Dirty Old Town November 8, 2022
The early afternoon sun bakes the stinking downtown streets. Trash collection has been replaced with trash delivery, at least judging by the overflowing bins and the mountains of refuse that have been piled on each corner of the Zócalo, the center of municipal government. It is a provocative act by the union. 4-foot mounds of leaking trash bags have been positioned to stop all car traffic on Bustamante, Guerrero, Alcalá, and Hidalgo. No one dares to touch them but the rats.
Blockading traffic arteries is a proven method for solving local disputes. In both Chiapas and Oaxaca, the militant teachers unions have made hay of the tactic. Indeed, just before we arrived here, organized teachers had closed Calle Armante y Lopez for months, apparently protesting low wages and inadequate resources.
Pablo and Irma, proud union members both, run a book store on the sidewalk across from Templo Agustin, which specializes in textbooks, teaching tools, and the leftist polemics typical of an autonomous university education. They helped organize those street protests earlier in the year. I would be interested in their perspective as to what is accomplished by such civil disruptions. Then I catch a whiff of a garbage pile.
“Buenos dias, Pablo, I mean, disculpe—Buenos tardes.” (It is a few minutes after twelve, so Dias is required to become Tardes, a conversational nicety that is enforced by every Mexican.) “Mi libro? Está aqui?”
“No hoy, pero—“ Pablo starts, his shoulders raised in a shrug.
“Mañana tal vez,” I finish. As the adage goes, tomorrow is always better than today for finding what you are looking for. Some time ago, Pablo was quite confident that he could find for me a used English copy of “Oaxaca Journal,” by Oliver Sacks, a book I have been trying to get my hands on for months. It is difficult for Pablo, a devoted union man, to tell me that my best option may be Amazon.
“Hasta Mañana,” we agree.
Approaching the Zocalo, the stench grows. A few clouds overhead hint at rain, but the returning dry season is already well under way. This city needs a good thorough cleansing, but there is not enough water these days. However, there is plenty of garbage. One particularly pungent stack of bags sits at the steps of Palacio Municipal, just in case the message is not clear enough.
I have no idea what the actual message is, other than the importance of trash collection. Rumors include: problematic new recycling ordinances, scarcity of landfills, price of fuel, lack of compensation. Another reason may be the change of government soon under way, whereby the Morena Party assumes control. It is not unusual for an outgoing government to accrue huge debt, even sabotage infrastructure, before leaving office. For this reason, it is quite common for former mayors, governors, and presidents to live abroad and free of extradition from the bills they failed pay.
Whatever the garbage men want, I say, give it to them. Immediately. In my own apartment building, our dumpster now has a lock on it, giving me nowhere to put my trash. I am reminded of Adrian Monk’s solution during the San Francisco garbage strike—he mailed his garbage to his therapist—if only I trusted the mail service. My real hope is that Marco, our superintendent, stops by soon to take it from us, which is anything but certain, yet at least he offers hope that the plastic will be separated from the organic. “Mañana,” he says, when I ask about it. I do not dare ask what he is doing with our trash when he does relieve us of it. Perhaps he takes it to the Zócalo.