The Death Relic

17

Tiffany Duffy didn’t know what to expect when she flew to Mexico City for a business trip, but she wasn’t expecting this.

According to CIA estimates, Mexico City is the third most-populated metropolitan area in the world, behind only Tokyo, Japan and Seoul, South Korea. With over 21 million people, Mexico City accounts for nearly 20 per cent of the population of Mexico and a significant portion of the nation’s wealth. Because of its proximity to the United States, Mexico is often viewed as a secondary player on the global stage, but its population of 111 million people is the eleventh largest in the world. That’s more than Canada, Ireland and the United Kingdom combined.

The capital city is nestled in the Valley of Mexico in the high plateaus of the Trans-Mexican Volcanic Belt. Composed of more than twenty volcanoes, including some of Mexico’s highest peaks, the belt stretches across southern Mexico from the Pacific coast to the Caribbean Sea. With a minimum altitude of 7,200 feet, Mexico City has a very different feel to tropical Cancún. Instead of colourful resorts, there are drab apartment buildings. Instead of manicured streets, there is urban sprawl. And instead of white, sandy beaches, there are mountains perpetually topped with snow.

Sadly, many of those peaks are rarely seen by locals because of the thick layer of smog that hovers above the valley like a dirty blanket. Twenty times worse than any city in America, the smog reached such toxic levels in 1990 that a local newspaper estimated the life expectancy of its citizens was nearly ten years less than that of the residents of other Mexican cities. To combat this problem, the local government instituted a programme called Hoy No Circula. In Spanish, it literally means, ‘Today (your car) Does Not Circulate’, but it’s more commonly known as ‘One Day Without a Car’. Restrictions are based on the last digit of your license plate and prohibit certain cars from being driven on certain days of the week.

Tiffany wasn’t familiar with the programme, but she had a hard time believing there were any traffic regulations on the city’s busy streets. A constant stream of cars — more than she had ever seen in her native Ohio — whizzed past at alarming speeds. She tried to cross the road on multiple occasions, only to be greeted by a chorus of beeps and profanities. At least she assumed they were profanities. She didn’t know for sure since her street slang was rusty, but she had spent enough time in Cleveland to realize that the motorists probably weren’t welcoming her to their city when they flipped her off.

With map in hand, Tiffany made her way through the chaos and into the heart of Centro Histórico, where the pace seemed to slow. She had seen several posters of Plaza de la Constitución at the airport and had hoped to take a few pictures of her own.

Dressed in blue jeans and a beige sweater, Tiffany stood out from the crowd, thanks to her strawberry-blonde hair and freckles. In Mexico City, redheads were almost as rare as clean air or good French food, so she was noticed by Latino men and women alike. More cute than sexy, she was often classified as the girl next door — especially in the winter when she packed on a few extra pounds. The truth was she wasn’t obese or even overweight, but she was a little too muscular to be mistaken for a fashion model. And she was fine with that. Unlike some of her friends, who starved themselves to fit into smaller dress sizes, she worked out just enough to keep the figure she had. In fact, when anyone questioned her weight, she always replied, ‘I would rather be happy and healthy than skinny and sad.’

Anxious to learn as much about the area as possible, she paid fifty pesos for a walking tour of the historic plaza. Led by an elderly guide named Paco, the group consisted of thirteen people in total and contained a wide variety of ages and ethnicities.

‘Good afternoon,’ he said in accented English. ‘Welcome to Constitution Square. Or, as most locals call it: Zócalo. Does anyone know what this word means?’

Someone shouted the answer. ‘The main square.’

Paco pointed at him. ‘Muy bien! I see someone has taken my tour before! If I have questions, maybe I ask you? I am old and sometimes forget.’

Tiffany smiled, glad to see that he had a sense of humour.

‘OK,’ Paco said, ‘that was easy question. Let me see how you do with tricky one. Why do Mexicans call this place Zócalo instead of Plaza de la Constitución?’

This time nobody guessed.

Paco had anticipated the silence. ‘The answer is simple. The Spanish Constitution of 1812 was signed in the plaza, but the Mexican Constitution was not. My brothers refuse to call this Constitution Square until there is a Mexican Square in Madrid!’ To drive home his point, he thrust his fist in the air, as if he had just delivered an impassioned speech to a group of armed rebels. He held it there for a moment before breaking into a wide grin. ‘Who am I kidding? We call it Zócalo because it is easier to say.’

Everybody laughed as he signalled for them to follow. Slowly but surely, he made his way across the grey plaza towards a gigantic Mexican flag that fluttered high above the centre of the square. Not wanting to miss a word, Tiffany walked beside him.

‘Long ago, zócalo did not mean “main square”. The word comes from Italian word zocollo, which means “pedestal”. Back in 1800s, the government planned a monument to honour Mexican independence. They set up a giant pedestal but — oops! — never put up the statue. Locals, as a joke, referred to this place as zócalo, and the nickname became popular. Before long, it was a new word in our language. Now Zócalo is the name of many squares throughout Mexico.’

‘Why didn’t they put up the statue?’ someone asked.

Paco shrugged. ‘I do not know. That was before my time. But I can tell you that Zócalo is one of the largest city squares in the world. I have heard Red Square in Moscow is the only one larger, but some visitors say that’s wrong. I am too old to measure, so I do not know for sure.’ He glanced at Tiffany and winked. ‘But it is much bigger than any square in America.’

She smiled at him. ‘How did you know I was American?’

‘Pelirroja.’

‘Pelirroja? What does that mean?’

He pointed at her hair. ‘It means redhead. You are only second one this year. The other one look like hamburger girl from Wendy’s. I called her “Wendy”, but she didn’t like.’

Tiffany nodded. ‘I wouldn’t like that, either.’

He smiled. ‘That is why I no call you Wendy! Who said I am dumb?’

Everybody laughed, including Paco, who seemed to draw energy from the crowd. A stage actor in his younger years, he loved being the centre of attention. For him, the size of his audience didn’t matter. He wanted to put on the best show possible.

He turned his back to the north and pointed over his shoulders with both of his thumbs. ‘OK, my friends. It’s time to stop looking at me. There are better things to see. Behind me is Catedral Metropolitana de la Asunción de María. In English, that is Metropolitan Cathedral of the Assumption of Mary. It is the largest and oldest cathedral in the Americas. It is also the seat of the Roman Catholic Archdiocese of Mexico. The cathedral was built in sections from 1573 to 1813. Its design is a mixture of three different styles, but I do not remember what they are. If you want to find out, you can get a tour of the cathedral. But I warn you: the priests charge three times as much as me and are not nearly as funny.’

He waited for the laughter to die down before he pointed to the east. A long building, half the height of the cathedral, stretched the entire length of the plaza. Its façade was decorated with tezontle, a porous red stone common in Mexican construction. ‘That is Palacio Nacional, or the National Palace. Once the presidential residence of Mexico, it is now a government building with offices for the treasury and collections from the National Archives. If you have the time, I recommend the giant mural painted by Diego Rivera. He is famous Mexican painter who was married to Frida Kahlo. She was even more famous than him. Do you know Frida?’

A few people nodded tentatively.

He smiled. ‘She had eyebrows like angry caterpillars.’

The group laughed and nodded their heads in understanding. Pictures and paintings of Frida — who grew up in Coyoacán, one of the sixteen boroughs of Mexico City — and her distinctive eyebrows were displayed throughout the city.

‘Anyhow,’ he said, ‘the mural represents the entire history of Mexico. It is like the Sistine Chapel at the Vatican, except it is Mexican and on a wall, not Italian and on a ceiling. Actually, now that I think about it, it is nothing like the Sistine Chapel! Please forget I say anything.’

Everyone laughed again.

Over the next ten minutes, he talked about the Old Portal de Mercaderes to the west and the Nacional Monte de Piedad building on the northwest corner of the plaza. He also mixed in facts and figures about the surrounding side streets and mentioned some of the festivals and religious events that are held annually in Zócalo.

Tiffany, who knew very little about the region, thought the tour was coming to a close, but Paco was just getting to the good stuff. Until that point, everything he had mentioned was modern Mexican history. The true importance of the plaza had nothing to do with the Spanish and everything to do with the empire that had ruled the land prior to their arrival.

The Aztecs.