Mexico City
21 de Septiembre de 2010
2010 is an important year for Mexicans. It´s the Bicentennial of their Independence (September 15th) and the Centennial of its Revolution (November 20th). Two hundred years of history and two good reasons for Mexicans to celebrate.
I´d come to Mexico City to be part of the Bicentenario, to participate in this historic event. I had long ago claimed Mexico as my adopted country, and I was not about to miss the party.
Forgive me, but I´ve cut and paste the 100 word intro to Independence in Mexico:
¨In 1810, Mexican-born Spaniards — the creoles — saw no recourse other than violence as the means to gain independence from Spain. Their principles were inspired by the doctrines of 16th-century thinkers like the Jesuit Francisco Suárez, who argued for “popular sovereignty.” But the creoles were also driven by specific grievances: they had long resented domination by men from the Iberian Peninsula; they were also indignant that the seemingly inexhaustible wealth of New Spain had been the principal financial resource for the frivolousness and senseless wars of the Spanish empire.
Yet the crown repeatedly ignored opportunities that might have avoided violent revolution — Spain certainly could have loosened connections with its overseas dominions and granted Mexico some degree of independence. When the provincial priest Miguel Hidalgo y Costilla shouted his call to arms, the grito, from the steps of his Dolores church, the war for independence finally exploded. (Krauze, Enrique, New York Times, September 15, 2010)
I wanted to experience the whole event, the whole shebang, the full nine yards. But that was just not going to be possible, especially in a city of 25,000,000 people. On the 15th, two significant events would take place. I could choose the extravagant, four hour parade with over 100 floats, thousands of participants and scores of bands.
Or, I could choose to be in the absolute epicenter where I would witness President Felipe Calderon deliver the grito de Dolores, followed by what Mexico had promised to be the bigget, most outrageous display of fireworks ever presented in the history of the country.
I chose the latter and was absolutely thrown off balance!
My friend, and guide, for the evening, Gerardo Rodriguez, met me at 5:30. We made out way to the Zocalo, Mexico City´s enormous public square (one of the largest public plazas in the world) that housed the Palacio Nacional and the Catredal Metropolitano. This would be home to the evening´s principal events--events that would be telecast nationally, and would be watched by millions of Mexicans.
The lines getting into the Zocalo were long--almost half a mile. Numbers would be limited to 200,000 so it was important to get there early. We went through two separate security checks. No bottles. No alcohol. (There was a 48 hour ban on the sale of alcohol in the city.) Nothing that could be construed as a weapon. A third security check brought us through a metal detector, followed by a pat down. Mexico City did not want a repeat of what happened a year earlier when a bomb went off in Morelia and killed several people.
By 7:30 we we were among the fortunate 200,000 tucked inside the Zocalo. There was really nothing to do but wait. Nothing would happen until 10:00 pm when the nation´s eyes would be on this spot. All official buildings surrounding the plaza had been decorated and lit up with thousands of lights with huge illuminated portraits of the two principal heroes of independence, Miguel Hidalgo and Jose Morelos, framed by the years 1810--2010!
Surrounding us were huge television screens. We simply found a place to sit on the pavement and sat. Outside, wending its way slowly towards the Zocalo, was the extravagant Bicentennial parade. Que pena! What a shame! I wanted to see that, too, but it was either that or spending the evening in the Zocalo. So we watched it on tv instead. Surrounding us were gigantic television screens, so we were able to see the parade that way.
A few entrepreneurs had been able to sneak in with things to slle and were doing a brisk business selling Bicentennial kitch--wigs with the Mexican tri-color of red, green and white, horns, flags and garish sunglasses lit up with 2010!
It was a polite, friendly group of people. Fortunately, we´d brought food and two bottles of water, (Later, the bottles would come in handy becaus the lines for the porta-potties were a hundred deep.)
By 10:00 pm we thought we should move. We hadn´t thought much of where we were sitting, and realized that we were a bit far back to have a close-up and personal experience with the evening. Watching it on TV had been ok, but this was the real thing.
Very slowly, because the crowd was enormous and thick, we wiggled and wormed our way through the masses. We literally had to hold on to each other otherwise we´d get separated, and once separated here there´d be no finding each other. Slowly, we got to an end point where we simply could not go further. Three hundred yards, directly in front of us, was the balcony where President Felipe Calderon would deliver the famous grito de Dolores; 300 yards immediately to our left was the Cathedral, Mexico´s oldest and most important church. Life didn´t get much better than this.
Two stages had been set up on either side of us. Bigger-than-life-entertainment went from stage to stage: Mexico´s opera house sent its stars to perform arias; a famed Mexican singer sang the official Bicencentennial song; Cirque de Soleil had acrobats climbing vertical wires in an intricate display of physicality that ultimately ended with them forming the words MEXICO. The crowd went wild.
By 10:30 the principal contingents of the parade had entered the Zocalo--huge floats, brass bands, a huge balloon carrying the emblematic symbol of Mexican Independence, an angel, floating below the huge orb.
At 10:45 an almost weird, apocolyptic figure, 200 feet high, rose in the Zocalo. I had the spooky feeling it was the resurrected image of Hidalgo. ¨Who is he? I asked people around me. No one seemed to know. In the end, I think it was a composite form of the heroes of Independence. Frankly, for me, it was just plain odd.
By 10:55 the television monitors around us (We were so packed in that this was really the only way for all of to see what was happening on the ground.) showed Calderon and his beautiful wife walking through the hallls of the Palacio Nacional. Following them was an honor guard carrying the Mexican flag. We were close enough to see the President emerge onto the balcony, take the flag from his guard, and approach the railing.
There was a hush. This was the start of a script written long ago, and known by all Mexicans, and played out throughout the country, in every village, in every town, in every city, in every Mexican state at the same allotted time.
Facing the Zocalo, a military band began to play the Mexican National Anthem.
For this I could only stand back and listen. Imagine the voices of 200,000 singing the words they all knew so well.
Immediately following the anthem, President Calderon began the grito el Dolores...the shout that would be heard all through Mexico, in every public square, at 11:00 pm each September 15th.
Viva Hidalgo! shouted el Presidente
VIVA! thundered the crowd.
Viva Morelos!
Viva!
Viva Doña Josepfa Ortiz de Dominguez!
Viva!
Viva los heroes que nos dieron patria!
Viva!
Viva Allende!
Viva!
Viva la Independencia!
Viva!
Viva el Bicentenario!
Viva!
Viva Mexico!
Viva!
Viva Mexico!
Viva!
Viva Mexico!
Viva!
This time, because I have long considered Mexico to be my adopted country, I joined the chorus! Viva!
What a moment! Mexico had officially celebrated its 200th birthday!
The grito had barely hushed when huge jets of fire, computer choreographed to military music, erupted over the 1,00o foot long Palacio Nacional. It was a sensual overload!
And then.... And then... The fireworks. We turned our attention left to the Cathedral where, as promised, eight tons of fireworkds exploded over the church. it was as if we were in a war zone.
I could only think of our own anthem this marvelous night; ¨...and the rockets red glare, the bombs bursting in air...¨ OMG! What a site. Mexico had promised that it would be the biggest display of fireworks ever performed in the country.
Thirty minutes later, the air filled with smoke and fine ash drifting softly around us, the Zocalo party ended.
But it was hardly the end. As you can imagine, no one really wanted to leave. The afterglow of such a huge event kept people rooted in place. A swing band took over one of the stages. people danced. People took photos of each other. People just sat on the ground not wanting to leave. And, because we´d been standing for ever so long, we sat, too. Just sat and tried to take it all in.
We finally did leave the Zocalo--ever so reluctantly. Slowly we made our way down Calle Madero (the city had closed off 100 streets for two days). Revelers were everywhere. We were sprayed with shaving cream, pelted with empty eggs shells filled with confetti. Thousands and thousands of people were in the street. Venders were everywhere and we finally got something to eat. A mile later, past Bellas Artes, Mexico City´s Opera House, past the lovely Alameda Park, we came to Reforma, Mexico City´s Fifth Avenue. A huge street party was in progress with thousands and thousands yet again filling the streets, dancing to the bands that had been set up at the city´s iconic Monument to Independence way down the street. Huge screens projected the action on the stage. It was 1:00 a.m. and I was super-energized. I just joined in the fun. Gerardo, however, who´d been up since 4:00 a.m was fading fast. ¨Treinta minutos mas,¨I begged. Thirty minutes more. By 1:30 were were walking toward the metro when we stumbled on yet another sreet party with a dynamic salsa bandpounding out tunes. Celia Cruz had even come back from the dead.
¨Pa' loma, Paloma...,¨ she crooned. My dancing feet couldn´t stand still. Poor Gerardo! By now he´d turned into a pumpkin (an impossible phrase to convey in Spanish.) It really was time to call it quits. I simply didn´t want to stop, though. But, while the spirit was willing, the body was wouldn´t.
It was long past 2:00 a.m. I put Gerardo into a cab, walked through the still crowded party-heavy streets of my neighborhood, got to my hotel and slipped into bed.
Viva Mexico!
Viva la noche!
Viva el Bicentenario!
Que noche!
What a night it had been.
y. We arrived in Samana, Dominican Republic, at noon, boarded tenders at 12:30, got on a bus for a four hour absolutely cheesy tour that would bring us from the town of Samana, over a mountain ridge, to the even more cheesy tourist town of Las Terennas. I was almost embarrassed to part of this trip. Our only contact with locals was a 20 minute bus stop at a tourist shop selling really cheesy tourist bric-a-brac. Poverty abounded on both sides of the bus. It’s hard to make a living outside of tourist areas. 
n, built along a gorgeous sandy, palm studded beach, was probably quite nice once upon a time before hotels and restaurants were built with no zoning involved. Now it was just packed with old farts off the boat—myself included. 
s viene pronto! Búscalo! Jesus is coming soon, Look for it!
p vowing not to take a boat sponsored tour on an island small enough to spit across. Instead, we bought an off-boat island tour which brought us out of Road Town, the upscale port city, up into the mountains where we stopped often to get magnificent vistas of a remarkable volcanic shoreline, and views of many of smaller Virgin Islands that were but a speck on the horizon. 
of God. A few churches, but certainly no signs that we were in the last days with Jesus coming soon. The citizens here lived the good life, in nice houses, with nice shops, good restaurants. In other words they had good jobs that gave them good salaries. God might be easier to put in the back pocket when you’ve got more than you need. 
