For the first time since landing in Mexico last Saturday night I fancied a run. As we flew in I snapped a shot of the apparently endless cityscape. It looked much like the surface of the Death Star, only bigger. The stresses and strains of a week battling with the dark forces of customs and an obstructive health department has left me weary, drained of any desire to indulge in physical exercise unless it involves climbing the steps onto my flight home. My only succour is to be found in the arms of Don Julio, a particularly smooth blend of tequila sipped from a small brandy glass accompanied by spicy sangrito or 'little blood' chasers. Leon, an amicable brand of cerveza negra, provides the necessary volume.
Thanks to the Don I slept like the dead last night, waking to the low thrum of this beast of a city. Garmin tuned in, pink swimming shorts and Terminator t-shirt strapped on I arrived at the concierge desk looking for directions to the Paseo de la Reforma, the most famous section of the massive Chapultepec, the largest city centre park in the world. Chapultepec is the lungs of this metropolis, an invaluable green space feeding much-needed oxygen into the city's endless arteries. After five minutes of scanning her screen, printing and carefully marking out a map, the lovely senorita handed me the paper. There were at least six possible routes set out in fluorescent yellow. She smiled, running her slender finger along one route as she peered over the top of her trendy but apparently ineffectual glasses.
‘I think this is your best possibility. Will you walk there or take a taxi?’
‘I’m planning to run there and back’
Another smile, this one tinged with sympathy.
‘OK’.
I set off along the chosen path, making note of the buildings and landmarks so as to have some hope of finding my way home. These mental breadcrumbs slipped through the cracks as I laboured for breath. The high altitude here delivers even less oxygen per gulp. I tried to regulate my breathing and slow my pace, mindful that the park is some two kilometres away and I was running alongside a four-lane highway swarming with ancient trucks belting out thick, acrid smoke.
As I reached the outskirts of the park I met my first fellow jogger with a cheery smile and a half-Shearer. He responded in kind, much to my amusement. Apparently the role model for the The Paseo (or Paseo Boulevard), a 19-mile avenue in the center of Kansas City, Mexico City's original is laced with running and cycling tracks. The foul stench of traffic made way for the sweet musk of Agave Salmiana lining the route, their spiny tendrils reaching out in welcome as I trundled by. Where the trails reach the freeway they arc up onto narrow bridges, dropping off sharply to continue on the other side. As I approached the foot of one such climb a man appeared to my left. I could see he intended to cross the path before I reached the intersection. His jaw was set and he fixed me with the steely glare of a gunslinger ready to draw. Here, in a moment, is Mexico in microcosm, a moment where the brutal struggle to get ahead of the next guy includes beating a fat, sweaty man to a crossing point on a jogging track.
There’s a perception of Mexicans as lazy, good for nothing layabouts, perpetuated by years of stereotypical caricatures, men wrapped in ponchos slumped under sombreros next to an empty tequila bottle, a view recently exacerbated by those pompous, too-clever-by-half assholes on Top Gear. The reality couldn’t be further from the truth. The Mexican heart beats strong, fueled by pride and the need to succeed, to overcome the injustices of a system choked as much by bureaucracy as diesel fumes. That heart is crushed under the weight of sluggish, bloated government, lifeblood poisoned by red ink, arteries pinched by red tape. In my dealings here I’ve seen men and women broken by promises and lies, whipped like curs by low-paid officials wielding their smidgen of power to make life intolerable for the little guy. There’s no end to it. My customs broker, having explained that customs wanted to inspect a shipment for the fourth time without offering a reason, told me that if you get knocked down in the street your first thought is you hope your details show up in the hospital computer when you arrive. If they don’t, jog on. Life here is a brutal struggle where straight answers are as rare as rocking-horse shit. There are of course plenty of people with money. They use their wealth and power to operate the smoke and mirrors that keeping the struggling majority in their place. You might say this all sounds familiar. I’m in no doubt my own country has been heading this way for some time. But to see the results of a lifetime of this bullshit etched into the faces of the decent, friendly people who just want to help breaks your heart. Why invite the world to your table only to slam the door in its face as it holds out its hand? Professionally speaking I can't get out of this rat-hole fast enough.
Yesterday was Mexico’s Independence Day, marking the country’s civil war and the ultimate rebel victory in 1821. Hidalgo, the priest who lead the uprising, was captured in 1811 after defeat at the Battle of the Bridge of Calderón. He was taken to Guanajuato where his severed head was displayed as a warning to the Mexican rebels. Undeterred, the rebels regrouped and fought like dogs until at last they won their independence. Today a proud nation marks their victory with military pageants, fireworks and wild celebrations. I got my own taste on Thursday evening when my hotel neighbour threw an impromptu party, complete with an amped-up Fender Strat copy and any number of drunken, caterwauling guests. A highlight was their rendition of ‘Don’t Let me Down’, the mention of which on Twitter sparked an interesting debate as to the validity of the Beatles’ place at the pinnacle of world music. Some regular contributors here may have been involved ...
So, we’re at this bridge. And I look him in the eye and I say to myself ‘fuck it, I’m not giving way’. He realises that unless he yields he’s going to collide with a large sweaty mass. He hesitates, and the bridge is mine.
I plod on, heading up the long hill past a series of ornate fountains, the road lined with giant marble steps. More runners, dog-walkers and cyclists hailed me with ‘hola!’ and ‘Buenos Dias!’, kind and generous greetings for a melting, huffing, puffing wreck. I left the park, returning to the filthy streets to joust with dangerously erratic vehicles. Mexico City sits just below Paris and Rome in the circles of traffic hell. I could feel my throat tighten as the air turned sour, eyes watering. I climbed the last hill alongside the cracked and broken road. Ahead of me lay a couple of pick axes, abandoned next to a small hole in a pavement full of unrepaired holes. I diverted through the courtyard of a bank building, a steel and glass monument to greed and hubris. On its’ steps a gang of uniformed cleaners swabbed and scrubbed the dusty granite. As they worked towards the gaudy entrance the traffic bellowed on, sending clouds of filth into the air to land in their soapy footsteps even as they cleaned.
Such is life in Mexico City. It’s like the old saying goes:
Life is like a shit sandwich.
The more bread you got, the less shit you have to eat.
9.11 kilometers, 55 minutes.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
