Everyone knows there are some things you cannot control. Conventional wisdom is that we can’t change other people – we can only change ourselves. But even that power is overrated. Looking back on my own life, I have traveled through it like a migrating bird, propelled by unseen impulses, rather than conscious choices.
In a foreign country, making choices is even more difficult. The data is alien and difficult to comprehend, let alone act upon. We face a simple question: what should be done about our car, a VW Passat that repeatedly breaks its oil pan on the rough roads?
Data point 1: A friendly tow truck driver suggests that our car is not well-designed for Mexican roads and that we should find a different car. This makes sense. We want to take trips and explore the back roads, but our sense of adventure has its limits. Being stranded on a deserted road with a weeping five year-old crosses the line. We decide to buy an SUV. The kind of car I have fantasized about for many years. In my fantasy, I hold a key in my hand and was writing on the side of the car something like, “How many people must die so you can drive this?”
The next decision: where to buy the car? We decide to buy a car in the U.S. and drive it down. We are going to California to visit my mother. This is commonplace in Colima where a cottage industry exists among those Mexicans who have U.S. visas. They frequently travel to the U.S. where they buy used cars and drive them here for re-sale. A car worth $5,000 in the U.S. sells for $7,000 down here. My thinking was this: “I had the time. Why not?” The answer to this question existed only in the future, lurking out of view, blurred beyond recognition by hope and naiveté.
After deciding to buy in the U.S., I investigate the law in Mexico about importing used cars? Being a lawyer helps. Being a remedial Spanish student doesn’t. I want a Toyota. There is a Toyota dealership in Colima so I assume that finding a good mechanic here will be easy. After many weeks researching and inquiring about a Toyota, I learn that Japanese-made cars cannot be imported to Mexico (unless they are pick-up trucks). Only cars made or assembled in the U.S. are eligible for importation. (Made possible by NAFTA.) Next, I learned that Isuzu makes an SUV and assembles it in Kentucky. Therefore, I started investigating the Isuzu Rodeo.
I locate several Rodeos on craigslist available in California. Eva and I settle on a 1995 Isuzu Rodeo with 160,000 miles. Price: $3,600.
Next question: what procedures will we need to follow in order to import and legalize the car? Several customs brokers tell me that in order to import a car permanently I will need to: (a) wait 72 hours at the border; and (b) assign the title of the car to a Mexican citizen. This is totally unworkable. I refuse to sit in Nogales for 3 days and then transfer title to someone else. So I decide to simply import the car temporarily, as we had done with our Volkswagen (and which I could have done with a Toyota for that matter!). Temporary importation means that I must promise not to sell the car in Mexico and that we MUST return it to the U.S. Fine. Whatever.
The last step was to buy the car. The seller, a man living in Pasadena, wants a $500 deposit to hold the car until we arrive several weeks later. I order a certified check from our bank in Seattle. A few days later, he writes me that the $500 check had arrived but it was not a cashier’s check – it was an “official check” which means that I can put a stop payment on it at any time before it clears. Because of that fact, he will not release the car until 5 days after the full payment is received – until the check cleared. I call my bank to verify this fact. Then, I immediately send him a check for the remaining $3100. Delivery of the car was imperative before we are scheduled to leave the country, whether or not the check clears. We are putting an immense amount of trust in this guy who will have both the money and the car. I send him an email explaining the importance of having the car before we leave. This is his response to me, which I get the night before we left Colima:
Alex-You have to understand that one of the responsibilities I have for myjob is to find and weed out any potential fraud for the company. Weget a lot of fraud attempts, and only actually process very few. Assuch, I can usually smell a fraud case from a mile away.From that perspective, having a guaranteed check (as opposed to acashiers check) drawn from an account whose name I cannot verify inthis transaction from a bank in Washington State to a person fromMexico who is emailing me from a gmail account (that doesn’t show theIP of where you are connecting from, as yahoo does) just rings offraud. In this situation, I just have to be careful to protect myself.I’m not trying to rain on your parade the night before you fly out,and I will be there on friday provided the check clears. I’m justlaying out all the cards and explaining why I’m so ansy about thisparticular transaction. . . . There’s a couple of little loose ends that we also need to clear up.First, according to the documentation I’ve seen, I can only releasethe vehicle to someone with a California drivers license or ID card.I assume you or your mother has one? Secondly, I just want to makesure you have access to email during your stay here, or there isanother way to contact you.
-Conrad
I close my computer, turn off the light and try to sleep. This will all work out fine. Don’t respond now; you’ll just say something mean or sarcastic or stupid. My head hurts. I really try not to respond but, like those migrating birds, urges rise up in me. I write a message to cover up my intense irritation with light-hearted banter: “If I was perpetrating an elaborate fraud, I would aim for something more than a 1995 Isuzu Rodeo!” Ha, ha, ha! What I really want to say is this: “I sent you the money, motherfucker. Bring the car or I will hunt down your bureaucratic, fraud-sniffing ass!”
He showed up on Friday with the car. Seemed like a nice guy.
The returning to Mexico is a simple plan: I drive the “new” car back 900 miles while Eva and Zoë fly. After dropping off Eva and Zoë, I pulled away from the terminal. Almost immediately, I notice that Eva had left her I-Pod in the car. She loves that thing. She can’t run on the treadmill at the gym without it. So I pull over in an empty spot in a vacant area between two terminals. Perhaps a large sign or flashing orange terror alert is nearby but I don’t notice. It seems like a perfectly safe spot to me.
I leave the car and sprint back to Eva and Zoë. During my dash, I realize how suspicious I look – racing like a madman away from an older model SUV (surely those Trader Joes’ bags are a convenient cover for explosives!). In my hand, I carry a small, red detonation device with a white cord dangling from it (Eva’s I-Pod). I run even faster, imaging that Kiefer Sutherland is gaining on me.
I hand off the I-Pod to a pleasantly surprised Eva and begin my return sprint. I am losing strength. Then, I see him. The cop. He is standing by the car with radio in his hand. It’s being called in. When I get there, he is visibly agitated.
“Come here,” he demands. “Is this your car?”
“Yes,” panting, “My wife needs her I-Pod … thinks she’s fat….”
“Can you tell me any reason why I should not give you a ticket?”
I think of several, such as the short time I was there or the fact that this is a vast, empty space between terminals that isn’t a likely spot for any mischief. But I decide to lick the boots of authority for once in my life: “No, I can’t think of any.”
He says something like “get the hell out of here.” I gratefully and happily comply.[1]
The first day, driving from Los Angeles to Tucson, is fine, other than the Isuzu doing a fair amount of jerking in the higher gears. Throughout the day, the “check engine” light flashes on and off. The transmission seems to get stuck from time-to-time before eventually changing gears. We make it to Tucson (me and the car). I decide to push on to Colima before having the car worked on.
The next morning, I find a Starbucks in Green Valley, Arizona (an oxymoron), and head for the border. Less than a mile away from the border, my cell phone rings. Eva sounds sounding anxious, “Where are you? I have something to tell you. They might not let you cross the border.” Apparently, she has just learned that you can only bring one car into Mexico and I had already brought in our Passat. A strange calm settles over me. Eva is troubled, sensing only the calm before the storm. She continues tentatively, “No matter what happens, keep a sense of humor about it.” It is her polite way of saying, “don’t throw a hissy fit.” But for some reason, I am not upset. A flat tire and I would lose it – throw things around, etc. But this is too big. Plus, I have plenty of time for a meltdown later. I stop at the border. I parked my car at the immigration office and enter. My visa is stamped and that’s it. No one says anything other than a checkpoint 21 kilometers south. When I get there, an armed policeman briefly glances at me and waves me through. He asks no questions. Doesn’t even ask for my i.d. Nothing. For all he knew, I could have been hiding Lou Dobbs in my back seat.[2]
The rest of the day I drive south through the state of Sonora. Military personnel are everywhere. A week ago, drug dealers made a brazen daylight attack against the police and military.[3] In response to this incident, the military has set up a series of checkpoints on the highway. At one of these, I see a soldier peering at me over the cab of a military pick-up. He has a machine gun aimed directly at me (and the other cars in the line). I try to look innocent. What does that look like? I remember the recommended “10 and 2” position on the steering wheel and use it immediately.
Military transport vehicles carrying armed soldiers are everywhere. The soldiers – very young men – look nervously from the back of the trucks. They hold onto their guns tightly, often pointing them out the back of the truck, preparing for an attack at any minute. I follow behind one such truck for a few miles, afraid to pass but not slowing down much either. My 10 and 2 will save me. (I find it difficult to think with guns pointed at me.)
A week after I pass through Sonora, a family of 5 (two women and three children) are gunned down at a military checkpoint for allegedly failing to stop. This doesn’t surprise me. Scared young men are heavily-armed. If a car make a false or suspicious move, there are many young nervous fingers on the trigger.[4]
The next day, I continue south, entering Sinaloa, the place that most American guidebooks warn about. It appears that the local criminals have stopped robbing Americans on the highway and have decided to sell drugs to Americans instead. It does seem more civilized to let us pick our own poison. Let the free market reign!
Driving through Sinaloa, it is apparent why banditos chose this area. Except for the city of Mazatlan, there is nothing but an empty highway for hundreds of miles -- perfect setting for a thorough and leisurely robbery. There aren’t any gas stations for a very long while. As the gas gauge approaches empty, I have a déjà vu: when traveling this same highway last August, I almost ran out of gas. The wit and wisdom of George W. Bush comforts me: “Fool me once, shame on me. Fool me twice, well, . . . don’t get fooled again.”
After making it through Sinaloa on my third day of driving, I decide to venture to the coastal town of San Blas, Nayarit – about three hours north of Puerto Vallarta. It’s a quiet village which has become famous for its diversity of birds. I roll in around 8:00 p.m. and find a room for $50, which include free wireless internet and air-conditioning. It is my own little Starbucks away from home. Just without the over-roasted coffee. The next morning, I intend to spend a few hours looking for interesting birds. After walking around in the heat and humidity for 25 minutes, seeing more insects on my skin than birds in the air, I decide to give up. I miss my family.
From San Blas to Colima is only 5 and a half hours. I navigate the maze of roads around Guadalajara and head into the home stretch.
In retrospect, the decision to buy a car in the U.S. and drive it south was not very wise. But despite the hazards, real and imagined, I feel safe when I am driving. I have the illusion of control. The world beyond my window seems like a video game that can be maneuvered around. When others are driving, I can be terrified – like the bus driver who drove us through the night from Mexico City. Then, my illusion of control disappears. My fear is disproportionate to the actual danger. I want to feel less safe when I am driving and more safe when others are driving. My over-confidence behind the wheel is as absurd as my fear when others are driving. The fact is that I am rarely in control of anything. And even when I seem to be in control, my own actions spring from somewhere deep inside me, often without forethought or planning. I search for that elusive wisdom that can know the difference between the things I cannot control and those which I can. The search continues.
[1] This incident got me thinking about terrorism. The collective fear of terrorism is akin to our fear of sharks. The statistical improbabilities are staggering. But imagine if every beach was set up with a color-coded shark attack alert. Some days it is elevated to “orange”. Other days, a cautionary yellow. No one is every attacked but in the newspapers and on the television, there are stories about groups of sharks gathering just offshore. Huge sharks caught offshore (given no due process) are prominently displayed as the lead story in the news. Investigative journalists write stories about how easy it would be for a 12 foot shark to swim in water as shallow as 3 feet – exactly where your children like to frolic and play! Computer animations fill in where your imagination leaves off. Those who dare venture to the beach for a swim are required to undergo thorough inspection for any small cuts that might attract sharks Yes, the only thing we have to fear is fear itself.
Terrorism seems to be a top priority in public policy discussions. Poverty? Not so much. Education? Who cares? How about drunk driving? Since 1993, over 200,000 Americans have been killed in alcohol-related driving accidents. In that same period, fewer than 4,000 Americans have been killed by terrorism. What is the difference? You are happily driving along when a drunk crosses the center line and smashes into your family car, killing some, disfiguring others. Is this not terrifying? What is to be gained by fixating our consciousness and public policy debates terrorism? Safety?
[2] For those of you who don’t know, Lou Dobbs is a CNN reporter who is rabidly anti-immigration and insists that Mexicans are spreading leprosy in the U.S.
[3] “4 Police Officers Slain” Thursday, May 17, 2007, The Dallas Morning News: “In a brazen attack, a commando unit of up to 50 suspected drug cartel gunmen stormed into the Sonora town of Cananea, near the Arizona border, early Wednesday, abducted two civilians and seven police, and later killed four of the officers.
Two officers were badly beaten and released while one police officer and the two civilians were still missing. Late Wednesday, the Mexico City newspaper Reforma reported on its Web site that the commandos had also clashed with state and federal police in the nearby town of Arizpe, leaving six of the gunmen dead.
. . . . Wednesday's violence came amid a wave of attacks against government and law enforcement officials. Gunmen assassinated a top official in the attorney general's office Monday in Mexico City, and the mayor of Apatzingán, Michoacán, was shot Tuesday in an apparent assassination attempt. Six soldiers have been killed in drug-related violence in May.
Mr. Bours said the convoy of 10 to 15 vehicles involved in Wednesday's attack had traveled about 180 miles across the state without being detected until the group was just a few miles from its target: the mining town of Cananea, about 50 miles southeast of Nogales. The commandos arrived just after midnight.
In Cananea, truckloads of state and federal police were in the streets but few average citizens, said Michael Marizco, editor of borderreporter.com, who spoke by telephone from the scene.
"People seem terrified, the police are scared, they're sitting in the back of their trucks with machine guns in their hands and the civilians are staying inside their houses," said Mr. Marizco, whose Web site is dedicated to news and analysis from the Sonora-Arizona border.
[4] Writing in the newspaper Reforma, columnist Sergio Sarmiento said the Sinaloa incident proved that innocent people were being killed in the drug war."The idea that drug dealers and the people close to them are the only people caught up in the violence we are living in Mexico is a silly lie made up to keep the population calm," Sarmiento wrote. "We are in the midst of war … a struggle in which two sides face off without any concern or thought about the civilian population."
Monday, June 18, 2007
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
72 Hours In Mexico City
72 Hours in Mexico City
We spent 72 hours in Mexico City, which is more than twice the time allocated by the New York Times for any city. Its regular travel feature “36 Hours in ______” actually covered Mexico City a few months ago. Eva clipped it out and brought it with us. Based on our visit there, the article should have advised: “Plan to spend at least 30 of your 36 hours in traffic. The remaining 6 hours will be spent looking for a safe taxi. Hailing a taxi off the street will lead directly to death and dismemberment.”
We come from a country where the leading newspaper promotes the idea that 36 hours in any given place is sufficient. For a city with any depth, that concept is a joke. For Mexico City, inhabitated by 20 million people, and steeped in history, spanning three separate civilizations, the idea of a 36 hour trip is a parody of the American mindset. What if the New York Times had a regular column to summarize great novels for busy professionals? “36 Words On ‘Kite Runner’”. Here goes: “Rich Man, Poor Man set in Afghanistan. As a child, the rich man fails to prevent sadistic assault on best friend (poor man). Haunted by guilt, rich man distances self from poor man. Emigrates to America. Years later, he makes amends by returning to Afghanistan, confronting sadistic man from past and rescuing poor boy’s child.” Cliffnotes on steroids. How about this summary of “Catch-22” for the busy New Yorker: “Yossarian does not like war very much. Tries to get out of army but finds army bureaucracy confusing and frustrating.”
72 hours in Mexico City is only marginally better. But even in our rushing about, we managed to see amazing art and awe-inspiring architecture. (I am sending under separate cover a PowerPoint with photos and captions. Too bad I can’t read this story aloud while showing you the PowerPoint. A Spalding Gray multi-media thing.) To demonstrate the futility of the NY Times’ “36 Hours In Mexico City,” one week later, the editor had to publish a correction which identified 4 separate errors. And so I reserve the right to publish corrections of the following events.
The Overnight Bus.
Our bus was scheduled to leave Colima for Mexico City at 9:30pm. We told Zoë that we were having a “pajama party” on the bus. For a five year-old, each new experience has the potential to be a source of complete joy and utter amazement. When told about the pajama party and spending the whole night on the bus, she wrinkled her eyebrows and looked both pleased and puzzled, “I’ve never heard of a pajama party on a bus.” She kept repeating this until she was thoroughly worked up in anticipation. To make it even more exciting, our 22 year-old daughter, Nicole, was traveling with us. Zoë snuggled up next to Nicole, ate her free sandwich, and went to sleep. Meanwhile, I took two sleeping pills and didn’t sleep. Or did I? It was really hard to tell. My best estimate is that I had 80 naps of 5 minutes each. I kept waking up to the sound of the bus accelerating or rattling or to the feel of a curve being taken too fast. These awakenings jolted me into the realization that I was being hurtled through the night by a complete stranger in a 5 ton vehicle. To make matters worse, I’ve seen these buses from the outside – from the oncoming lane. They don’t slow down for curves and they look impossibly huge compared to the road. When driving at night, the buses erupt out of the darkness, blinding you with the lights exactly at eye level, and then roar past. You can only hold on and hope you don’t run off the road. On this night, we were traveling a particularly scary stretch of highway, between Colima and Guadalajara. There are narrow bridges over deep canyons. What terrified me is that the margin of error -- the margin between staying alive and careening into a bottomless river gorge, is impossibly small.
Given all of this, I did the only rational thing: I stay awake to help the driver. If the bus leaned too much one way, then I leaned my body the other way. When I felt the bus driver apply the brakes (a happy yet rare occurrence), I pressed my foot down to assist. Fortunately, I stayed awake long enough to ensure our safe arrival in Mexico City on Wednesday morning at 7am.
As we disembarked the bus, the sun was still below the horizon. The air was extremely cool. Mexico City, often referred to as D.F. (Distrito Federal) sits at over 7,000 feet above sea level. Large mountains and one active volcano surround the city. After fighting traffic in a taxi to our hotel, we ventured out around 9am. It was still cold enough to require jackets.
The tourism industry runs a fleet of bright red, double-decker buses with open air top decks. Zoë insisted on this mode of transportation. While riding in the front row of the top level, she declared it the most thrilling ride ever. Being with an enthusiastic five year-old is to be five years old again. (Or so I imagine. But honestly I remember only glimpses of being five. It’s shocking to consider how little Zoë will remember of these adventures in Mexico. She is really the intended reader of these essays. When I get discouraged about these writings and whether they’re good enough to be published, Eva wisely reminds me: “think of how Zoë will love to read these when she’s older.” The thought of Zoë reading these – or reading these to her children -- makes me very happy.) The tour buses are magical in this sense: they lift you well above the street traffic and provide the illusion of not being in traffic at all. If a car almost hits the bus, it’s a little comical. “Oh, look at that cute little car down there! It nearly got crushed!! What fun!!”
But seriously, Mexico City has horrible traffic. In response, the city has instituted a system whereby you cannot drive one day per week depending on the last letter of your license plate. Apparently, it has reduced traffic and air pollution. (Imagine the outcry in the U.S. if the government tried to take away the right to drive alone to and from work everyday in a Hummer.) There a million taxis on the street, especially the bright green VW Bugs. But every guide book sternly warns against hailing a cab off the street. In D.F., it is an unfortunate fact that kidnapping and robbery is common. We hear stories of wealthy lawyers who’ve being kidnapped 3 different times – released each time for a ransom of $30,000. I decide its important to instruct Eva on ransom negotiations in the event of my capture. First, tell them that I’ve been cheating on you, we’re getting a divorce and that you hate me. Offer nothing. In fact, offer them $100 to kick me in the teeth. Once you’ve established your bargaining position, wait. They’ll call back. On the next call, treat them like a telemarketer – ask them to put you on the “do not call list.” Hang up on them. On the third call, offer them $200 if they’ll kick me in the nuts, release me and stop calling you.
Next, I thought we should discuss my approach in the event that Eva is the one kidnapped. When I asked, she simply glared at me. I assume that she was practicing her “game face”. I just nodded. “Got you!” (Thumbs up.)
So, don’t hail a cab off the street. There are two types of “secure taxis” in D.F.: private cars and official city taxis called “sitios”. All the hotels are in cahoots with the private car services and probably received nice kickbacks. If you ask any hotel for a taxi, they send an expensive private car. They are three times the cost of a sitio taxi. So, of course, we spent many hours wandering the streets looking for “sitios.” In one daring moment, Nicole and I defied all conventional wisdom and took a ride from a regular taxi. I had several justifications for this. First, it was the only taxi around. Second, I saw a Mexican family getting out of the cab and they looked unscathed Third, the driver looked old and a little out of shape. I felt that I could take him in hand-to-hand. Fourth, I knew the way we needed wanted to go. It was unlikely that he could trick me by taking a wrong turn and driving into some den of thieves. Later, during the ride, I began to reconsider this. What if he tried something? Sure, I could reach over and strangle him or pull a Mike Tyson and bite a chunk of his ear off. But then what? He drives into a telephone pole or into an oncoming tour bus? It was very confusing. So I decided to employ my charm and extensive Spanish language skills. I asked “Usted es de D.F.?” (Are you from D.F.?) and “Tiene hijos?” (Do you have any children?) I reasoned that biting someone’s ear off is unnecessary. Better to endear myself to him; or at least humanize myself so that his waiting gang of kidnappers would take pity on me. And if Eva really followed my plan and paid no ransom, this could be critical. I might really connect with them. We could have some good heart-to-hearts. Perhaps they would not only spare my life but invite me to join them. I started fantasizing about what I would say to them: “Let my daughter go and I’ll work off my debt to you. What better way to lure rich lawyers than to use one as bait??” I was really getting into this idea when we suddenly arrived at the hotel. I was a little disappointed. The only crime involved was a petty one. He had quoted me $30 pesos when we got in the cab but now wanted to charge me $40. (Probably an extra 10 pesos for asking him stupid questions.)
In truth, during the whole trip, we never felt unsafe. This was probably due to three factors: (1) we primarily stayed in upscale neighborhoods; (2) we traveled in the daytime to busy tourist destinations; and (3) we have no idea how to recognize a danger sign.
We saw several places in Mexico City which deserve special mention. The Palacio National sits in front of the Zocalo, or main square of D.F. The Palacio is the building where Mexico implemented self-government after the Revolution. The square itself is an immense open area, probably the size of a football field, circled by a 5 lane, one-way road. Swarms of taxis circle the road, mostly “un-secure” and presumably looking for an unwitting victim. It feels like a moat with dangerous alligators lurking inside. In the center of the square (rectangle, actually) is a huge pole flying a giant Mexican flag.
Inside the Palacio, the building is surprisingly modest in size. The first stairwell is covered with a mural by Diego Rivera, depicting the history of Mexican civilization. The historic and anthropological details are fascinating.
After visiting the palace, we walked next door to the Templo Mayor, which was an ancient Aztec temple discovered in the 1970s when digging for a new subway line. The Spanish had just built the city right on top of it.
We walked around in awe of the rich and varied architecture. Each building has various and detailed craftsmanship. The colonial-era post office is gorgeous. There are a myriad of frightening gargoyles, religious figures and beautiful shapes. Below is a photo of the Palacio de Bellas Artes.
Amidst the sprawling city and crazed drivers, there were also many green spaces. In these parks, we found live music, food and drinks for sale, and costumed men riding horses. Several times, Mexican university students studying English asked to interview us for their homework assignments.
At the end of our trip, we visited the magnificent National Museum of Anthropology. All of us were riveted by the wonderful displays of art, culture, and history. Zoë could not take her eyes off the dioramas. Half-naked men attacking a mammoth with spears. Women breast-feeding their babies. I tried to move her along and she refused, “I’m looking at this. Wait.” (Newsflash: it’s confirmed. I have a smaller attention span than a five year-old.) The Museum is vast and the curators have spared no expense to compile a myriad of artifacts from every region of Mexico. There are life-sized Mayan ruins that were brought in from the Yucatan and reconstructed. It was truly amazing. We spent two hours and saw less than half of the museum. At the end of the 2 hours, my brain was full and Zoë’s stomach was empty.
The NY Times “36 hours in Mexico City” allocated only 90 minutes to the Museum of Anthropology. Does this mean that Zoë has now exceeded the attention span of the average American? The average New Yorker?
We returned on another overnight bus. This time, I abstained from any sleeping pills so that I could concentrate on keeping the bus on the road. It worked!
I must admit that Colima seems so tame and pedestrian by comparison to the other places we’ve visited in Mexico. But I’m sitting here in a coffee shop. Zoë is happy at school with her friends. In a moment, I will ride my bike home. It’s perfectly safe and I’m perfectly happy. D.F. is a lot like New York: nice place to visit but I wouldn’t want to live there.
And I’m still waiting for the NY Times to run “36 Hours in New York City.”
Postscript: While my story is written in jest, my fear on the bus was very real. At the very same moment we were speeding along in the early morning hours on Saturday, April 14, there was another bus which had a different fate. I am not making this up:
Mexico bus crash toll rises to 28 dead
Passengers say driver fell asleep
Associated Press
CIUDAD JUAREZ, Mexico – The toll from a bus crash outside this border city rose to 28 dead and 21 injured, Mexican authorities said Sunday.
Authorities said the bus driver, who was among the dead, was speeding when the vehicle collided with a tractor-trailer early Saturday near Ciudad Juarez, across from El Paso, Texas. The truck's gas tank exploded, engulfing the bus in flames.
Officials initially said 23 died and 11 were injured, but revised the toll after determining that the bus was carrying 49 people – some of whom did not have seats and including children who were sitting on people's laps, said Patricia Gonzalez, a prosecutor in Chihuahua state.
Many of the bodies were severely burned and it could be months before all the victims are identified, Gonzalez said.
Some of the passengers told El Diario de Juarez newspaper the driver appeared to have fallen asleep.
"People were burning, screaming, praying and there were a lot of kids," Carlos Omar Rodriguez, 12, told the newspaper.
The boy injured his hip while escaping through a window, but was not burned, the newspaper reported.
Mariana Perez, 20, and her 23-year-old sister Sarahi managed to crawl out through a window, only minutes before flames engulfed the bus.
"The passengers were scrambling on top of us and the front of the bus was burning," she told El Diario. "We just got out and had gotten a few (feet) away when it exploded. ... We were so scared. We were in shock when it exploded because we knew that people were trapped in there. A lot of people couldn't get out."
Operated by the Omnibus company, the bus left Friday night from Jimenez, about 280 miles south of Juarez.
We spent 72 hours in Mexico City, which is more than twice the time allocated by the New York Times for any city. Its regular travel feature “36 Hours in ______” actually covered Mexico City a few months ago. Eva clipped it out and brought it with us. Based on our visit there, the article should have advised: “Plan to spend at least 30 of your 36 hours in traffic. The remaining 6 hours will be spent looking for a safe taxi. Hailing a taxi off the street will lead directly to death and dismemberment.”
We come from a country where the leading newspaper promotes the idea that 36 hours in any given place is sufficient. For a city with any depth, that concept is a joke. For Mexico City, inhabitated by 20 million people, and steeped in history, spanning three separate civilizations, the idea of a 36 hour trip is a parody of the American mindset. What if the New York Times had a regular column to summarize great novels for busy professionals? “36 Words On ‘Kite Runner’”. Here goes: “Rich Man, Poor Man set in Afghanistan. As a child, the rich man fails to prevent sadistic assault on best friend (poor man). Haunted by guilt, rich man distances self from poor man. Emigrates to America. Years later, he makes amends by returning to Afghanistan, confronting sadistic man from past and rescuing poor boy’s child.” Cliffnotes on steroids. How about this summary of “Catch-22” for the busy New Yorker: “Yossarian does not like war very much. Tries to get out of army but finds army bureaucracy confusing and frustrating.”
72 hours in Mexico City is only marginally better. But even in our rushing about, we managed to see amazing art and awe-inspiring architecture. (I am sending under separate cover a PowerPoint with photos and captions. Too bad I can’t read this story aloud while showing you the PowerPoint. A Spalding Gray multi-media thing.) To demonstrate the futility of the NY Times’ “36 Hours In Mexico City,” one week later, the editor had to publish a correction which identified 4 separate errors. And so I reserve the right to publish corrections of the following events.
The Overnight Bus.
Our bus was scheduled to leave Colima for Mexico City at 9:30pm. We told Zoë that we were having a “pajama party” on the bus. For a five year-old, each new experience has the potential to be a source of complete joy and utter amazement. When told about the pajama party and spending the whole night on the bus, she wrinkled her eyebrows and looked both pleased and puzzled, “I’ve never heard of a pajama party on a bus.” She kept repeating this until she was thoroughly worked up in anticipation. To make it even more exciting, our 22 year-old daughter, Nicole, was traveling with us. Zoë snuggled up next to Nicole, ate her free sandwich, and went to sleep. Meanwhile, I took two sleeping pills and didn’t sleep. Or did I? It was really hard to tell. My best estimate is that I had 80 naps of 5 minutes each. I kept waking up to the sound of the bus accelerating or rattling or to the feel of a curve being taken too fast. These awakenings jolted me into the realization that I was being hurtled through the night by a complete stranger in a 5 ton vehicle. To make matters worse, I’ve seen these buses from the outside – from the oncoming lane. They don’t slow down for curves and they look impossibly huge compared to the road. When driving at night, the buses erupt out of the darkness, blinding you with the lights exactly at eye level, and then roar past. You can only hold on and hope you don’t run off the road. On this night, we were traveling a particularly scary stretch of highway, between Colima and Guadalajara. There are narrow bridges over deep canyons. What terrified me is that the margin of error -- the margin between staying alive and careening into a bottomless river gorge, is impossibly small.
Given all of this, I did the only rational thing: I stay awake to help the driver. If the bus leaned too much one way, then I leaned my body the other way. When I felt the bus driver apply the brakes (a happy yet rare occurrence), I pressed my foot down to assist. Fortunately, I stayed awake long enough to ensure our safe arrival in Mexico City on Wednesday morning at 7am.
As we disembarked the bus, the sun was still below the horizon. The air was extremely cool. Mexico City, often referred to as D.F. (Distrito Federal) sits at over 7,000 feet above sea level. Large mountains and one active volcano surround the city. After fighting traffic in a taxi to our hotel, we ventured out around 9am. It was still cold enough to require jackets.
The tourism industry runs a fleet of bright red, double-decker buses with open air top decks. Zoë insisted on this mode of transportation. While riding in the front row of the top level, she declared it the most thrilling ride ever. Being with an enthusiastic five year-old is to be five years old again. (Or so I imagine. But honestly I remember only glimpses of being five. It’s shocking to consider how little Zoë will remember of these adventures in Mexico. She is really the intended reader of these essays. When I get discouraged about these writings and whether they’re good enough to be published, Eva wisely reminds me: “think of how Zoë will love to read these when she’s older.” The thought of Zoë reading these – or reading these to her children -- makes me very happy.) The tour buses are magical in this sense: they lift you well above the street traffic and provide the illusion of not being in traffic at all. If a car almost hits the bus, it’s a little comical. “Oh, look at that cute little car down there! It nearly got crushed!! What fun!!”
But seriously, Mexico City has horrible traffic. In response, the city has instituted a system whereby you cannot drive one day per week depending on the last letter of your license plate. Apparently, it has reduced traffic and air pollution. (Imagine the outcry in the U.S. if the government tried to take away the right to drive alone to and from work everyday in a Hummer.) There a million taxis on the street, especially the bright green VW Bugs. But every guide book sternly warns against hailing a cab off the street. In D.F., it is an unfortunate fact that kidnapping and robbery is common. We hear stories of wealthy lawyers who’ve being kidnapped 3 different times – released each time for a ransom of $30,000. I decide its important to instruct Eva on ransom negotiations in the event of my capture. First, tell them that I’ve been cheating on you, we’re getting a divorce and that you hate me. Offer nothing. In fact, offer them $100 to kick me in the teeth. Once you’ve established your bargaining position, wait. They’ll call back. On the next call, treat them like a telemarketer – ask them to put you on the “do not call list.” Hang up on them. On the third call, offer them $200 if they’ll kick me in the nuts, release me and stop calling you.
Next, I thought we should discuss my approach in the event that Eva is the one kidnapped. When I asked, she simply glared at me. I assume that she was practicing her “game face”. I just nodded. “Got you!” (Thumbs up.)
So, don’t hail a cab off the street. There are two types of “secure taxis” in D.F.: private cars and official city taxis called “sitios”. All the hotels are in cahoots with the private car services and probably received nice kickbacks. If you ask any hotel for a taxi, they send an expensive private car. They are three times the cost of a sitio taxi. So, of course, we spent many hours wandering the streets looking for “sitios.” In one daring moment, Nicole and I defied all conventional wisdom and took a ride from a regular taxi. I had several justifications for this. First, it was the only taxi around. Second, I saw a Mexican family getting out of the cab and they looked unscathed Third, the driver looked old and a little out of shape. I felt that I could take him in hand-to-hand. Fourth, I knew the way we needed wanted to go. It was unlikely that he could trick me by taking a wrong turn and driving into some den of thieves. Later, during the ride, I began to reconsider this. What if he tried something? Sure, I could reach over and strangle him or pull a Mike Tyson and bite a chunk of his ear off. But then what? He drives into a telephone pole or into an oncoming tour bus? It was very confusing. So I decided to employ my charm and extensive Spanish language skills. I asked “Usted es de D.F.?” (Are you from D.F.?) and “Tiene hijos?” (Do you have any children?) I reasoned that biting someone’s ear off is unnecessary. Better to endear myself to him; or at least humanize myself so that his waiting gang of kidnappers would take pity on me. And if Eva really followed my plan and paid no ransom, this could be critical. I might really connect with them. We could have some good heart-to-hearts. Perhaps they would not only spare my life but invite me to join them. I started fantasizing about what I would say to them: “Let my daughter go and I’ll work off my debt to you. What better way to lure rich lawyers than to use one as bait??” I was really getting into this idea when we suddenly arrived at the hotel. I was a little disappointed. The only crime involved was a petty one. He had quoted me $30 pesos when we got in the cab but now wanted to charge me $40. (Probably an extra 10 pesos for asking him stupid questions.)
In truth, during the whole trip, we never felt unsafe. This was probably due to three factors: (1) we primarily stayed in upscale neighborhoods; (2) we traveled in the daytime to busy tourist destinations; and (3) we have no idea how to recognize a danger sign.
We saw several places in Mexico City which deserve special mention. The Palacio National sits in front of the Zocalo, or main square of D.F. The Palacio is the building where Mexico implemented self-government after the Revolution. The square itself is an immense open area, probably the size of a football field, circled by a 5 lane, one-way road. Swarms of taxis circle the road, mostly “un-secure” and presumably looking for an unwitting victim. It feels like a moat with dangerous alligators lurking inside. In the center of the square (rectangle, actually) is a huge pole flying a giant Mexican flag.
Inside the Palacio, the building is surprisingly modest in size. The first stairwell is covered with a mural by Diego Rivera, depicting the history of Mexican civilization. The historic and anthropological details are fascinating.
After visiting the palace, we walked next door to the Templo Mayor, which was an ancient Aztec temple discovered in the 1970s when digging for a new subway line. The Spanish had just built the city right on top of it.
We walked around in awe of the rich and varied architecture. Each building has various and detailed craftsmanship. The colonial-era post office is gorgeous. There are a myriad of frightening gargoyles, religious figures and beautiful shapes. Below is a photo of the Palacio de Bellas Artes.
Amidst the sprawling city and crazed drivers, there were also many green spaces. In these parks, we found live music, food and drinks for sale, and costumed men riding horses. Several times, Mexican university students studying English asked to interview us for their homework assignments.
At the end of our trip, we visited the magnificent National Museum of Anthropology. All of us were riveted by the wonderful displays of art, culture, and history. Zoë could not take her eyes off the dioramas. Half-naked men attacking a mammoth with spears. Women breast-feeding their babies. I tried to move her along and she refused, “I’m looking at this. Wait.” (Newsflash: it’s confirmed. I have a smaller attention span than a five year-old.) The Museum is vast and the curators have spared no expense to compile a myriad of artifacts from every region of Mexico. There are life-sized Mayan ruins that were brought in from the Yucatan and reconstructed. It was truly amazing. We spent two hours and saw less than half of the museum. At the end of the 2 hours, my brain was full and Zoë’s stomach was empty.
The NY Times “36 hours in Mexico City” allocated only 90 minutes to the Museum of Anthropology. Does this mean that Zoë has now exceeded the attention span of the average American? The average New Yorker?
We returned on another overnight bus. This time, I abstained from any sleeping pills so that I could concentrate on keeping the bus on the road. It worked!
I must admit that Colima seems so tame and pedestrian by comparison to the other places we’ve visited in Mexico. But I’m sitting here in a coffee shop. Zoë is happy at school with her friends. In a moment, I will ride my bike home. It’s perfectly safe and I’m perfectly happy. D.F. is a lot like New York: nice place to visit but I wouldn’t want to live there.
And I’m still waiting for the NY Times to run “36 Hours in New York City.”
Postscript: While my story is written in jest, my fear on the bus was very real. At the very same moment we were speeding along in the early morning hours on Saturday, April 14, there was another bus which had a different fate. I am not making this up:
Mexico bus crash toll rises to 28 dead
Passengers say driver fell asleep
Associated Press
CIUDAD JUAREZ, Mexico – The toll from a bus crash outside this border city rose to 28 dead and 21 injured, Mexican authorities said Sunday.
Authorities said the bus driver, who was among the dead, was speeding when the vehicle collided with a tractor-trailer early Saturday near Ciudad Juarez, across from El Paso, Texas. The truck's gas tank exploded, engulfing the bus in flames.
Officials initially said 23 died and 11 were injured, but revised the toll after determining that the bus was carrying 49 people – some of whom did not have seats and including children who were sitting on people's laps, said Patricia Gonzalez, a prosecutor in Chihuahua state.
Many of the bodies were severely burned and it could be months before all the victims are identified, Gonzalez said.
Some of the passengers told El Diario de Juarez newspaper the driver appeared to have fallen asleep.
"People were burning, screaming, praying and there were a lot of kids," Carlos Omar Rodriguez, 12, told the newspaper.
The boy injured his hip while escaping through a window, but was not burned, the newspaper reported.
Mariana Perez, 20, and her 23-year-old sister Sarahi managed to crawl out through a window, only minutes before flames engulfed the bus.
"The passengers were scrambling on top of us and the front of the bus was burning," she told El Diario. "We just got out and had gotten a few (feet) away when it exploded. ... We were so scared. We were in shock when it exploded because we knew that people were trapped in there. A lot of people couldn't get out."
Operated by the Omnibus company, the bus left Friday night from Jimenez, about 280 miles south of Juarez.
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