24 years after Mexico City's worst earthquake

Today marks 24 years since Mexico's worst recorded earthquake. They (the first and its aftershocks) destroyed major parts of Mexico City; the 8.1 magnitude disaster killed upwards of 10,000 people, depending on which source you ask. The government (at the time, the PRI, the political dinosaur that controlled Mexico for about 70 years) had more conservative estimates, but some groups put the number as much as 45,000. No one has an exact figure, but what we do know is that it instilled an awareness in defeños.

Yesterday I was walking near my office and I saw a few hundred people on the street taking part in an earthquake drill, which are obligatory in this sprawling metropolis. At my last job, the entire 31-floor Torre Mural had occasional drills where everyone had to quickly and orderly gather near the elevators and in single file go down the stairs to the ground level. I did two of these in my year at the law firm, one drill and one actual evacuation.

On May 22 of this year, I was at my desk on the 20th floor doing some work 30 minutes into my lunch break. Suddenly, I felt dizzy and disoriented and thought I was falling off my chair. As I shook my head to regain my sense of vision I looked behind me and could see the glass panels and steel structures swaying. Many of the 90-some employees had already left the office for lunch, but the remaining few stood up, bewildered, and asked "did you feel that?!" as the brigadista (the designated person who organizes office workers in such events) announced over the loudspeaker to gather near the elevators. We waited there a few minutes as the brigadista made sure everyone was ready to evacuate. Twenty sets of stairs quickly became tiring, but they weren't as crowded as I expected since most of the building was at ground level already.

My new job is much closer to the ground. I'm on the fifth floor of the building housing The News, a few quick leaps down the stairs.

While likely half of the city was destroyed, the Mexico City Valley seems to have a slight but growing case of amnesia. Many of the post-quake buildings in middle and upper class areas were constructed keeping in mind that mid-80s day, but many weren't. Some buildings seem to be poorly built -- even new ones -- while 85's survivors sit vacant and loom over us as a reminder that they are ready to come down to earth if disturbed by any strong movement...such as this one on Insurgentes Avenue:




Following the earthquake, residents moved further and further from the downtown area or out of the city altogether. Santa Fe, a former dump-turned posh business district laden with skyscrapers and pretentious apartment complexes, was built near the outskirts of the city to avoid the dangers of constructing over soft soil. Much of the city is a dried-out lake bed, with many neighborhoods poorly planned even after the earthquake. 1985's earthquake had its epicenter on the Pacific coast, hundreds of kilometers from the south-central megalopolis, but with its structure and crowdedness, the Federal District is sensitive to moving and shaking. Let's hope that we don't have to relearn the same lesson again.

Water rats

There's always a rat in pirate (siempre hay una rata en pirata):

Chiapas is reporting that fake companies are now selling "pirated" water in Mexico's southernmost state. Impostors pretending to be legit companies fill "garrafones," or 20-liter returnable water jugs, with supposedly purified water. The fraudsters have the same types of jugs and even rip off logos and labeling. While the agua pirata may be safe, authorities say not to buy it. Chiapas is Mexico's poorest and most marginalized state, and access to safe drinking water has long been a problem.

Some pix

Here's a slideshow of some recent photos in Mexico City.

Mexico Prity

Unfortunately, Mexico City is often regarded as a dangerous, dirty place where kidnapping and violence are the norms. It's not. Just ask any of the tens of thousands of Americans living here, or any of the other hundreds of thousands who have come here for a higher standing of living. El DF is a great, beautiful city. Like any megalopolis it has its problems, but not on the level most foreigners think. Here's a good video -- purely PR -- that shows the great parts of a city with an unfair reputation.

(the first part of it is in the indigenous Nahuatl language, I think, but bear with it).

Guilty peaches, futbol and cement splatters

Mercado Mixcoac (pronounced MIX-co-wok) is a bright, busy, cluttered place a few blocks from the subway station with the same name. The market sits in front of one of the city’s main streets, Revolución, where construction workers are tearing up the roads, widening them with fresh pavement and constructing overpasses, intersections and pedestrian walkways. With all the detours and blocked-off lanes, traffic is thick, adding even more noise to the lively neighborhood.

I went there yesterday after hunting for a new refrigerator. Ours failed last month, so we’ve been eating out a lot lately, but with the upcoming quincena it’s time to buy a new one. I went to a Famsa outlet store (furniture and appliances), where, just two weeks earlier, Ahmed and I had found a refri for 4,000 pesos –11 cubic feet, GE, a bargain in Mexico – but unfortunately, that was a mother’s day promo and we didn’t act fast enough.

No luck yesterday. Either too expensive or not the right size, nothing called my attention, and the pushy Famsa clerks didn’t bother barging in – everyone was absorbed (along with much of Mexico) in the Barcelona – Manchester soccer game. Most of the TVs on display were tuned into the nail biter.

I left, disappointed, and just to compare prices, went to the Elektra store right across the street. The chain has a reputation for making, for example, high-definition plasma TVs and washer-dryer combo units look affordable to poor people through 386 low monthly payments of 249 pesos, but once you hand over the down payment, then the interest charges, late fees and commission start adding up, and if you don’t make your payments promptly you get Elektra people harassing you on the phone and at your doorstep. So I’ve heard.

I got out of there quickly. Easily more expensive than elsewhere, I started heading back to the Mixcoac station, about 20 minutes from the office, but passing the market, scents of fresh strawberries and mole reminded me I had to eat, like now.

But more than half of the stalls in the market, with their 9 inch, fuzzy TVs tuned into the futbol game and the vendors hypnotized, I couldn’t let a perfect Kodak moment escape my so-far fruitless day. So I circled the market several times, passing every type of fruit and chili pepper you can imagine. I held my breath while passing the raw meat and fish section, where I saw a freshly skinned hog hide, little hairs still poking out of the white, gooey blanket of skin. Fried chicharrones with salt, lime and salsa, though, I’m down.

Unable to build the courage to ask one of the shopkeers’ permission to take a snap, I left the market, discouraged, and started heading back to the station. But with more than 40 minutes left for my lunch break, I decided to give it one more shot. I went in through a different entrance, this time passing and ignoring a vendor who asked, “What would you like young man?”. It was the second woman who caught me.

An old man was standing in the aisle, so as I was trying to pass the woman said, “What are you looking for young man?” (young man (in Spanish, joven)…that’s my name).

“Um…” I said,

“Here, try a peach,” she said, handing me a small, delicious, fuzzy one. I ate it, juicy, sweet and intoxicating. The small, short-haired woman showed me her neatly organized display of fruits, listing off all the types she had, and I said, “mangos”.

It seemed as if before I even told her she already had two fat, yellow manila ones on a tray, and asked,

“Do you want these ones?”

I asked her what other ones she had.

She showed me two different sizes, explaining that the bigger cost 25 pesos a kilo while the smaller ones cost 20 pesos. I hesitated, while 10-peso mangos flashed in my mind that I had seen at other stalls. I couldn’t refuse after she had given me the peach of guilt.

“How many do you want?” she asked.

“Two.”

“Two kilos?”

"No, just two…for lunch."

“Which ones?”

“Uh…which one tastes better?”

“The quality’s the same, joven, the only difference is the size.”

“Well, give me the smaller ones then.”

"Only two?”

“Yes please,” so she weighed them, bagged them and charged me 9 pesos.

“Gracias!” I said,

“Que le vaya bien” (literally, “may it go well for you”, but more accurately, “Take care and have a good day”).

D’oh, I thought…she didn’t even have her own TV, and my plan was to first buy something and then ask the vendor to take a photo of customers watching the game. Ni modo. So I continued, still without the huevos to ask someone for a photo and left the market once more. As I was walking out, amid the blaring car horns, road construction and hot, piercing sun, I noticed a concrete mixer and men up to their waists smoothing out the quickly drying stuff. This would make a great photo, I thought. I looked down, ready to remove my camera from the messenger bag, and saw that I was being spackled with wet cement drops. Oops.

I walked along the sidewalk, the street blocked off with plastic mesh fencing, and decided I'd passive aggressively take a photo from the distance:

Done. Enough confidence now, I walked back into the market. This time I will find my target, I thought -- and did: a middle-aged woman with a fruit stall near the entrance.

I bought more mangos (my favorite fruit, which happens to be in season now) for half the price as the other stand and then asked her, in the most polite manner, if I could take a photo of her stand.

“I’m a photographer,” I told her.

“Yes, ok,” she said indifferently.

I framed the shot of the TV near a pineapple and banana display, in the top left corner, with another TV in the background, customers’ necks craned up and watching the game. Two guys my age – maybe the woman’s sons – were standing next to me, out of the frame, watching attentively but unenthusiastic about the setup.

I took a dozen photos, thanked the woman and headed out excitedly. I got what I wanted, finally.

Last stop: something to eat. I ordered two quesadillas, one fish and one shrimp, and removed the tooth picks that held their form together. The greasy paper on which they were served almost turned transparent, and I squeezed the juice from three bits of lime on them just to be safe...a highly effective bacteria killer.

They were delicious: the shrimp tasted fresh, spiced with cilantro and tomato and something else that left me even hungrier. The fish, equally. But I had to get moving and hurried on to the station.

Not without a juice, though. The sidewalk, with vendors selling mostly pirated CDs, movies, clothing or whathaveyou, was clogged faster than my arteries were at that point, but I found a juice stand. The juice guy -- who was watching the game -- gave an insolent look after I told him I wanted the arbitrarily named Conga mix (OJ, pineapple, papaya, mango and honey) and charged me 15 pesos for a 12 oz. He probably overcharged me for my accent, but I was thirsty.

I sipped the Conga, a strange-tasting but quenching drink, and dodged more traffic, people, street vendors and road construction to get to the station, where I boarded the poorly ventilated train and got back to work, sweaty and satisfied.