(Español versión publicada anteriormente en rojo.) 

Neighborhood: Colonia Capultitlan / Industrial 

Photo taken by Storyteller #59

Over a breakfast of coffee and a chocolate croissant, I looked at my map and thought I might be able finish that day.  Only three kilometers left to go.  But when I arrived at the Metrobus stop that was my starting point, I changed my mind.  Insurgentes at this point looked more like a highway than a city street.  It wasn’t even clear that the sidewalk continued up ahead, where the road was crisscrossed by overpasses.  

Everything looked grey in this part of town, even the bright green stairs that went to the metro stop had a grey hue.  I looked up at the dingy sky and back at the traffic waiting at the intersection, five lanes of one way traffic. To make matters less promising, there were hardly any people around, just a guy selling candy on the corner.  If all else failed, I could probably talk to him and worry about getting farther on my route another day.

A moment later, thankfully, people started coming down the stairs next to me.  A bus must have arrived.  The third person I talked to agreed to walk with me and I was on my way.  He had a quiet manner, and seemed to be in no hurry.  People always talk about the machismo in Mexico, but I find men here to be far less aggressive and posturing than in the US.  In fact, the majority of men I’ve talked to during this project have been soft-spoken and inordinately polite with gentle manners.

This man was no exception.  After crossing all five lanes of traffic at the intersection, he politely asked, “What would you like to hear about?” 

“You could tell me about yourself.  Are you from this part of town?”

“Yes.”

“What is it like?”

“Well, there is a lot of traffic.”  I looked at the cars speeding by and nodded.  “I don’t really like that,” he said.  “It’s not very tranquil.”

We crossed another busy intersection to a park with basketball courts and a playground.  It was wedged between Insurgentes and an access road, and he was right, it did not inspire tranquility.  None the less, people were using it.

“You know though, I lived in LA once and I think Mexico City is nicer.  I was studying there for a year and, when I finished, I came back to Mexico.”  We crossed from the park to the sidewalk on the other side of the access road.

“I know what you mean,” I concurred.  ”LA can be very ugly in certain areas, and dangerous. Where did you live in LA?”

“I lived in Santa Monica, near Venice Beach.  That part was OK but there were other neighborhoods that were just incredibly dangerous and ugly.  Like Barrio Ocho where my aunt and uncle live.  That place is so bad, people getting killed all the time, really violent.  And if something happens, it takes the police a half an hour to get there.”

I nodded in agreement, “Yes, many places in the US are very scary and violent.  Mexico City also has it’s bad parts, but it seems softer, somehow.  I think the US has an aggressive culture.  Here, there are bad parts, but, it just seems less aggressive, softer.”  I wasn’t sure what word to use, but “suave” (soft) seemed to fit.

We were going up an embankment on the sidewalk that lead to the top of an overpass.  So far, our route had been strange.  We paralleled Insurgentes, winding our way along the roads beside it, because there weren’t any sidewalks bordering Insurgentes in this section.  As we reached the top of the embankment and walked around a fence into a parking area, I looked at him and said, “You can walk with me as much or as little as you’d like, but I would appreciate it if you left me somewhere…”

“Safe, with people around?”  He smiled.  “We can walk as far as the bus station, that’s where I’m heading anyway.  I’m on my way home from work.”

“Thanks you!”  I smiled again, feeling watched over.  Throughout this project, I have felt like my storytellers are helping me, not just with my project and my stories, but helping me safely navigate their neighborhoods.  It is a nice feeling, like being a guest in someone’s house.  I looked back at him and asked, “So, you are on your way home from work. What kind of work do you do?”

“I design clothing.”  I gave him a second look.  I don’t know why, but this is not what I was expecting him to say.  He continued, “I wanted to go into industrial design, but Mexico just doesn’t have enough production.  The US does, and Germany, but Mexico doesn’t design its own products or manufacturing.  So, there isn’t much in the way of work for an industrial designer.”

“Do you like what you do?”

He smiled, “It’s a good job.  Well, if you are the one designing clothing, it is a good job.  If you are just making it,” he moved his arms as if pushing cloth through a sewing machine, “then it isn’t such great work.”

“So, do you get to do your own designs?”

“Not much.” He shrugged.  ”I mostly do whatever people request, but it is good work and good money.  Mexico is strange that way, you can make more money working in the streets, selling stuff, than you could working a nine to five job at a company.  Anything you want can be found on the streets of Mexico.  We have a saying here, kind of a joke.  Someone says, ‘No se puede’ and the other replies, ‘Aqui en Mexico, todo se puede.’”  This translates to ‘You can’t’ with the response, ‘Here in Mexico you can do anything.’  I laughed, knowing just what he meant.

We had been walking down side streets, a back alley, and had reached a bus station, not the red and white Metrobus that runs down the center of Insurgentes, but the green and white microbuses that go everywhere else.  We walked past food vendors and piles of garbage.  Then he moved into the road next to one of the busses, saying, “You can walk down the center of the road in Mexico.  It’s better than the sidewalk.  The US is about rules and organization, but it’s not like that in Mexico.”  He stepped aside, and I followed suit, so the cars could pass.  He looked at me again and said, “You want to keep going down Insurgentes, right?”  I nodded in agreement.  “Well, let me take you back to Insurgentes near the Metrobus.”

“Thanks, I really appreciate you walking with me.”  I wondered for a moment at how easy it was to trust him, here in a strange part of town, wandering side streets, back alleys and parks.  But what is life without trust?  Without trust, we would have no government, no industry, no services, no community, and no family.  Our social order is built on cooperation and trust.

So, I trusted him and he trusted me in turn.  As we walked, he told me about his family and his daughter.  I asked questions and listened as we walked, enjoying the company.  We ended up at a microbus stop on Insurgentes and he said, “This is where I get the bus.”

Second stopping point. Photo taken by Storyteller #59

Sitting down on the bench, I said, “OK.  Now I’ll just take notes and then look for my next walking partner.”  I started writing my notes, but we ended up talking more.  He sat down next to me.  The conversation flowed from one topic to the other.  He asked if he could take my picture, and I readily agreed.  After all, he had agreed to walk with me and let me take his picture.  We chatted for another ten or fifteen minutes, and finally, he said, “Why don’t I take you to the Metrobus station, rather than leaving you here.”

So we walked to the Metrobus station and took pictures for my website, one together and one of the station.  But he didn’t seem satisfied with this so I followed him up a long pedestrian walkway to the center of Insurgentes and he took a picture of a triangle shaped building the rose up out of the skyline.  Then he turned to me and said, “It would be better if we were closer, but this will do.”

When we got back to the Metrobus station, he looked around and said, “I don’t want to leave you here, let’s keep going.”  I’m not sure if he thought it was unsafe or just wanted to help me along my route, but in any case we kept walking and I was grateful for his help.

When we finally came to a stopping point at the Metrobus station Potrero, it was 4pm.  My day was officially over.  With my new friend, I had covered three kilometers and was very near the end of my journey.  We had talked about things personal and universal, shared our experiences of the US and Mexico.  I marveled at how easy it is to trust people, to allow friendship to grow, like tender plants, sprouting up through every little crack in the sidewalks of this great city.