Our Man in Mexico: Proximo Temblor September 9, 2021
Needing to renew my passport at the US Embassy, we traveled to the capital city to a rude welcome. Mexico City is now a little bit lower today than it was yesterday.
This was the third earthquake I have experienced since 2018, in three different cities in three different countries. In none of them was there a significant death count or catastrophic damage. However, for the shaken souls sharing the wet street with me last night, memories of 2017 and especially 1985, which killed thousands, remain strong. The trauma lingers, I explain to myself, as I wonder why I was forced out of my building in my socks after a comparatively minor tremor.
The quake that rocked Port of Spain, Trinidad, in August 2018, was the worst the country had ever experienced. Initially registered as a 7.1, it lasted for several minutes and destroyed the interior of the grocery store where I was shopping at the time. It felt apocalyptic. Water mains burst, windows shattered, cisterns ruptured. The capital city reeled for days.
Nothing like that happened in Mexico City last night, and by this morning everything was back to normal. The epicenter for this Temblor was more than 200 miles away in Acapulco, Guerrero, and registered at 7.0, although it was closer to 5.0 in this neighborhood. Yet, for a few hours last night, Mexicans shuddered in their capital city, reawakening the existential dread of living in a city steadily sinking in an overly active seismic zone.
When I arrived at my friends’ apartment, things instantly seemed amiss. Crammed against the banks of the stagnant Churubusco River, this neighborhood called Paseos de Taxqueña was experiencing tension even before the earthquake struck. At least one person in the building was ill with covid19, and I was warned by all to keep my mask on at all times. Of even greater concern should have been the building itself, which was noticeably tilting to the south. One could race marbles in the corridors, plastered repairs covered cracks in the walls like zebra stripes, and all south-facing doors had to be propped open to keep them from swinging shut. This place was tainted with infection and decidedly crooked.
The 5-story structure was built with others in the barrio in 1982, and this was when Patricia’s family moved in. When the 8.1 Temblor hit on September 17, 1985, Gustavo was at home on the top story. The apartment swayed like a palm tree. He heard debris falling outside and realized that the new 9-story edifice next-door was beginning to collapse. After the shaking finally stopped, he discovered that the taller building was still standing but leaning badly, directly over his apartment. For years afterward, a demolition team labored to remove 4 stories from the damaged building. Today it is no taller than its neighbors, and it apparently shares the same southward slant.
It is estimated that 10,000 were killed in Mexico City that day, and hundreds more perished on its anniversary in 2017 with a 7.4 quake. Ironically, this one occurred just minutes after the completion of a city-wide preparedness drill to commemorate the ’85 tragedy. Ever since, every Chilango knows the drill.
So when the alarms sounded last night around 8 pm, everyone knew immediately what to do: Exit without delay. First came the blaring siren, which must have been triggered from Guerrero, because I felt nothing. Seconds later, the power failed and the apartment went black. The shaking was not apparent until I reached the stairwell when Patricia lost her balance. I realized then that I was losing my balance too. With the aid of cell phone lights, we reached the street and saw that we were practically the last ones out, despite the fact that I did not even take the time to put my boots on. And there we all stood, in the dark, in the rain, amid the tearful embraces—Los Gritos de Dolores.
Tamales venders on bicycles arrived just in time for some robust sales. Despite my drenched socks, I put my boots on and ordered one tamal with red salsa. There was no telling how long we would be standing outside, waiting for aftershocks or instructions, or when it would be safe to go back inside to the darkened building. The safe answer is probably never, but never is not an option.
“The pajama catwalk is what we used to call it,” says my anonymous source, referring to the impromptu evening-wear of her neighbors. Even in the breeze, everyone keeps their masks on, adding to the mystery. It is all part of the ritual of September in Ciudad Mexico.