IT'S OUT OF MY WORLD
by
A.G. May

     In 2006 I spent a week in Mexico City, although I had little time for anything but work, the experience left a lasting impression. The weather was gorgeous of course, the people I worked with warm and friendly.

     For a long while I gazed out over a sea of lights stretching away as far as I could see. Even with this mind boggling expanse of lights, it was difficult to entertain the idea over twenty million people resided in the seemingly unending city below me. As the plane settled onto the runway the strange detachment I’d enjoyed while floating over the city eroded slowly as the people who lived and worked in this bustling expanse came into view.

     Working my way through immigration was an eye opener. Not having traveled into many non-tourist areas such as this I quickly became a victim of my own ignorance. My trip, an audit to a chemical plant out in the burbs, was a short order affair and as a result I was unable to obtain a passport before leaving. Concerned, I spoke with the travel agent on more than one occasion. After checking with the federal government she explained I need only carry my birth certificate and picture ID, this I confirmed through a government web site.

     Although the government of Canada feels this is an adequate means to gain entry into a foreign country, the officials at immigration in Mexico City most certainly did not. A long, difficult exchange took place, and acting as humble as possible I apologized again and again, explaining the short notice of my trip, while acting as agreeable as possible. Eventually I was allowed into their country with many stern words and a promise they’d not be so accommodating next time. The tone was worrisome, the message very clear, come without a passport and take your chances. Strangely, I received the same treatment when I tried to leave the country a week later.

     Mexican food found in my neck of the woods doesn’t even seem as if it’s from the same continent, let alone the same country. I was pleasantly surprised by the food, some prepared just for our group, most enjoyed at various local, non-touristy restaurants. In fact it’s unlikely too many Canadians see the inside of these places, the food was fabulous. Without fail not a word of English was spoken, and always an exchange in Spanish followed with a short explanation to bring me up to speed. The first couple days the menu was interpreted in detail, however, they soon started suggesting things I might try. The beer was dark and smooth, the food spicy enough to need cooling with lots of the dark beer.

     One night we wound our way endlessly through the busy streets finally squeezing into a tiny parking space next to an expansive old building. This night it was sea food we sought. You name it, it passed across our table, platters heaping with seafood, not a vegetable, no rice or spuds, only seafood in a quantity I’ve not seen before or since.

     I took a hundred pictures of the city streets, and of the pyramids we visited on our last day. A fellow from the Chemical plant offered to take us. An hour trip through the heart of the city and beyond. The smog here hung in a blanket, we watched as the cars a few blocks ahead disappeared into this thick cloud. I felt it in my nose, in my mouth, it stung the eyes. I wondered what it might be like to live in this every day, how your health would suffer. They explained it was so much better since the government required emissions testing on all the cars, couldn’t begin to guess what it was like before. When finally back in Vancouver I phoned home from the airport, they hardly recognized my voice. A week in the thick smog and my throat felt seared as if I’d swallowed battery acid.

     The kind fellow driving this day had served in the Mexican military, I joked with him about racing up the pyramid, until I saw it. Truly amazing, I’d expected something less imposing, we raced for the top just the same. He was kind to an old man I expect, as we crested the top very close together. A German fellow standing near the top with a GPS shed some light as to why I couldn’t catch my breath. 7700 feet, ahh, now it made sense, it wasn’t my age and marginal physical condition alone, the elevation was likely the cause, I had an excuse however feeble.

     Each morning the military recruits jogged from the barracks to the pyramid of the sun, the larger of the two, to run the steps to the top. He still liked to run, each weekend he’d run with his father, who’d been running since he was in the military as a young man. We stayed longer than expected and with a meeting room filling with people waiting for us our small group reluctantly started back. One fellow, dealing poorly with the elevation, heat and his elevated blood pressure felt it best to walk to an area not far from the base of the pyramid and wait while our guide picked up the van from the entrance over two kilometers away.

     I opted to join him and motioned we should run back to the parking lot, my intention, to save a little time as we were already running terribly late. His English was not the best, but he understood and we were off at a trot through the ruins. Nearly fifteen years difference in age, and unaccustomed to the elevation I began to fade a bit with the first kilometer behind us. Never with one foot ahead of me, he kept perfect pace with the failing and much older Canadian running in fancy shoes up and down the steps through the ancient ruins. Just short of the parking lot I slowed to a walk he slowed as if a reflection in a mirror. The man wasn’t even breathing hard, all I could do was smile and think this was likely the most unique run I’d ever take. What had started as merely a means to meet an already impossible deadline, turned into a memorable run up and down the many stone steps and across the stone walls of an ancient ruin. I think of this now whenever I go for a run, well the little running I can still manage with my failing knees. I remember a kind young man, always a step ahead, who was conveniently just a step behind.

     The traffic control, effective, interesting, wow do I ever appreciate traffic lights. We actually took a picture of a traffic light while in Mexico City. In three days and many hours of city travel it was the only one we’d seen. Speed bumps are the main means used to slow the unending flow of traffic as well as provide a break in the un ending flow to allow cars from the side streets to merge. There is no way to hurry; you literally just go with the flow. Many times our driver would pass the street we intended to travel on if it required a left turn as this was nearly impossible. He’d u-turn a block past the intersection and approach from the opposite side allowing a more manageable right turn. On our way back to the airport we worked left through the traffic, juggling for position to make our now familiar intersection manipulating u-turn. The meridian was wide here, sparse trees and lush green grass covered it completely. My gaze fell upon a fellow walking along the edge of the street. He wavered as he walked, and held a bottle of yellowish liquid in his hand. Our eyes locked for a moment and as we drew closer the bottle in his hand appeared to have smoke curling out of the top. Curious I watched as we eased in close to the curb to wait for a break in the traffic.

     Now only a few feet away I panicked, he held a Molotov cocktail and seemed as if looking for a place to throw it. Our driver, un-phased by our situation only scanned the traffic as the would be terrorist turned toward our car. Certain we were about to disappear in a ball of fire, I said loud enough to startle everyone but our driver, “Look out” as I grabbed at the wheel in an effort to steer the car away from the staggering lunatic about to turn us into burnt marsh mellows. He held fast on the steering wheel however and looked at me quizzically. The man with the gas bottle stepped right up to the window, looked in with only a foot and a bit of glass between he and our driver. I stared back into eyes with pupils so big his eyes had no color. No one else even twitched, seconds later he walked off down the street. Everyone’s gaze fell upon me, questioning eyes.

     “He had a Molotov cocktail, how did you know he wouldn’t through it.” I asked completely confused.

     An exchange took place in Spanish, then “no, no, fire trick, for money.”

     The look on my face brought a snicker from everyone. As we turned in the opposite direction I watched as the fire trick man sucked gasoline into his mouth then blew it across a burning piece of cloth wrapped around a long wire. A fire ball rolled out, then quickly disappeared. Clothes covered in soot, his face smeared black with it. Realizing why he did this brought mixed feeling, finally only a deep sadness. Such a hard life so many are forced to live there.

     I think of the people I met in Mexico City from time to time, I feel fortunate for having spent the week with them. I passed through parts of their city few foreigners ever see, some were interesting, historic places, others disturbing and dark, places that worried even those who lived there, if only just a little. It is a helpless feeling to be completely dependant on others, for everything, language, navigation, your safety, even for such simple things as shopping for a few necessities forgotten at home.

     I was lost in rural Mississippi a few years back and thought the language there a barrier. Well, I certainly don’t think so anymore.