More advance praise for
Down & Delirious in Mexico City
“This guy can really write!”
—ALMA GUILLERMOPRIETO, author of Dancing with Cuba
“In Mexico City, trends, fashions, youth lifestyles—punks, emos, and hipsters, like hippies and Beats long before—arrive from the U.S. and are adopted and mutate until they are as Mexican as anything. Unlike in the U.S., they never really go away. Daniel Hernandez is our guide into this labyrinth of urban tribes, this vast twenty-first-century urban survival laboratory. He writes about his experience as he lived it, with daring curiosity, bursts of stunning poetry, charming earnestness, penetrating intelligence, always without clichés. The reader witnesses Hernandez’s transformation, too, from down-and-delirious gringo outsider into totally down-and-delirious chilango.”
—FRANCISCO GOLDMAN, author of The Art of Political Murder
“Daniel Hernandez writes with forthright generosity of spirit and intelligent acuity. Told from the perspective of a fascinated outsider gradually becoming a knowing insider, Down and Delirious in Mexico City takes us into a teeming, complex, vast, dark city of wonders, its people and places, cultures and rituals, food and drink, history and present. Concise, pithy, honest, and clear-eyed, Hernandez is a trustworthy, infallible guide through one of the most amazing cities on earth.”
—KATE CHRISTENSEN, author of The Great Man and Trouble
“Daniel Hernandez takes on Mexico City, and the results are simply brilliant. A reader couldn’t ask for a more compassionate, more daring, or more honest guide to the world’s most maddening megacity. The beauty and terror, the dynamism and precariousness of life in El Defectuoso is vividly portrayed on every page of this important book.”
—DANIEL ALARCóN, author of Lost City Radio
“Guided by his passions, Daniel Hernandez let himself become engulfed by Mexico City’s complexity and contradictions. He got very deeply into el D.F. very quickly. His marvelous Down and Delirious in Mexico City is essential reading for anyone who cares about this confusing and misunderstood megalopolis, and particularly what it means to be young here.”
—DAVID LIDA, author of First Stop in the New World: Mexico
City, the Capital of the 21st Century
“Daniel Hernandez navigates the beautiful chaos of Mexico City with a reporter’s tenacity, an adventurer’s daring, and an open heart that allows him to discover the history that lives inside him. His lush, eyewitness portrayals take you inside the crush of crowds that pop up all over Mexico City—at soccer stadiums, religious pilgrimages, art happenings and always the dance floor. A gorgeously done book.”
—LAURIE OCHOA, co-founder and editor of Slake: Los Angeles
“This is Mexico City as seen from its quaking mosh pit, a ferocious ancient-modern swirl of passion, bodies, style, and release. Hernandez is a Mexican gringo on an urban pilgrim’s quest, pulled between fearlessness and introspection, the street and the keyboard, the North and the South. Let’s Go Mexico City this isn’t, and we’re all the better for it.”
—JOSH KUN, University of Southern California
“Pitch-perfect and incandescent. Hernandez’s shape-shifting abilities take us from emo to punk to neo-Aztec; from new age to old school to trans-everything, then back again only to find ourselves transmuted into something else. If Hernandez started off as a visitor, as many great writers who have written about Mexico did—from Artaud, Kerouac and Burroughs to Bolaño—he adopts and is adopted by this city and is now truly a chilango insider. His narrative of grit, glitter, and glory is not only a must re-read, it is an invitation to live.”
—GABRIELA JAUREGUI, author of Controlled Decay
“Legions of writers have made the pilgrimage to the Aztec capital—from Breton to Lowry, from Lawrence to Burroughs—but few stayed long enough or wandered far enough from the expat-friendly circuit in this most iconic capital of the Global South. Daniel Hernandez crisscrosses la capital and transcends borders that have held others back—from the coruscating decadence of the party city to the outlying barrios where people survive by their wits amid the bewildering violence of Mexico in the age of the narco. As a young Mexican-American author, Hernandez is both on intimate terms with and alienated from the city, a kinetic point of view that reveals to us a post-postmodern place that is melancholy and loving, frightening, and inspiring—this most indispensable city of ghosts and the forever young.”
—Rubén martínez, Fletcher Jones Chair in Literature and Writing,
Loyola Marymount University, and author of Crossing Over:
A Mexican Family on the Migrant Trail
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For my brothers and sisters
Contents
A Note to the Reader: Getting Down
Part I | ASSIMILATIONS
1 Guadalupe’s Test
2 Points of Arrival
3 La Banda
Part II | TENSIONS
4 Fashion & Facsimile
5 The Warriors
6 The Lake of Fire
7 Kidnapped
8 The Delinquent Is Us
Part III | TAKING CHANCES
9 A Feathered Serpent in Burberry Shades
10 Negotiating Saints
11 Originals of Punk
12 Attack of the Sweat Lodge
13 Death by Decadence
Part IV | MUTATIONS
14 At Home
15 The Seven Muses of Mexico City
Notes on the Chapters
Acknowledgments
Postscript
A Note to the Reader: Getting Down
What are you? Consumer or participant?
—Epigram for the day, November 16, in the 2008
calendar of the Mexico City goth club El Under
When the Pumas scored the day’s first goal on a Sunday in late fall 2007, we had just arrived at the Estadio Olímpico to take a standing position in the student section. It was a clear, gorgeous afternoon. I had been in Mexico City for only a few weeks. Behind the stadium’s swooping southern rim you could see the green mountains to the south, each covered in a carpet of pine trees, and above the range, the gleaming blue sky. The Pumas, the professional football team at the national university, were playing the Jaguares from Chia
pas, and Naomi, my guide that day, had warned me that the Jaguares were a formidable foe. I was told to prepare myself for a long, hard-fought game. What I didn’t understand was that hard-fought was more a reference to the fans than the action on the field.
We didn’t actually see the first goal happen. You might say we felt it happen. I was standing with Karen, Naomi’s sister, when a shattering roar echoed throughout the stadium, and in an instant I felt a half dozen people falling on top of me. Diving, ferociously, first into the air and then down upon anyone who might be in the rows below. The Pumas had scored, and members of La Rebel, as the student section of fans is called, responded by doing what they’ve done for years anytime their team scores. They rioted. I ducked and leaned to the left and tried to grab Karen’s shoulders. But she had slipped under the weight of the people on top of her, and some guy’s elbow was jammed into her cheek. I could see her complaining desperately to an ear nearest her mouth, but I couldn’t make out what she was saying. The roar was deafening. Arms, heads, rear ends, legs, clamoring in every direction. When the tangle of bodies cleared up, I half-expected Karen to be weeping and ready to leave. Instead, she bounced to her feet, let out a wild “Woo-hoo!!!” and squeezed through her neighbors to rejoin her friend Happy, who was standing on the concrete passageway before us. Where was Noami? Somehow she’d wound up in the section below, several rows down. Naomi turned and waved brightly. It was still too loud to talk but we all made reassuring eye contact with each other.
Welcome to La Rebel. Welcome to Mexico City. What fun.
Two things stand out here, I’m thinking, almost three years later. Life in Mexico City is a contact sport. It might be scary at first, unforgiving, violent, but to really grasp it, you gotta get in, release all inhibitions, all cultural blinders. You have to get down and play.
Since relocating to Mexico’s capital city, I’ve attended parties, rallies, marches, meetings, sporting events, and spiritual rites. I’ve checked out markets, festivals, cantinas, and all-day outdoor concerts. I’ve read and collected what must be thousands of articles, clippings, and flyers. I’ve gone wherever the city—and chance—took me.
Mexico City is young. Within the Federal District (known as the D.F., for Distrito Federal), one in three residents is between the ages of fifteen and twenty-nine. The average age overall is twenty-seven. I fit right into the category, moving here days before my twenty-seventh birthday. These young people were Mexico’s future. Eager to better understand where the country might be headed, and where I might fit in it all, I began researching Mexico City’s youth movements and subcultures. I consulted academic sources, magazines, self-published histories, and vintage media. I interviewed dozens upon dozens of people. I took hundreds of photographs, recorded hours of audio, and wrote hundreds of pages of notes.
The result is this book, a collection of reported essays, personal and subjective, covering roughly the period between 2007 and 2010. It is not meant as a definitive “portrait” or “guide” to the Mexican capital. It is also not meant as a proper catalog of the young “urban tribes” of Mexico City. Some tribes are discussed at length, some barely. My documentary approach consisted of observing, listening, and participating wherever possible, wherever an invitation occurred naturally.
The stories narrated in these chapters are all true. It is a truth as far as I noted, recorded, recalled, and photographed it. In a few instances, the names of some of the people who appear in these pages have been changed, where circumstances warranted privacy. The Internet, print journalism, and the work of other writers was central to putting the tales together. The book contains occasional quotations from Web pages and social media sources, and echoes of entries from my personal blog, Intersections.
Finally, I should note that while I use the term urban tribe and its subcategories, in general young people in Mexico City reject identifying themselves in such terminologies—goth, rasta, etc.—even if they otherwise appear fully immersed in a specific subculture. I made every effort then to distinguish subjects in the book by noting their unique characteristics. Yet I also allowed myself to make generalizing references to emos, hipsters, and so on when the text calls for it. Though these terms may rarely be used for self-identification in Mexico City or anywhere else, they are widely imposed by young people upon one another. My usage of them here reflects the social reality.
Throughout this process, I also had to consider my own place in the cultural and geographic landscape of the D.F. This book is ultimately the story of how I found it.
—D.H., Mexico City, July 2010
El apocalipsis no es una metáfora es un lugar lleno de belleza y llevamos años ahi. La publicidad nos engaña.
—PONCE
The apocalypse is not a metaphor, it is a place full of beauty and we have been there for years. The media mislead us.
—PONCE
Part I | ASSIMILATIONS
1 | Guadalupe’s Test
A crowd of candles at La Villa. (Photo by the author.)
At 10:00 p.m. on December 11, 2007, we enter the procession at the Zócalo, the vast public square and thumping heart of historic downtown Mexico City. The towers of the cathedral rise over the square like baroque apparitions. Beneath them, thousands of people are gathering before they set off for the basilica to the north by foot or by bicycle. Fleets of bike taxis cluster under Christmas lights draped upon the walls of the brown buildings that border the square. The bikes are fitted for a party, decorated with balloons and strings of lights, boom boxes held aloft, playing reggaeton and holiday songs. Nearly everyone is carrying a portrait-size replica of the holy image of the Virgen de Guadalupe. The image is heavy
on their backs, a burden carried with an apparently absolute clarity of faith. Bundled into a sweater and scarf, I circle the square to take in the surroundings, feeling both excitement and intimidation
for the hike ahead. It is a carnival of a scene, but clearly serious business.
Since her miraculous appearance before an indigenous peasant in 1531, the Empress of Mexico, as Guadalupe is sometimes known, has drawn pilgrims to a holy hill in the north of the Federal District, and so we are going. There, at the place they call La Villa, the sacred image hangs on permanent display in a large and modern basilica built in the early 1970s—the original viceregal basilica having sunk unevenly over the centuries into the soft former lake bed below. The pilgrims arrive from all corners of the republic and beyond for the midnight dawn of her feast day, December 12, to bow and pray before the “private flag of Mexicans.” As they have for years, pilgrims travel—some for days—to La Villa, entirely on foot. Some are true believers but most are only nominally so. For many, the attraction of the ritual of December 12 is its sheer spectacle. The most ardent believers are easy to spot because they enter La Villa inching along on their knees.
The trek is a minor sacrifice relative to the occasion: the anniversary of the olive-skinned Virgen’s appearance before the converted native man Juan Diego, ten years after the fall of the Aztecs to the Spanish conquistadors. Never mind the credible doubt cast on the authenticity of the Guadalupe miracle by the rigors of modern science, or that she appeared on a hill that had been sacred ground where the Aztecs had venerated Tonantzin, the mother goddess. The annual observance of this event is a rite unlike any other in Mexico or in the entire Americas. La Villa feels in some ways like the Mecca of the Western Hemisphere. The shimmering garment is these pilgrims’ Black Stone, a talisman that demands from its faithful, one night a year, a total disregard for the health of their feet and knees and for the general boundaries of personal space.
I decide to check out the pilgrimage with a group of adventurous American and European expats and friends. Some of us might be here for the aspect of amateur anthropology, but I felt a desire—secret, personal—to deliver myself to Mexico and Mexico City’s patroness, La Morenita, as they affectionately say. Participating in this rite so soon after moving here would, I think, ensure without question my admission into
the ranks of true countrymen. This is my first real test, my welcoming. Not as a Catholic, but as a paisano.
“Cafecito, cafecito,” the voices call from the sidewalks. “Pan, tortas.”
We march north on Calle Repùblica de Brasil, from the Zócalo. Families from the street’s crumbling brown buildings stand on the crowd’s edge handing out food and drinks in the chilly night to the passing pedestrians and cyclists. Coffee, bottled water, fresh unpeeled oranges, tacos, tortas. Children dart in and out of the parade. “Aguas, aguas, aguas!” There are fruit juices and Guadalupe rearview-mirror ornaments and CDs with Guadalupe-themed tracks. It is a storied custom, far more wanton gift-giving and random acts of Christian charity than in a whole month of manufactured Christmas cheer. After a few blocks, I begin to politely decline more gifts, as my backpack can fit no more. Police stand by their cruisers, with their flashing and whirling siren signals. Everyone is talking and singing and playing music and laughing and eating, huddling close in the chill. We cross Paseo de la Reforma. The crowds continue to swell. More food and drink rain upon us from the sidewalks. My crew of expatriates begins to break apart in the flow. Then from behind I hear a voice: “Hey, güero! ¿De donde son?”
I stop and turn, a natural response when you are brown-skinned and someone calls you “white boy.” I guess he smells foreignness on me.
He is a smiling guy who introduces himself as Christian. He wears a wavy amber Afro and carries a long, sturdy branch he uses as a walking stick, like some kind of rebel highlands shaman. I tell him I am from the United States, and before I know it, Christian pulls me toward his group and places before my face a ceramic pipe filled with marijuana, asking with another smile, “¿Fumas?”
I have lost my foreigner friends in the surge of people. Might as well.
My exhaled smoke dissolves into the cold air. As we walk onward, Christian introduces me to his friends: Ulises (“But they call me Gozu”), Porku, and a shaggy-haired guy who seems old enough to be their father, who went by El Cochinito, or Little Pig. The others are no older than twenty or twenty-one. They carry backpacks filled with basic provisions, and a tent. They smile a lot. They are walking to La Villa from their pueblo at the edge of the Distrito Federal, “near the toll-booth” on the road to Cuernavaca. That’s twelve hours to the south by foot.
Down and Delirious in Mexico City: The Aztec Metropolis in the Twenty-First Century Page 1