspired me the most and would leave a permament impresion that made me never forget that family again. Seven years after the last time my parents and I visited them, I decided to return. What first started as a few-day visit, resulted in an intense week of working wherein I slowly started feeling like a member of the family. As of now, I'm still staying at their place and to my surprise, they don't want me to leave yet.

On Monday my first day as temporary aid started with Victor asking me after breakfast whether I wanted to learn how to paint walls with a plaster applicator (a mechanical device made out of stainless steel that litteraly 'sprays' plaster by means of a thing that spins, or something. Hell, I'm not a construction worker). From that moment on I helped everywhere where two extra hands were needed. That marked an interesting change to the classic tourist activities I've been doing for the past two months.

While working on the paint job I remembered how Victor is an illuminary example of perseverance, willpower, patience. He told me how he considered suicide at the beginning of his life in the dark while having two kids of nine and ten. At the school for visual impaired people he learned how to bake pastry, knot belts, read Braille, etc. Slowly he recovered and turned into a much stronger person than most of us with healthy eyes. After a while he even thought classes in that same school, although just recently he was thanked for his loyal service because he was starting to become an 'oldie', i.e. costing too much as a professional who normally deserves a higher salary. Now he only has his bakery and a tiny banking bussines for loans that keep his family feeded, clothed and educated. Besides that, now and then friends of friends of friends come to him asking his construction worker expertise for small-time jobs. But one thing more than everything has pulled the man throughout his unfortunately altered life: humour. For some reason he finds relief in mocking at his disability, while the rest of the family joins in with the laughter. For example, at his workshop Victor asks for his white cane to which Tisho, a family friend, yells at him: "It's there man! Fuck, can't you see? What are you, blind?" In the beginning I felt pretty akward, but rapidly I got used to how his family members treat him and even started joking at him myself. It gets to the point where I sometimes forget he's visually disabled. You can talk to him, even walk with him through the streets of The City of Madness, without noticing he's partially blind. Somewhere it's ironic, and in a way completely logical, that a man with an essential sense disabled can teach more to, let's say, a 'fully working' person than the other way around. Not only I am learning lessons in overcoming hardship, he has even tought me to make an excellent pizza Hawaii. Over the course of the first week I met more friends of his, most of them also visually impaired, each with a silencing incredible life story. One worth mentioning is Jesus, or 'Chucho' as they call him, who at the age 25 in a heavily concious-altered state of mind (shitfaced and high on whatever he could lay his hands on) jumped intentionally in front of an approaching truck, slinging him several meters away, landing on his head and consequently losing complete sight. Now, about thirty years after that rather idiotic act, each Tuesday he uses Victor's industrial oven to bake 10 panqués (pound cake) which he sells in the course of a week. With that money he tries to make ends meet. Even he, whose attempt to recovery was less progressive than Victor's, is laughed at. Completely devastated from his story, I bought a whole pound cake to help him with his business. I don't know if that really helped him, but it made me feel better anyway.

After we had finally done spray-painting the walls and cleaned up, the whole family joined together for coffee and pastry, a ritual performed every day at night when everyone's done working or fulfilling obligations. Sadly enough, in a country where excellent coffee is grown in states like Veracruz and Chiapas, the majority drinks Nescafé instant soluble coffee. In this case, I try to put aside my elitism and enjoy the warmth of sitting together, talking, laughing, drinking. The next days I alternatingly helped remodelling the house and baked cookies in Victor's workshop. During the working hours I've been receiving instens lessons in paronomasia (double entendre, form of word play), better known as 'albur', a type of humour extremely popular in Mexico. Usually, the double meaning carries a sexual undertone and is often difficult to understand if not pointed out, especially for foreigners who don't dominate Mexican idioms and figure of speech. A simple example: Person A asks person B "Tu papa ya es grande?" (Is your father old?), to which B can answer 'yes' or 'no'. But what A is really asking is "Tu papaya es grande?" (Is your papaya big?), which in this context means whether B's vagina is big, seen that the tropical fruit is used as a synonym for women's genitals. Simply by shifting the accent from one syllable to another you can completely change the meaning of a sentence as in the example. That seems like ridiculous, immature humour but it's huge in Mexico. There are even albus contests wherein contestants try to insult eachother the most with subtle double entendres, kind of like rap contests. It's not easy, but I'm starting to recognize when the others are pulling my leg.

To end the workweek I joined the family to a typical rural wedding. They told me it was fun because of the fact it was held in a small village. So I put on my best clothes (checkered shirt, completely ripped skinnies and some borrowed shoes), jumped in the Volkswagen Combi with the others and head off to the party. At first when they invited me I was confused that we wouldn't be attending ceremony, instead only going to the party to eat and drink. I thought they were joking, but that's exactly what we did. We arrived, looked for a free table and waited to be served. The food was carnitas, an ensemble of various meat accompanied with rice, mole poblano (kind of a heavy sauce), corn tortillas and some kind of soup. Still feeling akward of the whole set-up, Tisho the family friend assured me: "Don't be afraid, man. Here you can eat as much as you want. No stress." And so it happened. Throughout the whole evening we sat down at the table eating, drinking and watching people dance. The last was kind of boring since my company weren't keen dancers. Partly out of conformity, partly out of embarrasement I joined them in their sitting marathon. Although, there was one occasion in which almost everyone stood up to perform a custom typical for Mexican Weddings: la Vibora de la Mar (the Sea Snake). Originally a children's game, a very popular variation has become an indispensable standard in weddings. When la Vibora de la Mar is announced, men and women are separated to form long "snakes". On this particular wedding first the kids lined up. Both bride and groom stand on chairs while the latter holds the train of the bride's gown. These two are surrounded by chosen ones, usually close friends, with the purpose of preventing the married ones of falling down. Because, and this is quite funny, the "snakes" formed by both sexes have push them until they fall off to the increasing tempo of the song. Analogous with the sexes, the women have to push the bride over while the men try to tip the groom. The meaning of the whole game is quite unclear to me. I was told that it represents the couple may never be seperated regardless of all problems. If one of those human snakes succeeds in pushing over one of both married ones it supposedly means they will separate. As I see it, it's just an excellent excuse to involve the whole gang of guests and enjoy a fine piece of violent slapstick humour. Obviously, I participated. The men's snake was pretty rough (= could be an albur), resulting in the fall of the groom. After that happened, he is lifted up by friends who lead him through the hall to the tunes of Chopin's 'Funeral March', representing the end of his carefree life of fun, drinking and zero responsibilities. When that ritual was over everyone returned to their tables, and we ordered a bottle of cheap tequila rip-off worth 39 pesos (= 2.30 EUR). Since their was no more beer or any other lighter alcoholic beverage, I threw myself on the Rancho Escondido resulting in a terrible hang-over the next day, one like I hadn't experienced since very long. Apparently, I got kind of wild on the way home shoutingly requesting music and spilling the cheap liquor all over my clothes. When they finally played music I fell asleep on the Victor's shoulder (he's a large person = excellent cushion). When I woke up the next day with all my clothes and shoes on I realized I wasn't that sober than I thought I was. That was a fun wedding.

Mexico City: Where your sanity is for sale, just like everything else

A series of observations, short-stories and anecdotes found in a megalopolis where too many people live on a too small territory, like sardines in a capsule, where noise pollution is perpetual and the term unexisting, traffic rules are obsolete rendering a pedestrian life worthless and pure madness rules the lives of the millions of ants swarming about in a giant volcanic crater that sustains the city. Indeed, insanity in excess. Here there's no lack of inspiration. The observant eye saturates in this city that never sleeps.


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Chapter 1: First taste

It all starts in the city's subway, 'el Metro'. In a metropole like Mexico City, where according to the latest figures published in 2009 a total of 8.84 million inhabitants was recorded, a well-oiled public transportation system is indispensable. As of this year, about 5 million citizens every day use the extensive metro network that only runs throughout the metropolitan area. Many of them are people from outside of town who have to cover insane distances every single day to reach their work in time. Two-hour routes to and from are not rare. So to put it simply, there is a constant influx of passengers in subway stations who if not transported right away, a massive accumulation of impatient Mexicans fills both platforms and wagons. Therefor, a maximum waiting period of one or two minutes is no superfluous luxury. But anyway, the subway is a breeding-ground of peculiar odours, people from all social classes and manic vendors who even when the cars are jam-packed succeed in crawling trough the almost homogenous mass of humans to sell their merchandise. And believe me, they are the sole responsibles for making a ride entertaining, which also means that reading or conversing pleasantly is out of the order. For me, coming from a country where silence and discretion on buses and trams are holy, where ill-clothed adolescents with too high self-esteem are stared to death when they play the latest discussable radio hits from their shiny cell phones, where the drivers call for calmness when their ears hurt from the noise, public transport in Mexico is almost as entertaining as TV, if not better. And here in the Big City, that is no different. One after the other, men and women walk in and open their throat to yell out a memorized advertising text summing up the various characteristics of their products. It seems like all of them belong to a same company because they practically sell their products in a similar way. Only the product itself changes. And surprisingly, passengers actually buy from them. Of course now and them, however limited, you'll see a musician or a whole band walking in to play a few tunes. Sometimes completely equipped with amplifier and microphone. In fact, the metro is no more than a market on wheels. A small choice selection of their merchandise: peanuts, Hershey's chocolate bars, crossword puzzles, scissors, pens, booklets, refreshing throat pills, pirate movies, chewing gum, corn-made candy bars, etc. The most remarkable thing I've witnessed are those who sell mp3 CDs of various genres. They walk in with a fully working stereo in their backpack and wait until the metro starts riding to blast away random songs or so-called 'intromixes' extremely loud with the intention of catching the passengers' attention. Just imagine standing there, minding your own business, when suddenly loud music combined with advertising roaring sounds from a guy's backpack standing next to you. That scares the shit out of you! At least with me. Because when you look at fellow passengers, you'll notice half a dozen people looking up and then skillfully ignore the racket. In short: you're never bored.

Another classic stereotype that haunts the city is its horrendous traffic. Like I've mentioned before, Mexicans don't know how to drive. I know. It's an easy generalisation of their driving skills. But once you walk around and try not be overrun by maniacal automibilists you'll agree. Red lights unfortunately don't per se mean it's safe to cross the street. Once you don't see cars moving in your direction you can almost safely walk till the other side. Spending only nine days in the center, I've caught a habit of looking at least two times in the direction of waiting cars to make sure the lights don't suddenly switch to green. Seen that pedestrian lights are a rarity, that habit is not unnecessary. Subsequently, honking is the main source of the city's noise pollution. Mexican automobilists will find any reason justified to honk their horns, causing a fragile soul to go insane in a matter of minutes. Be it a slow mover, a double-parked car, crossing pedestrians, an attractive woman on the sidewalk or even police officers trying their utmost best to guide traffic and people into safety. This starts pretty early in the morning and lasts well into the night. And the best part is, it's absolutely useless. I think if automobilists were to realize that honking their horns eternally don't actually make traffic move more efficiently, the city would be a much nicer place. But at the same time it would take away its 'charm'.

As a result of the enormous amount of vehicles bustling through the streets and giant factories who blatantly ignore ecologic measurements to contain their toxic excrements, a thick layer of smog hangs perpetually above the city as an all-containg dome perforating the citizens' lungs who most likely have evolved into a superiour type of respiratory organs capable of minimizing the hazardous effects. It is not necessary to stand at the city limits to notice the brownish cloud, instead just walking through streets is enough to inhale and actually see the foul air. Sometimes, when pollutants get trapped inside water droplets in clouds, acid rain falls down from the sky. That causes for example paintings and hieroglyphics of ancient monuments to disappear gradually. Not only that, just imagine walking to work and feeling your skin irritated as a result of polluted rain. But then again, citizens' skin may have evolved into a stronger version able to shield of the burning rain.

Mexico City can be given several nicknames. In older times it used to be known as 'La Ciudad de los Palacios', or City of Palaces. That was in the 19th century, before the uncontrolled demographic expansion took place. Others, more ridiculous, are City of Hope and City in Movement. Mexicans living outside the capital refer it mockingly as 'Chilangolandia', derived from the pejorative nickname 'Chilango' given to the citizens. I, personally, like to call it City of Madness or Insanity. Every observation made constitutes that denomination. As I will post more, you'll understand why. But the best name for the city is assigned by Manu Chao: El Hoyo. Litteraly meaning 'The Hole', it says exactly what it means. Mexico City rests upon a soft and inapt base what used to be Lake Texcoco, causing it to sink several centimeters each year. According to Mister Wiki the city has sunk up to nine meters. Beside that, it's located in the Valley of Mexico, also known as the Basin of Mexico. Surroundings consist of mountains and volcanoes reaching heights of 5000 meters. That means all toxic fumes produced actually stays inside, hence the perpetual smog. With a bit of imagination, you can see the earth slowly swallowing the city into its wake while exhaust fumes suffocate its inhabitants. I know, it's a pretty apocalyptic and depressing scenario I've drawn. So to alleviate the negative image, here's the video of Manu Chao's 'El Hoyo'. A hymn to the insanity of La Ciudad De Mexico. Enjoy.

"Yo vengo del Hoyo/Tepito fayuca/Yo vengo del Hoyo/De la Gran Ciudad..."

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aMoD6Q0uxBw