Silly, silly hijackers

In case you crawled under a rock yesterday, you've probably heard about the crazed Bolivian hijacker who yesterday threatened to blow up an Aeromexico plane flying into Mexico City from Cancún if he did not receive an audience with Presidente Felipe Calderón.

The initial reaction from the police and media was, of course, to assume that this was some kind of terrorist or drug-related attack. Four possible hijackers had been indicated and a cardboard box-bomb allegedly on board, so what else would you naturally assume?

The BBC London, in fact, called The News office asking for insider information on airport security in Mexico and if hijackings were normal here. I didn't feel qualified to speak as an expert, and as our most inside sources only speak Spanish and all of our English-speaking talent had been so swiftly kicked to the curb months ago, I had to tell a very disappointed Brit that we could offer him nothing. It felt pretty emasculating (can women be that?) to work for a local newspaper and tell a BBC London reporter that we're not actually a real newspaper, we just translate things from the wires (and offer stunningly awesome culture reporting).

Back to the hijacker: As the day progressed, the 104 passengers were released and later the 7 crew members. In the end, there was just one hijacker. His purported accomplices? The Father, Son and Holy Ghost. Apparently the Bolivian man, a Christian pastor who had been living in Mexico for years, had received a message from God that horrible things would happen to Mexico on 9/09/09, as the numbers' reflection spells out the sign of the Devil: 666.

In the end, no harm, no foul. Except for that apocalyptic goblin that ate everyone but gringos yesterday. Time to finally open some Chipotle and Panera franchises down here? I think so, too.

The Turtle Whisperer's Tale

Another weekend, another beach adventure, as the story goes.

The last weekend of August, Matt, Paul, Humberto, Jeff (Matt's friend from home) and I hopped on that infamous 1 a.m. bus ride down to a station just outside Acapulco. We cabbed into Bonfil while two of the boys picked up a rental car at the airport. From there, we drove about three hours east in sticky heat to a beach with no name (or at least one that I don't know).

After driving through small, run-down towns and the thick greenery, we pulled up to an empty field, marred only by a tiny dirt path and a small shack constructed of 2x4s and dried palm fronds.
The seemingly random spot was actually our destination - a couple months ago when the boys were out surfing at a nearby spot, they drifted down the coast and serendipitously landed in front of the house. Seeing a head bobbing around in this virtually uncivilized place, they walked up the beach to the house and met the Turtle Whisperer and his wife Victoria.

TW had moved to this isolated spot around four years ago as civil employee charged with caring for the sea turtles and keeping their eggs safe. The government has since cut him from the payroll, but the couple continue living without any electricity, plumbing or transportation to look after the turtles. Their only income, it seems, is the benevolence of others.

The boys had all had a great time on their last visit, so, unannounced, we decided to stop by for an overnight on their sandy "front yard." Even though we literally dropped in out of nowhere, the couple greeted us as if we were their next-door neighbors stopping by for an evening chat. Their genuinely warm and welcome greeting was a little disarming - I think when I meet people who radiate kindness and warmth, it underscores my tendency to be defensive and cold at first.

We set down our backpacks and tents under their frond-thatched awning and immediately bounded off for the muddy-brown water, hence why Paul has deemed the beach "Chocolate." It's a nice little reminder that even in the middle of nowhere, litter and trash will inevitably wash up on shore - unless Victoria was the one who was chucking individual sandals into the ocean and waiting to see where they'd end up.

Their house was beautiful despite being barebones, it was evident they took great pride in their small piece of property. The main house was split into two sand-floor rooms: the first was the kitchen and living area, and the second their bedroom, both decorated with hundreds of seashell windchimes.

A few steps outside was the bathroom, which for being just a hole above the sand was an elaborately constructed wood-slatted building. The small hut was sectioned off into a shower area and a men's and women's bathroom, with a communal stone basin serving as the sink. The toilet was just a wood crate with a round hole in the middle (the women's with an actual toilet seat), and whatever was henceforth produced landed onto the sand below. A nearby bucket could be filled with sand to cover the 'organic' offerings, and TW sprinkled talc on it each night to fend off the bugs. (Sidenote: just outside the hut was a fresh-water well. Mmmm).

A few hours after arriving, Paul and Humberto drove into town to pick up some freshly caught red-snapper, vegetables and Modelo beer. The couple generously prepared us dinner with the supplies we'd bought and sat down to eat with us at the long, wooden table. During the meal, it started to rain and two giant rainbows appeared in the sky, one visible from both ends. Being techno-gringos, we of course got up to snap millions of pictures, and the couple just laughed a bit and reminded us that they get rainbows there every night.

After the meal, we sat around under the awning drinking our Modelo and wondering why no one had thought to bring bug spray. Even though I was wearing jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, the mosquitoes found a way to my flesh by biting me at least 20 times on each foot. The rain had made the tents damp and chilly, but sleeping on the beach always breaks my insomniac spell like none other.

In the morning, TW and Victoria offered us a heaping breakfast of eggs 'a la mexicana' with tomatoes and onions (I was tempted to ask if they were turtle eggs, but that felt pretty evil), as well as refried beans, rice and the classic Mexican pick-me-up, instant Nescafé. After the boys squeezed in one last surf (I have since retired), we handed the couple a 500-peso thank-you and packed up the rental car. After a thorough hugging session, they repeatedly insisted that we return. I realize I just said that we gave them money, but I like to think that if they were all about the money, they wouldn't be able to speak to turtles, then, would they?

In the end, I felt very warm and fuzzy. I wish I could just go on fun, exciting adventures and offer people my wit, charm and pesos along the way. As of lately, my only charitable giving has consisted of a few coins here and there when the mood strikes me or when I feel guilty about being virtually uncharitable in the day-to-day. It took me about a week to become practically desensitized and indifferent to the poverty and misfortune around me - otherwise, how could you handle living here? Maybe the Turtle Whisperer has all the answers.

USA v Mexico

A few weeks ago I had the chance to attend the USA v MEX World Cup qualifier game. As everyone here probably knows, Mexicans are CRAZY about their fútbol, even more so than *gasp* Buckeye fans are about OSU. So naturally my gringo friends and I were a little nervous about entering the 100,000-person Azteca Stadium where probably 99,900 of fans were not rooting for the red, white and blue. We'd heard stories about people getting batteries, bags of urine and other such gross things thrown on them in additional to emotional injury as well. So, being of ambiguous ethnicity, I wore a green tank top and let a dude outside the stadium paint my face with the Mexican flag to avoid such unpleasantries. Unpatriotic, you might call me. A whimp, you might say. Whatever, my love for USA soccer doesn't run deep enough to suffer through pee bags.

The match had been moved up from the typical evening game to 3 p.m., giving the Mexican team another obvious advantage over Team Gringo. Not only was the game held at 7,000+ feet, but during the afternoon the infamous Mexican smog is at its worst, mixing with the heat to form a truly sweaty and sticky experience. As such, I had to race to the stadium from work, meeting with a group of friends at the Metrobus platform. From there, we grabbed a quick cab ride to the stadium and made it about 10 minutes before the starting kick (with still enough time to grab plastic blue Corona trumpets to squeak into every five seconds). Our tickets were for the general seating section, and since literally every seat was filled, we sat on the steps, leaning left and right to avoid being stomped on by beer, hamburger or Ramen Noodle vendors. The gringo section was across the stadium, with around 100 red-shirted fans standing out amongst the typhoon of green. Looking at pictures of friends who sat in the section, I could see their rows were blocked off by heavily-suited policeman with plastic riot shields and menacing masks. Random objects and liquid were thrown.

Sitting on the steps in the Mexico section, things were relatively tame. When the US scored the game's first goal (USA! USA!) the crowd became unexpectedly silent. I was anticipating Mexicans to foam at the mouth with rage, but everyone just kinda held their breath. When the Mexicans scored, however, everyone went crazy, chucking whatever object was in their hand at the time towards the seats below them. Following both goals I was showered in what I can only hope was beer, conked in the head by empty pizza boxes and rendered deaf by shouts, Corona trumpets and frantic screaming.

On the way out, the gringo fans were offered police escorts, and the rest of us Mexican or wannabe-Mexican fans filed out by the thousands in a painfully slow procession. Don't fret USA fans, our loss at the Azteca didn't disqualify us for the World Cup. And though I still don't care about soccer, I would like to see Mexico shamed in defeat.

My country tis of thee..

The other day while riding one of the fancy new public buses down the central Reforma thoroughfare, I naturally passed a massive mob of protesters. When the stoplight turns red, they filed into the streets and around cars holding big signs and shouting chants in unison. Before the light turns green they run back onto the sidewalk banks and wait patiently for the next turn. This time, the protesters were demanding that the Mexican government treat its citizens like it treats Obama - with reverence, respect and a willingness to coordinate efforts. The Mexican people would like to see that same kind of diplomacy reflected inside its own borders, essentially. To drive the point home, many of the protesters donned Obama face masks, which was really a hilarious sight and made me wish I hadn't left my camera at the office. Instead, this Google-d image will have to suffice:

Mexican Waterworld

Because just one day trip on the water in Mexico isn't enough, last weekend I doubled my water fun by taking a twilight boat ride on Friday and an all-day rafting trip on Saturday.

The slow cruise down the Xochimilco canals in Mexico City's far south is one of those activities that ex-pats living in the city nearly tire of, they do it so much. I, however, had tired of saying "no" (approximately seven times) every time the opportunity arrived. So when Paul decided he wanted to take his visiting brother and sister down the dubiously clean waterways, I concurred (as did Matt and my roomie Humberto).

Xochimilco is pretty far away. It requires riding the metro to the very end of the line, then either taking a cab or hopping on the light rail train. We arrived around 6:30 p.m., and even though the sky was ominously cloudy and thunder was clapping, we escaped Mexico City's predictable evening showers. At the docks, a countless number of wooden rafts is lined up in rows, and you have to walk over four or so to get to the farthest one out. The wooden "lanchas" are painted bright, happy primary colors, and they smartly feature roofs. The dugout floor is complete with chairs and a table, as the essential purpose of making the trip is either to have a family picnic or a sloppy, drunk blowout at 0.002 miles/hour. We settled for a few beers and Mexi-flavored potato chips.

As any guide book will tell you, Xochimilco is a fascinating community seemingly worlds away from the city's interior. Most people there live along the water, taking tiny water taxis to get to places. Many people are farmers or gardeners - one of the city's best flower/plant market is in Xochi. Boat riders pay by the hour for their canal-tastic tour; we paid about 180 pesos for two hours. The ride is ridiculously slow, as an 18-year-old jóven pushed us along by stabbing a long, wooden pole into the water and pushing off the bottom. Passing boats was a little silly, because when you move that slow, you're essentially joined side-by-side with random families and there's no way to hide your curious stares. The best boats to pass were the ones loaded with teenagers guzzling bottles of booze without any parental supervision to stop them. And, despite the feeling of virtual isolation, if you need anything along the waterway, the boat pusher-boy can probably help you find it. We made a beer run once in front of a bare bone, wooden shack, which apparently marked the entrance to a little store somewhere down the path. Various restaurants or greenhouses also provided potties for a 4-peso pee fee.

Saturday was a much faster ride, but still kinda slow. Early in the morning, Laura and I walked over to meet up with some friends of friends who had put together a rafting trip near the Morelos/Guerrero state lines. As we carpooled down and over for about two hours, I marveled at the majestic beauty of the giant green mountains, clear blue sky and sweeping landscapes that are usually denied in Mexico City. But as soon as we pulled up in front of the starting point along the river, I realized we were standing under the gateway to the Cacahuamilpa caves, a trip I'd made with Azul some months back. So much for seeing new places.

No one in our nine-person boat had ever been rafting before, except for Tim, who had been various times in Mexico and used to raft in West Virginia. The river was a mystical shade of brown, and if it wasn't for the dirt and rock sediment that crunched between my teeth when we got splashed, I might've thought it was the chocolate river from Willy Wonka's factory.

The river is a Level 2, meaning it's the second-easiest level of all possible rafting experiences. However, that did not keep us from slamming into a rock wall and subsequently flipping the raft when gliding down the first rapid we encountered. After I fell out, I was stuck in the churning rapid, like a vertical whirlpool, and despite earlier instructions to not panic, I panicked. I started kicking as violently as I could, extending my arms forward in hopes of finding the surface (I also forgot that I was wearing a life jacket and would inevitably float to the top). When I did reach the top, I was stuck under the boat, so I just kept panicking and flailing until I surfaced, gasping for breath as if I'd nearly died after one minute of submersion.

I'm kinda glad that we flipped, though, because not only does it make a charming story for my blog, but it also provided more excitement than we would've otherwise experienced down the river. Not to brush aside the experience - it was a lot of fun - but it was nothing that the 10-year-old in our boat couldn't handle, either. The river was low despite it being the rainy season, and our nine bodies in the boat frequently meant we got stuck on the rocks. Sometimes we had to get out and push it along the more shallow parts.

At one point, the other rafting team and six or so kayakers got out when we crossed under a bridge. I followed Laura's more adventurous lead and climbed up the hillside. With one of the rafting guides, we crossed the squeaky, creaky bridge made out of rebar (the twisted metal rods that stick out of people's unfinished concrete block houses). I again thought that I might die, particularly when another rafter hopped on after me, her weight causing the bridge to swing left, right, left, right. But make it across we did, and after a five minute break to slow down my heart beat, we crossed back over to safety and resumed our casual raft ride down the river.

The end point lead us to the house where we'd first dropped off our stuff. The eco-tourism company we went with had apparently made friends with the family that lived there, who let us park our cars, use the toilet and change out of our river-stained clothes. We even ate weird gooey fruit that had fallen off the tree. After we attempted to freshen up, all 20-something of us walked down the road to a small restaurant, plastic chairs and all. The food was OK, typical roadside Mexican food, but the beer was a delicious 9 pesos a bottle (that's about 70 cents). The bathroom was also a treat: to reach it, you walked up a narrow concrete staircase to the second floor, a one-room space with a door to the balcony. That door was kept open, because behind it hid the toilet, which sat under a spiral staircase, the TP on one of the metal steps and the used paper placed inside an overflowing plastic bucket. After a long, late car ride home, a shower never felt so great.

The one, the only, the Lucha Libre

When people think of Mexican entertainment, a few things probably come to mind: men with trumpets dressed in funny sparkly suits, the grotesque donkey show, bullfighting or the Lucha Libre. I'm here to tell you about the latter.

For some foreigners living in Mexico, the Lucha Libre is kind of like a rite of passage. It's not something that you're necessarily interested in, but it's something that most everyone has seen at least once. And who doesn't want to see a bunch of grown men in spandex fake-fighting for an hour?

A few Friday nights ago I had the chance to attend a match with some super-fanatics, so I thought, 'why not?'

We sat up in the cheap seats inside the gigantic stadium not too far from my apartment. A spot on the sticky stone benches costs a mere 25 pesos (two bucks, roughly), although a 32 oz cup of warm keg beer costs 50 pesos. While our balcony seats where less than halfway filled, the bottom seats closest to the stage were completely packed, with screaming fans going wild for the borderline-homoerotic wrestlers. The best part for me was the live horn band that played during pivotal points or after "victories" on the stage. It's like the Mexican equivalent to our prerecorded scoreboard music that randomly evokes cheers of "CHARGE!" from the audience.

The night was divided into three fights and a succession of various rounds. I didn't actually understand what was going on so my details are going to be a bit fuzzy on this. What I do know is that the wrestlers each fulfilled very particular stereotypes, and I'm not even talking about the midget they stuffed into a blue gorilla costume who waddled on stage at various points.

The "best" wrestler, according to my posse of experts, is the openly gay fighter Máximo who donned a hot-pink mohawk and a sassy little Spartan costume made of purple shiny pleather with dangerously short pleats. I think the mini gorilla was his helper, or something. His preferred wrestling move was to kiss his opponents on the lips, which sent them flying dramatically backwards and left them wiping their lips in a panic for at least five minutes.

There were also a pair of Tejanos, or Texans, who dressed in tight white spandex cowboy costumes, with bull's horns placed appropriately over the crotch. I believe their weapon of choice was a whip. Black Warrior, naturally, was a black wrestler with dreads tied back in a Rasta-esque wrap. A Japanese wrestler with an appropriate karate headband bowed emphatically to his opponents before each fight. They mockingly bowed back after they kicked his butt.

A whole slew of other wrestlers appeared on stage, some wearing nothing more than neon green Speedos. Most wore the traditional Lucha Libre spandex face mask with little holes cut out for the eyes and mouth, and of which hundreds of replicas where available from street vendors outside the stadium. During each round, super sexy dancers came out to shake awkwardly back and forth for the Jumbotron.

Everyone's fighting was just as overblown and clearly fake as in WWF matches, but everyone loved it and clearly wanted more. And maybe I do too.



[Máximo in action!]

A Failed Experiment in Camping

Last weekend I learned that an adventurous spirit isn’t always enough to overcome a lack of preparation. And while Saturday night was certainly one of those “makes a good story” moments, I’m still genuinely scarred by the events that unfolded.

[This story is 1,100 words long. Enjoy].

When Laura proposed a camping trip, I suggested Parque Nacional El Chico, a huge “eco” reserve (albeit littered with chip bags and beer bottles) about 2-3 hours north of Mexico City and just outside the town of Pachuca. None of us knew much about the place, but it’s usually enough to have the general concept down and ask as you go.

After rallying the troops, including Matt, Paul and Enzué, we hopped aboard a “direct” bus (that made various stops) for less than five dollars apiece. Reaching Pachuca, we hopped on a “combi,” one of those ubiquitous 15-passenger vans produced sometime in the 1970s, heading towards the park. We didn’t know quite what to tell our driver, just that we wanted to camp for the night inside El Chico. My guidebooks and Google searches had all been a bit vague as to names and locations, so when the driver suggested the Las Ventanas campsite, it sounded as good as any.

He dropped us off inside a “reserve” complete with a half-empty pond, numerous Mexican weekenders and several wood stalls where women brought in Tupperware containers filled with tasty fillings for tacos, which they heated on large hot plates in the back. We hiked up a bit past the open field and into the woods, the enormously tall trees and thick scrub a promising shelter from tent robbers and the strong winds. The altitude at El Chico isn’t that much higher than in Mexico City, but the clouds were so low you could see them fly past and nearly scrape the ground.

We pitched our tents and explored the neighboring forest, but since we’d arrived around 5 p.m. and there was little to do, we mostly just waited for the sun to set so Sunday could come sooner. Things got cold and damp pretty fast, and it soon became evident that the thin flannel sheets Matt and I had brought in place of sleeping bags was a poor choice. It was an incredibly stupid, horrible, death-defying choice, we would learn a little later.

The leaves, sticks, logs and littered paper were all too damp to start a fire, so after the sun had mostly set, we stood around in a circle eating the food we’d brought: pre-toasted bread slices, plastic-wrapped slices of cheese and baked tortilla discs.

By 8:30 we’d tired of our amazingly bland feast and retired to our tents. I’d brought my yoga mat and we set down our raincoats and one of the blankets on the ground, but the earth was still tough and damp. Laying the far-too-breathable blanket on top of us, Matt and I began shivering in the spoon position, our nervous giggles turning into near-tears (ok, that was mostly just me). I slid my jeans back on over my sweatpants, put a second T-shirt on over my sweatshirt and eventually ended up with a pair of Matt’s boxers – clean – around my neck.

Around 10 p.m. I fell asleep and dreamt a cruel dream that I was back home in Mexico City wearing a tank top, the blaring sun shining down as I thanked the Lord that Saturday night was over. Then I woke up and found myself shaking and breathing hard in the fetal position with more than eight hours left until daylight. I couldn’t really fall asleep after that, and the rest of the night was a marathon of peeking my head out from under the blanket for air, switching sides for my frigid fetus form and occasionally shrieking out loud. Everything was dewy.

Even today, on a mild Monday morning, the sensation of being chilled is an unnerving, unsettling feeling that I’ll never be warm again.

By some miracle the sun finally rose, not that it heated anything up, but at least the night was over. Matt and I were the first up (and the only ones without sleeping bags) and we took a walk to get the blood moving into our frozen bodies. I gave Matt a pep talk so he wouldn’t start killing people in a blind rage. Everyone else got up a while later, and with tents packed and teeth unbrushed, we set off down the highway towards cooler things I’d heard about from some other campers.

Not more than ten minutes later we came across the entrance to El Chico, an under-construction visitor’s station there to greet us. “Ahh,” we sighed, “that’s why everything sucked. We weren’t in the park!” A combi took us into Mineral del Chico, a former mining pueblo that was still waking up when we rolled in around 10 a.m. I sipped what might’ve been the best hot chocolate of my life (because I was cold and because it had delicious spices) and a rice pudding “paste,” the region’s flaky pastry specialty. A nice pear vendor handed me two pieces of the fruit for free, laughing as Laura and I bit into the starchy pears because they were apparently meant for baking.

We spent an hour or so basking in the sunlight around Lake [name] and eating 5-peso bags of candy, surrounded by other campers who obviously knew better than we did. Paul bought a “fishing pole,” or an empty plastic Coke bottle wrapped in fishing wire and a bob. He didn’t catch anything in the paddleboat-polluted lake. We watched kite fliers and trampoline jumpers; we later set our packs inside a restaurant and for several hours climbed up to a ridge that overlooked the water. Our spirits and bodies were much warmer. I even sweat enough to remove two of four layers! The descent took no more than 30 minutes, primarily due to the constant decline that left us “forest surfing.”

Lunch was at the lakefront restaurant where we’d left our stuff. I ate a foil-baked trout that, we double-checked, was not from the lake but from a nearby fish hatchery. Matt ate his seventh huge taco for the weekend. Our return to Mexico City was a traffic-less sleepy haze and an unnecessarily long metro ride to my apartment. Once back in my room, I took a much-needed hot, hot shower and brushed my teeth for the first time in nearly two days. I dressed in pajamas suited for an Ohio winter, shut every window and snuggled deeply into my bed, crying a little inside with joy.