Touching Down

I woke as we began our descent into Mexico City. I was pleased to have a window seat because I have never seen a larger city. It seemed as though it spread into the horizon with no end. Even at tens of thousands of feet in the air, we could not see the beginning and end of this city at once. I had been told before I left that Mexico City was the largest city measured by land mass. In fact, it is the sprawling suburbs to Mexico City that, when added to the Federal District, allows it to take first prize as the largest metropolitan area in the Western Hemisphere -- the second largest in the world. Greater Mexico City is made up of the city's centre, 58 adjacent municipalities and one municipality of the state of Hidalgo.

Here is an aerial photo that I found on the website of a helicopter pilot from Mexico. If you would like to see more, you can visit: homepage.mac.com/helipilot/PhotoAlbum31.html

I could not see the airport. In fact, I could see nothing but miles and miles of concrete buildings and glass skyscrapers. Absent were the pools and parks that usually dot Canadian and American cityscapes. The houses were built almost one on top of the other so grassy, green backyards were replaced by more concrete houses. I watched cars crawl like ants through the complicated grid of streets. I saw no cloverleaf turnpikes...in fact I saw nothing larger than a two-lane highway and I wondered how long it would take to drive from one end of the city to another with no apparent bypass. Surely there is more that I could not see.

We touched down and prepared to disembark. As I stepped off the plane, I was hit by a wall of heat and humidity; I knew I would have to find a washroom and ditch my sweater. I followed the signs to immigration and kept an eye out for other passengers from my flight. I had about two hours to make my connection but I was uncertain as to how long it would take to clear immigration, check in to Mexicana and find my next gate. I finally found the queue for foreigners, pulled out my passport and tourist card application and found my electronic documentation for the connecting flight.

Waiting, waiting, waiting...."AQUI!" A beautiful Spanish woman took my documentation with a blank facial expression. I wondered whether customs, immigration and airport security personnel are instructed to remain expressionless during their customer transactions. What is to be gained by this? Do they feel that we would take the process less seriously? We would not. I truth, I decided, smiling airport workers might encourage a more honest exchange.

"What is your reason for visiting?" the smiling immigration lady would say with a twinkle in her eye.

"It's educational," would be my tentative reply.

"Sounds boring," she would say with another coaxing smile feigning commiseration.

"Oh not at all," I would say. "Instead of visiting your rich resorts and being brainwashed by your tourist-focused propaganda, I'm going to head into some of your most remote locations and witness how the impoverished indigenous people are oppressed and harassed by your government. Then I'm going to go home and blog and talk about how corrupt Mexican politicians rape the land and exploit the people to line their own pockets and the pockets of rich lobbyists and greedy heads of industry. It should be really interesting."

She would continue smiling even as she calls out, "Security!"

But she didn't smile, so our exchange was perfunctory at best.

"You are here for education?" she asks eyeing my backpack.

"Yes," I answer with a small smile. No elaboration. No details.

Ka-thump. She stamps my tourist card application (but not my passport), rips off the wallet-sized card and returns everything to me with lightning-speed, before pointing to a corridor on my left and saying "Through there."

I follow the signs for baggage knowing that I will only retrieve my luggage at Tuxtla. I asked an airport worker for direction and head through customs. Nobody asked me for my customs documentation so I didn't offer it up. I didn't have documentation for the roasted coffee that I was carrying and was afraid that might tie my up a little. My paperwork did indicate that I had it in my luggage but, hey, if they weren't asking, I wasn't offering.

I dropped my backpack, camera, boarding pass, passport and purse into the basket and threw it on the conveyor belt so that it could be irradiated for the safety of all my fellow passengers. The moment I realized that I had lost temporary possession of my passport (even though it was part of airport security procedures) I got quite anxious. Never a good poker player, my anxiety was quickly broadcast by my face for all to see. One of the three young workers recognized my anxiety and took a couple of steps towards me in response to my reaction. I rummaged through the basket even as it was still exiting the security x-ray and breathed a sigh of relief when I had it again in my hand. They laughed and teased and I smiled back politely. The only word I caught was "pasaporte."

I found the room for Mexicana passengers to check in and get their boarding passes. I got into queue and waited. Between the passenger queue and the ticket counter was a line of tables with airport workers going through luggage. I was finally pointed towards one of these tables.

"Is carry-on?" the young lady asked in broken English.

"Yes. Si." I reply as she looks it over.

"Wait," she murmured before moving to another table.

My backpack was big. Packed, it fit exactly the maximum dimensions allowed by Air Canada for carry-on. That said, there was a little metal device nearby that suggested my carry-on would only be acceptable if it fit neatly inside the space provided. I had my doubts that I would be able to cram my backpack into that tiny space and began to take a mental inventory of the clothes inside my bag devising a strategy to transport as many layers as possible using my body. The word heatstroke hung in the periphery of my mind as I stood sweating in the light cotton sweater I was already wearing.

I watched as other passengers moved forward from their table to the ticket counter. I waited. Did they forget about me? I cleared my throat to remind them that I was waiting. I waited. I cleared my throat again, ready to break into song. I would sing loudly and badly (but happily so as not to attract the wrong kind of attention) to help move things along.

"Aqui!" said the man at the ticket counter pointing in my general direction.

I looked behind me, and then back at him. I pointed to myself and he nodded.

I handed over my electronic boarding pass and he asked if I had any luggage to check. "No," was my quick bilingual reply. He generated an authentic airport boarding pass, circled Gate B and ended our exchange even before it had begun.

"Where?" I asked.

"Up the stairs," he replied as he pointed towards the doorway.

"Thank you. Gracias." I said turning away.

I walked out of the room and found myself in the busy thoroughfare of Mexico City's Airport. To my left was an exit to the street. It was pouring rain outside and a sudden and loud crack of thunder rolled into the corridor where the sound was amplified. I was shocked by the humidity; the air was thick with it. The airport workers were wearing slacks, shirts, vests and blazers in spite of it and I was reminded that this was Mexico's winter season. I wondered what it would be like in mid-August under a hot summer sun.

I would like to say that I walked to the gate and waited for my flight, but I quickly learned that it would not be so simple because in front of me and to my right were no less than four banks of escalators taking me to various locations upstairs. With 25% odds for success, I decided to hop on one and start moving. I had just under one hour to make my connection. At the top of the escalator I started walking. I walked for about 8 minutes...and I was not strolling...before I decided I had gone in the wrong direction. I stopped a security worker and asked for directions. Without a smile, he pointed back towards the way I had come and said, "Gate B."

"Gate B," I thought, "I know, I know, but there's no gate B. Gates back there are numbered not lettered. Argggh. I found a washroom, took off my sweater, dug out a clean, dry t-shirt and hoisted my backpack once again onto my back. Ten minutes later, I found myself back at the top of the escalator. This time I veered left onto an overpass that took me to a corridor on the other side of the busy airport. I followed the corridor past offices and doorways meant for authorized personnel only thinking the entire time, "This can't be right." I half-expected someone to question my purpose and turn me around, but at the end of the corridor a bend to the right took me towards Gate B.

Gate B is a complete misnomer by the way. Gate B is actually a doorway to boarding gates 0 - 300,000. Alright, I'm exaggerating a bit, however Gate B is a doorway to a huge number of gates used to shepherd the passengers of Mexicana's many domestic flights. I was so suddenly flooded with a sense of relief that I forgot about my thirst, my hunger and my fatigue. I found my flight and dropped onto a bench next to a very old Mexican man who smiled and nodded. I closed my eyes and caught my breath. When I opened my eyes again, the old man was gone. I looked around and saw a motley crew of people at the gate.

A trio of Spanish cleaning ladies were chatting quickly and passionately in Spanish. They leaned against their mops and carts as if bracing themselves for the exchange. Most people chatted on cellphones. The older lady across from me sat quietly with hands folded over the purse in her lap. I caught a movement from my right and realized that the old man had returned. I realized that he had forgotten his parcel; in fact it was a Spiderman lunch bag. I smiled in his direction.

A gentleman and his wife entered the lounge and dropped onto the bench across from me. She closed her eyes and he began fishing around for their boarding passes and documentation. An announcement flooded the lounge and people began to walk towards the counter. I waited. I didn't know which seats were filling, but I thought I would wait and board the plane at the last possible moment. Another announcement prompted the couple to stand.

"Excuse me, what seats are boarding?" I asked the couple.

"Well, they said that anyone needing assistance may board, but everybody is getting on," said the gentleman. "Where are you going?"

"San Cristobal." I replied.

"Us too," he replied. "We are going to a wedding in San Cristobal. Our daughter is a missionary there. After the wedding, we're going to Guatemala on a missions trip. Are you just visiting?"

"I'm actually joining a fair trade delegation," I explained, "through Higher Grounds Trading."

This comment drew a reaction from two ladies to my left. They turned in my direction and began talking to one another.

"You are doing important work," he said.

"You too," I offered. "Friends from work just returned from building homes for three families in Guatemala. They were just returning as I was leaving."

We began walking down the gangplank towards the plane as we continued our chat. At a pause in our conversation, the two ladies I noticed earlier turned towards me and one said, "Amavida Coffee," in greeting.

"Equator Coffee," I replied.

"See you in Tuxtla," they said.

I lost sight of them on the plane as I looked to find the window seat identified on my boarding pass. With my backpack in front of me, I struggled down the narrow aisle drawing a few angry looks from the passengers coming into contact with the straps and sides of my massive carry-on. When I found my seat fourteen nasty looks later, I lifted my backpack towards the overhead storage. "Um....no," I muttered reconsidering my plan. I threw it onto the floor in front of my seat and began trying to stuff it under the seat in front of mine. That space was awfully small. I looked at the space to my left; it was bigger. I kicked at my bag with one and then both of my feet leaning against the back of my seat for leverage. Halfway. Good enough.

Within minutes we were in the air. When we had reached our maximum cruising altitude, the flight attendants made their way down the aisle with refreshments. Peanuts! It's been years since I've seen peanuts on a flight. Peanuts! What with all the allergies, I thought that this airline offering had long since disappeared. What a treat. There was no bottled water, so I asked for a Coke. It was Coca Cola or juice and I just wasn't in a mood for juice. I savored my peanuts and watched out the window as Mexico City was replaced by flatland and then rolling hills.

As we approached Tuxtla, we decreased our altitude and I could easily see the landforms below. For as far as I could see, the highlands spread out towards the horizon. It looked like the back of a sleeping dragon with brown spikes rising up from the earth. I spotted a river winding its way through the mountains with a kind of harmony only found in nature and art. The pilot announced our descent as I gazed out the window.

Tuxtla Gutierrez is a city nestled within a valley surrounded by mountains. It was spectacular, I thought. As we flew even lower, I could see tin shacks dotting the mountainsides reflecting the light of the sun. Within minutes we touched down and it occurred to me that this trip was just about to begin.

I could barely contain my excitement.