Spring Break
Immersion Experience - Mexico: En memoria de mi primo
Reflections on poverty inspired by the Mexico IXP
Andrew J. Wylie (NI), Associate Editor
Issue date: 1/26/09 Section: Features
The hills beckoned on the last morning of the Mexico IXP. Our Crowne Plaza hotel overlooked the city's central river, beyond which low hills rose to the Sierra Madre.
We had been in Monterrey three days but I had not had time to jog through the city (a habit of mine when traveling). Just across the river atop the nearest foothill was an intriguing building. I couldn't quite tell what it was, but given the colonial heritage of the country I thought it was likely to be an old monastery or a military outpost. There was only one way to find out, get my daily exercise.
I figured the run would take about one hour and set out across the footbridge that crossed the highway paralleling the river. From this distance I could see neighborhoods reaching some two thirds up the hill with what appeared to be easily navigable roads leading to the scrub brush covering the final ascent.
In the United States wealthier people usually occupy the homes higher up on a city's outlying hills. I therefore assumed that as I climbed higher I would see larger estates. I began phrasing polite Spanish sentences in my head in the event I inadvertently trespassed on some rich family's back yard near the top of the hill.
My assumptions were grossly in error. As I neared the top of the hill the roads turned from pavement to stone to dirt. Motor vehicles vanished and gave way to hordes of mongrel dogs peering at me from behind open piles of garbage.
I could no longer see the presumed monastery but the scrub brush was still in view. After weaving my way through houses made of aluminum panels lashed to wooden posts I came across an old man.
"Tratando subir esta montana para ver el edificio. Va este camino del pie alli?" (I asked in my broken Spanish if the path led up the hill; I was trying to see the building). He told me that the path did lead that way.
The next fifteen minutes were challenging. I had to avoid cactus and thorn brush as well as countless piles of refuse. At last I reached the building on top, but it was no monastery; no tribute to the past. It was nothing. Absolutely nothing. A large wall lined with broken glass and sharp metal pins was what I had mistaken for the side of a great building. Behind this wall was a large concrete shed filled with reeking trash; extending from this mirage was a short paved road leading to a turn circle, suggesting a planned neighborhood that was never completed.
We had been in Monterrey three days but I had not had time to jog through the city (a habit of mine when traveling). Just across the river atop the nearest foothill was an intriguing building. I couldn't quite tell what it was, but given the colonial heritage of the country I thought it was likely to be an old monastery or a military outpost. There was only one way to find out, get my daily exercise.
I figured the run would take about one hour and set out across the footbridge that crossed the highway paralleling the river. From this distance I could see neighborhoods reaching some two thirds up the hill with what appeared to be easily navigable roads leading to the scrub brush covering the final ascent.
In the United States wealthier people usually occupy the homes higher up on a city's outlying hills. I therefore assumed that as I climbed higher I would see larger estates. I began phrasing polite Spanish sentences in my head in the event I inadvertently trespassed on some rich family's back yard near the top of the hill.
My assumptions were grossly in error. As I neared the top of the hill the roads turned from pavement to stone to dirt. Motor vehicles vanished and gave way to hordes of mongrel dogs peering at me from behind open piles of garbage.
I could no longer see the presumed monastery but the scrub brush was still in view. After weaving my way through houses made of aluminum panels lashed to wooden posts I came across an old man.
"Tratando subir esta montana para ver el edificio. Va este camino del pie alli?" (I asked in my broken Spanish if the path led up the hill; I was trying to see the building). He told me that the path did lead that way.
The next fifteen minutes were challenging. I had to avoid cactus and thorn brush as well as countless piles of refuse. At last I reached the building on top, but it was no monastery; no tribute to the past. It was nothing. Absolutely nothing. A large wall lined with broken glass and sharp metal pins was what I had mistaken for the side of a great building. Behind this wall was a large concrete shed filled with reeking trash; extending from this mirage was a short paved road leading to a turn circle, suggesting a planned neighborhood that was never completed.
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