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Home > Uncovering Mexico > Archives > 2006 > September > 20 > Entry

Fear and loathing in Oaxaca

By Jeremy Schwartz | Wednesday, September 20, 2006, 12:40 PM

On the late-night flight from Mexico City to Oaxaca, I nearly worked myself into a panic reading the press clippings from the local dailies. After the sun goes down, they warned, the troubled city of Oaxaca enters a state of “psychosis.� Here’s how one newspaper described the scene: “Night becomes a dark space, filled with unease and hate. Anyone can fall into that sudden nightmare of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.�

Good Lord, I thought, what am I getting into? We were on the last flight into Oaxaca, arriving at about 10:30 p.m., long after the nightly barricades had gone up. The barricades are manned by striking teachers and their supporters, ostensibly to keep federal forces from invading. I was convinced I’d never make it to the hotel, which was in the heart of the heavily fortified center.

I had traveled to Oaxaca three times before, the first as a highly impressionable 18-year-old studying Spanish for the summer. The idea that Oaxaca had become an armed camp seemed inconceivable — it was among the most serene of Mexican destinations, its history, architecture and culture attracting more socially conscious travelers than you would find in, say, Cancun.

But a teachers’ strike had exploded over the summer, unleashing decades of frustration in Mexico’s second poorest state. According to the press clippings, Oaxaca had become a malevolent place, where violence could erupt at any moment.

The half-filled plane arrived at the airport and we clambered aboard a colectivo, a minivan that fit about 10 passengers. I kept asking if we would make it to the downtown. Maybe, was the answer. It depends on the barricades. We sped through eerily empty streets, passing a few barricades made up of men milling around a fire in the middle of the street. They waved us through without incident and we arrived at the hotel safe and sound.

After three days in Oaxaca, the scariest part was the flight there. True there were no police (they’ve abandoned the city since a pitched battle with teachers in June), but there were no bogeymen either. Squinting past the graffiti marking almost every building and the encampments set up in the Zocalo, it almost felt normal. At least until night fell and everyone scurried inside.

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