The smell of salt is in the air as I cross the northern tip
of Veracruz state. Refineries smoke on the horizon over estuaries of marsh
grass. Then, Tamaulipas state. Tampico, a city at the mouth of the Río Panuco,
has been called Mexico’s New Orleans, and this comparison has many merits. Like
its North American sister city, it is marooned in a watery waste near a wide
river, with elevation that could be measured in inches. Tampico is a smelly,
grimy, and lively place. The streets around the market are strewen with
carelessly discarded produce scraps, creating a mélange of fishy putrid odors
that seems to permanently befoul the riverfront barrio. All night down there,
loud and dangerous bars are filled with drunk sailors, whores, and hustlers. Up
above the slime are two newly renovated plazas, home to flocks of pigeons big
enough to stir up a miniature whirlwind when their collective birdbrain
impulsively decides to fly to the rooftops. But people everywhere throw food on
the ground for them, and the temptation can only be resisted for a few minutes
before one, five, fifty, and the horde descends once again.
Out on the streets, the traffic roars, watched by
whistle-blowing traffic cops on foot. Taxis honk and chirp incessantly, a noise
that soon fades into the general urban bustle. This city does not have a safe
reputation; women all dress conservatively and walk with purpose, avoiding eye
contact with any strangers. Cholo style gangbangers, a rare sight in most of
Mexico, walk the streets with their girlfriends.
In the central plaza, I arrange to meet a Facebook friend of
mine who lives nearby. Flaco is a short, thin, well-groomed dude about my age.
We embrace and walk the few blocks to my truck, talking. Flaco works at Home
Depot and lives in the suburb of Altamira with his mom. We drive the toll
bypass, cruising past industrial parks and wetlands, then exit onto a bumpy
street on the edge of town. His mom lives in a modest one-story house with a
fenced yard, that rarest of luxuries in urban Mexico. The air is still and
heavy with humidity. We hang out for a few minutes as Flaco’s mom puts the
finishing touches on a kettle of hominy stew and asks questions in Spanish,
which he translates for me.
The stew is watery but delicious. After a cold shower, Flaco
and I climb the stairs to the flat roof and get down to business. We roll a
frankenjoint with the last of our stashes, light up, chill out to music playing
on my phone. The dusk is velvet, and all around us lights glow in living rooms
as families watch TV together. The weed runs out, and we take a walk through
the darkened neighborhood to the Oxxo corner store, lit up bright as day. Flaco
buys a snack and a Coke, offers to get me something. I decline. He pays and
steps outside, makes a call on his phone just as a kid with a baseball cap
pulled low over his eyes drives his moped into the parking lot. They greet each
other casually, then Flaco gives the kid 200 MXN (11 USD). The kid hands him a
baggie containing about a quarter ounce of sin
semilla. They fist bump and the kid buzzes away. Now we’re good, Flaco
says.
Back up on the roof, he rolls a fat joint from the bag,
hands it to me. No you go ahead, I say. He lights it, takes a deep hit, blows
it out quickly, passes it over. We got back and forth, the tinny phone speaker
playing some forgotten American album, Traffic maybe. Conversation lags as we
both become immersed in our own thoughts. I have returned to a familiar setting
in a strange place. Back porch hangouts after work, music playing on a
Bluetooth speaker, a string of LED disco lights fading and flashing, a pipe
filled with ditch weed passed around and around and around as we all zone out
to the tunes. Then one by one, called by Sleep’s receptionist, we get up and go
to our room with a quiet goodnight. That familiar calmness, flood of melatonin,
sign of a good night’s sleep ahead. I go out to my truck, unwilling to move my
bedroll inside the house. A few minutes later, Flaco comes to my open window,
gives me an eighth of his weed. I offer to pay for it. This is my gift for your
visit, he replies. Although if you don’t mind taking me to work tomorrow, that
would be great. Sure thing, and goodnight, I say.
The next morning dawns muggy and cloudy, both outside and inside
my head. I drop Flaco off at his job, shake hands goodbye, and head for the
beach. Playa Miramar is separated from Tampico by a concrete wasteland, but the
sand on the beach is meticulously cleaned every morning. The polluted Río
Panuco drains into the Gulf a mile south, but the current seems to carry its
filth away from the beach. On this second day in December—a whole month in
Mexico!—the beach is deserted. I smoke a small joint and walk barefoot through
the gentle surf past endless rows of palapas
and a few beachfront hotels and cabanas.
Down by the river, a high rocky breakwater protects the river’s busy
shipping channel; the top of the wall is paved, a popular pedestrian hangout.
Families of semi-tame raccoons waddle around in broad daylight, begging snacks
from the locals like dogs. Raccoons, however, do not wag their tails.
The day passes slowly under a hazy sky. As night falls, I
decide to stay parked on the beach. At 10 pm, I am woken by a bright flashlight
probing the inside of my truck. Wary of a past interaction with police where I
inadvertently allowed them to steal a hundred dollars, I answer their bored
questions. Satisfied, they drive off and leave me in peace.