PUM.
Mexico is SO dangerous, they tell me. Foreigns and Mexicans.
Less than Houston, sure, but pretty darn bad. I could die here.
I've never been terribly concerned about dying here, to be honest. Whereas in Rio de Janeiro I nearly hyperventilated when I exited a subway station only to realize it was already dark and I had not a clue in which direction to find my hostel, Mexico City does not make me nervous. My general thinking is that, if I stay out of the bad neighbourhoods and leave my sparkling diamonds at home and don't get completely wasted before picking a fight with the local bouncer whose girlfriend I just unsuccessfully invited back to my hotel room, I should be fine. Muggings excepted.
In fact, there are only two things here that make me nervous: my morning game of Frogger across the eight-lane through-way of Avenida Chapultepec and the toxic slew of chemicals I've come to know as "air."
And here's why I'm not so afraid:
At 2:40 pm on Friday, February 15th, a man blew up about six blocks from my house. Initial reports were that he had noticed a plastic bag on the street, bent down to look at it and blammo.
To which I responded to my girlfriend with incredulity, "Really? Totally innocent?"
See, there really is no such thing as crossfire here. The drug cartels are like Hollywood mafiosos, orchestrating their hits with such theatrical precision as to make them intellectually fascinating: heads rolled out onto dancefloors, jubilant thank you notes for sending the victims, dramatic scenes of carnage and demonstrations of power. Assumedly there are gangs - a quick Google search brings up stories of rampaging Mexican youth and fleeing Hondurans trailed by angry Central American gang members - but they are hardly the stuff of legend north of the border. The druglords here know that mowing down a 15 year old seeking Boxing Day bargains will not send the same message as abducting and beheading the son of the President.
Also, Mexico has no fear of international terrorism, assumedly because Mexico is not the remotest bit interested in being a part of the War On nor does it emit the image of being among the Western Devil countries. Safely occupied with its own struggles with poverty and corruption and Latin Americanism, Mexico does not present a logical target for Al Qaeda, so no worries of mass bombings in transit systems or a plane smacking into Torre Latinoamericano.
So the very concept that this poor man bent down and POOF was hard to conceive of. Why would anyone have left a bomb on the street on a Friday afternoon? Who were they hoping to kill? It was not terrifying so much as it was... confusing. Had I been wrong all along?
The story's unfolding now, in true Mexican graphic style (yesterday I saw a photo of the victim's charred and gaping head). The guy? Not so innocent. Carrying the bomb, in fact, and wearing two layers of clothing for the likely purpose of being able to plant and disappear. Had the cellphone trigger on him as well, which gives rise to the morbidly humourous idea that someone sent him a text message (Pável hilariously suggests on his blog a post-Valentine's apology from his wife: "Gordito, ya perdóname. Vamos por unas quecas al rato, ¿quieres?").
The young woman seriously injured in the explosion, wailing from her hospital bed that she knows nothing about anything, I'm innocent! innocent!, was captured on a security camera walking arm in arm with the guy, seconds before the explosion.
The young man moderately injured, sadly, does appear to have just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Thankfully, he'll be fine.
No one's sure yet where the couple was going or who, exactly, they were, although speculation is that they had been hired by the Sinaloa cartel to bomb the nearby police station in retribution for having lost a key cartel figure to the hands of justice that Wednesday. The bomb, however, was poorly made and even more poorly handled, and the shocking little spatter of accidental carnage has not inspired anyone to claim responsibility. No wonder, really, as little fear can be spread with the message, "Watch out or we will send badly trained henchmen with ineffective ballistics after you!"
So I continue to not be terribly afraid of this city. With little inclination to get myself involved in the drug cartels or the police/justice/political anti-cartel crusade, my biggest threat remains the Wild West lawlessness of Mexican driving culture. Green light, red light - what's the difference? God speed, young pedestrian.
Less than Houston, sure, but pretty darn bad. I could die here.
I've never been terribly concerned about dying here, to be honest. Whereas in Rio de Janeiro I nearly hyperventilated when I exited a subway station only to realize it was already dark and I had not a clue in which direction to find my hostel, Mexico City does not make me nervous. My general thinking is that, if I stay out of the bad neighbourhoods and leave my sparkling diamonds at home and don't get completely wasted before picking a fight with the local bouncer whose girlfriend I just unsuccessfully invited back to my hotel room, I should be fine. Muggings excepted.
In fact, there are only two things here that make me nervous: my morning game of Frogger across the eight-lane through-way of Avenida Chapultepec and the toxic slew of chemicals I've come to know as "air."
And here's why I'm not so afraid:
At 2:40 pm on Friday, February 15th, a man blew up about six blocks from my house. Initial reports were that he had noticed a plastic bag on the street, bent down to look at it and blammo.
To which I responded to my girlfriend with incredulity, "Really? Totally innocent?"
See, there really is no such thing as crossfire here. The drug cartels are like Hollywood mafiosos, orchestrating their hits with such theatrical precision as to make them intellectually fascinating: heads rolled out onto dancefloors, jubilant thank you notes for sending the victims, dramatic scenes of carnage and demonstrations of power. Assumedly there are gangs - a quick Google search brings up stories of rampaging Mexican youth and fleeing Hondurans trailed by angry Central American gang members - but they are hardly the stuff of legend north of the border. The druglords here know that mowing down a 15 year old seeking Boxing Day bargains will not send the same message as abducting and beheading the son of the President.
Also, Mexico has no fear of international terrorism, assumedly because Mexico is not the remotest bit interested in being a part of the War On nor does it emit the image of being among the Western Devil countries. Safely occupied with its own struggles with poverty and corruption and Latin Americanism, Mexico does not present a logical target for Al Qaeda, so no worries of mass bombings in transit systems or a plane smacking into Torre Latinoamericano.
So the very concept that this poor man bent down and POOF was hard to conceive of. Why would anyone have left a bomb on the street on a Friday afternoon? Who were they hoping to kill? It was not terrifying so much as it was... confusing. Had I been wrong all along?
The story's unfolding now, in true Mexican graphic style (yesterday I saw a photo of the victim's charred and gaping head). The guy? Not so innocent. Carrying the bomb, in fact, and wearing two layers of clothing for the likely purpose of being able to plant and disappear. Had the cellphone trigger on him as well, which gives rise to the morbidly humourous idea that someone sent him a text message (Pável hilariously suggests on his blog a post-Valentine's apology from his wife: "Gordito, ya perdóname. Vamos por unas quecas al rato, ¿quieres?").
The young woman seriously injured in the explosion, wailing from her hospital bed that she knows nothing about anything, I'm innocent! innocent!, was captured on a security camera walking arm in arm with the guy, seconds before the explosion.
The young man moderately injured, sadly, does appear to have just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Thankfully, he'll be fine.
No one's sure yet where the couple was going or who, exactly, they were, although speculation is that they had been hired by the Sinaloa cartel to bomb the nearby police station in retribution for having lost a key cartel figure to the hands of justice that Wednesday. The bomb, however, was poorly made and even more poorly handled, and the shocking little spatter of accidental carnage has not inspired anyone to claim responsibility. No wonder, really, as little fear can be spread with the message, "Watch out or we will send badly trained henchmen with ineffective ballistics after you!"
So I continue to not be terribly afraid of this city. With little inclination to get myself involved in the drug cartels or the police/justice/political anti-cartel crusade, my biggest threat remains the Wild West lawlessness of Mexican driving culture. Green light, red light - what's the difference? God speed, young pedestrian.
Comments
This is one of the reasons I hate the idea of resorts. If I go to another country, I want to see what the country really is rather than whatever has been constructed for the sake of tourism.