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Though the teeming market that takes up most of the neighborhood is famous all over Mexico and even beyond, without a doubt lots of chilangos, as Mexico City residents are called, maybe even most, are afraid to go there, despite the money they could save by shopping there, in its tightly packed twenty-five square blocks of tianguis market stalls. Tepito has an urban economic and cultural ecosystem all its own. Stolen goods, from manifold sources—hijacked trucks, ransacked warehouses, and so on—narrow into a steady Tepito-bound current, too. But a great deal of fayuca is local, prepared in small workshops and sweatshops, behind the drab adobe and plastered walls of the residential blocks and old warehouses closely surrounding the market. Small merchants come from all over Mexico to buy fayuca to bring back to their own pueblos and cities to sell in market stalls and shops there. Drugs flow in, too, packaged, cut, prepared—flavored cocaine has become a local specialty—in clandestine labs behind those walls, sold and distributed from a few notoriously dangerous streets and addresses outside the market blocks. Tepito seems to have always had a reputation for defiance and transgression. Commerce and everything else in Tepito, it seems, is pursued along boundaries where official legality and lawlessness are blurred, but the barrio itself adheres to strict laws and codes of its own. Most of the tianguis represent family businesses, often run and worked by two or three generations of women at the same time, from families that often live in the barrio and raise their children according to those insular laws and codes. Many live in the vecindades, warren-like buildings or housing blocks of a type also particular to the neighborhood. Organized crime, counterfeits and piracy, underground commerce, the informal economy, corruption and extortion, the off-the-grid daily hustle to survive in a culture where serious lethal crime coexists with mundane disregard of laws and the small merchant ethic of keep your head down, work hard and do what you have to to protect your business—so goes Tepito. Commerce and everything else in Tepito, it seems, is pursued along boundaries where official legality and lawlessness are blurred. Mexico City, though, over the past thirteen or fourteen years especially, had transformed into a relative oasis of security and progressive politics, a trendy global city that drew young people, artists and other creative types, free spirits from all over the world. Governing that megalopolis, of course, is a mind-bogglingly complex task, requiring the balancing of so many competing interests and forces, some of these criminal, in order to sustain a messy equilibrium that keeps the city running smoothly enough to stay ahead of what, at least on bad days, can seem like perpetually looming catastrophe. It was obvious that things were changing, and not in a good way. In Mexico City, that bubble definitely burst. There were police patrolling around the neighborhood that morning, among tourists and Sunday strollers. Mayor Mancera was facing his first major crisis. But then it turned out that most of the young kidnap victims were from Tepito: eight males, five females, from age 16 to And much of the city gave a collective shrug. A settling of accounts between Tepito drug gangs contesting the street trade plaza, it must have been, because, you know, no narco cartels around here! Mayor Mancera and his government and police breathed a big sigh of relief. From government and police leaks, the notoriously compromised Mexico City media got to work building a pyre of insinuations exploiting the stigma of Tepito, seemingly criminalizing the youths. A bit more than a year later, half a million protestors would march in Mexico City over the forced disappearances in Iguala of the 43 Ayotzinapa Normal School students, a glorious outpouring of collective rage, solidarity and desire for justice. Family members of the missing youths kidnapped from Bar Heaven blocked traffic on the Eje-1 Norte that runs along one border of Tepito, as they have continued to do, sporadically, ever since. The crime, which came to be known as the Heavens Case, had taken place amid a realignment of criminal powers, mirroring the ongoing political realignment, over control of the Mexico City street trade in drugs. But now the PRI, with their police and gangs, in coalition with some of the cartels, were pushing to take over. To this day, the Heavens Case remains just another unsolved crime. Only some lower-level figures accused of having roles in the crime have been jailed, but no credible explanation for the crime, or for who was behind it, has ever been officially posited. I decided to get in touch with them to let them to know that my new wife Jovi and I had just arrived in Mexico City, and that Jovi was eight months pregnant. I never covered the case as a journalist, but I wrote about it in the second part of what became that book. And so I was determined to find a way to get to know the Heavens families. Like most people, I was wary of Tepito. The situation in the Barrio Bravo had grown grim. It read like a report from some lost city deep inside a faraway urban jungle. Over the following months, accompanying Pablo to Tepito whenever I could, I got to know many of the family members. I saw them keep their unity and dignity as they struggled against a police investigation that was not only incompetent but increasingly suggested a cover-up. It was the Tepito mothers who found the few witnesses and the best leads, passing them to the chief police investigator, who did nothing with the information. I saw the families enduring the ambiguous open-ended agony that is being the mother, sibling or other relative of a disappeared person. Then three months later, after the bodies of the thirteen youths were discovered in a grisly narco grave, their remains dismembered, on a remote ranch in Mexico State, I saw the family members, especially the mothers, yield to grief. But with children and grandchildren to shepherd through terror and baffling loss, they kept up an outward stoicism; they also gave in to rage, and to denial, too. Not all the families have accepted that the mutilated remains finally returned to them by police authorities were those of their missing relatives; Eugenia Ponce to this day says that the forensic report she was given said that Jerzy had two right feet, sizes 4 and 6. The business was a one-room shop on Matamoros, open to the sidewalk, where they sold heavy metal and punk rock t-shirts. From another tianguis they sold adornments for teenage girls: jewelry, sandals, tattoo sleeves; from another, mobile phone accessories and spare parts. Her hypertension had dangerously soared. It was a large, extended, close family, and the stalls were the family headquarters. They doted on Pablo de Llano almost like a son. But Eugenia took a lot of notes, too; they were probably both indispensable to the few reporters trying to diligently cover the crime. This featured pictures of cupcakes. Of mini-brownies. Jars of Nutella. Los Minis business hours, most days, were from pm to pm. Night hours. Tepito by night a cupcake destination? With children and grandchildren to shepherd through terror and baffling loss, they kept up an outward stoicism. A few days later, we all went together: my wife Jovi, her father Carlos, our five-year-old niece Jovisitas, and my good friend Juan Carlos Reyna. Eugenia also offered to give us a tour of Tepito by night. We arrived at around five in the afternoon, as the Tepito market trade was winding down for the day, and made our way down long aisles covered by yellow tarps, lined by the tianguis, constructions of steel rods and yellow plastic or canvas sheeting that are uniform through the market. Some of the men on motorcycles were police. Warnings were shouted when they were coming, and stallholders without permission to sell beer and mixed drinks quickly pulled their wares down off their display counters. We talked about what the previous years had been like. I did know that there was nothing surprising about a punishing bereavement persisting for five years, or longer, and I also knew how changeable it can be: when the light at the end of the tunnel you thought you glimpsed late in year three is suddenly snuffed out, and instead a new and unexpected kind of melancholy or depression drags you down for another year. The past years had inflicted so many embittering disappointments. The few police who, early on, had been accused of having been among the kidnappers outside Bar Heaven that night and jailed, had since been quietly released. Eugenia went to her appointment with a psychologist that the city was providing for free, but as she was speaking the psychologist fell asleep, and without waking him she left the room and never went back. On one trip outside the city, the bus she was on stopped for a police roadblock, and she was overcome with panic. But we have to do something. Life continues. So Eugenia bought a popcorn machine; it was right there at the front of a tianguis, right on the aisle. On the tianguis wall of yellow tarp, she hung cheerful pop signs of the mini pastries she sells; images of bottles of wine, soda pop, coffee. On the front table, Los Minis has a fire-engine red coffee and espresso machine, bowls of candies, a row of colorful electric crepe griddles and displays of frosted cupcakes. The diminutive as a subversion of the monstrous. Hello Kitty in the aftermath of Hiroshima. That now-familiar trope is what Los Minis made me think of. With their goods packed and stored away, the emptied, skeletal tianguis look like rows of berthed ancient ships with sails loosely folded atop their long spars and masts. Men passed slowly pushing hand trucks. Eugenia got to see shows by Luis Miguel, Juan Gabriel, even David Copperfield, because when she was a girl, on her birthdays or on other special nights, her father would reserve a table right in front of the stage for her and her friends. She laughed remembering how the fancy patrons seated nearby used to gawk at the table of schoolgirls from Tepito. Tepito after the market has closed has a haunting beauty, and it especially did that night, with a full moon hanging over the barrio. Los Tacos de Mara, Eugenia told me, with home-cooked stewed fillings, were especially famous. Eugenia said hello to an old man that we passed known as El Abuelo. He worked unpacking tianguis and reassembling them in the mornings. In the beauty salon a seated woman was getting her hair done by a beautician standing behind her, while also having her nails manicured by a manicurist who was simultaneously having her own hair done by the beautician standing behind her. All around us, said Eugenia, behind the walls of the crumbling old adobe and concrete buildings surrounding the market, people were at work making pirated DVDs, and other fayuca. She pointed out some of the more notorious vecindades, and I looked into their dark courtyards, saw illuminated shrines to the Virgin, while Eugenia shared stories about some of them. He was in a car, sitting with some other men, parked in front of a small tienda owned by his own mother at the head of the street. Jovial greetings were exchanged. Many of the doorways lining the street led to rooms and labs where drugs are stored, prepared, sold wholesale to dealers, or individually to users. At the end of a street, nearly blocking it, is a police car, the red light atop its roof illuminated. Several police stood outside it, leaning on the car, talking. Also indigenous to Tepito is migas, a thick bread soup served with thick pork bones that you pull out of the soup and hold in your hand so that you can suck the marrow out with a piece of cut plastic drinking straw. The kidnapping and murder of Jerzy Ortiz and the other twelve had taken place amid a power struggle for control of the Mexico City street trade in drugs. The owners, managers and security of those places were warned of the direst consequences if they resisted these incursions, and nobody doubted the truthfulness of those threats. Police looked the other way. It has never been proven or even specifically alleged by police or the media that any of the youths had a history of criminal involvement. She keeps what she describes as a constantly refined and updated diagram of the crime in her head, one she can easily translate to paper, or into spoken words. Jovi and I came back to Tepito again, about a week after our nighttime visit. This time we came in the daytime, and the market was bustling. They keep the market safe as a place to buy and sell, but they do this in exchange for extortion payments from the merchants. The migas there were delicious. Bar Crystal, on Avenida Insurgentes, was a hangout for the newer gang, and on a Saturday night soon after, waiters and dealers there noticed that there were a number of young people from Tepito in the bar, seated in their own little groups at separate tables. There was nothing illegal about parking bicycles there, and in the video Eugenia could be heard raucously taunting the police, accusing them of stealing the bikes and daring them to arrest her. In late May, with national elections a month away, the furtive balances of power that undergird and drive the city were beginning to shift again. A kind of restoration was perhaps getting underway. At any rate, Tepito was once again suddenly on the verge of one of its internecine wars. Our daughter, Azalea Francisca, was born on May But she needed better, stronger speakers than the ones she had, and to thank her for her help I took her to Tepito around noon to buy her the speakers she needed. That same night a massive police operation was carried out in Tepito. According to the merchants and people of Tepito, the police were going to sell all that booty themselves. To get to the corner of the market where we were headed to buy speakers, we had to pass through the indoor athletic footwear market. What was extraordinary was that everything looked pristine, and that day, in this most popular part of the market, business was brisk. Tall walls of stacked new Nikes and Adidas and Reeboks and whatever else gleamed under showroom lights and hanging neon. In a matter of hours, the pirated sneaker merchants regenerated their markets and got back to work. Francisco Goldman. Commerce and everything else in Tepito, it seems, is pursued along boundaries where official legality and lawlessness are blurred Mexico City, though, over the past thirteen or fourteen years especially, had transformed into a relative oasis of security and progressive politics, a trendy global city that drew young people, artists and other creative types, free spirits from all over the world. Photo credit: Eneas De Troya. Photo credit: Kasper Christensen. Related Content.

Tepito: Inside Mexico City’s Barrio Bravo

Mexico City buy blow

Today, you get offered drugs at basically any club or party whenever you go to the restroom. For quality, you should buy drugs ahead of time through someone you know. Hide them well inside your socks or underwear, as security check pockets, purses, and wallets. Be very discreet when taking drugs in bathroom stalls, since cartels have dealers making sure you only consume their stuff. If they catch you taking others, they might violently remove them from you and make you rebuy from them. Buying from them guarantees the shittest quality, so be cautious as to not get yours taken away. Now for everything you need to know. The most common drug is weed. You can find national weed or stronger alternatives imported from the USA. For good cocaine, you should at least pay USD, anything less than that will not guarantee quality. Ketamine can be found in niche groups but is not as easy to buy; you can purchase in liquid form and cook yourself to assure pureness, but Indian-brought will be stronger. Mushrooms are very popular for both spiritual and recreational purposes, especially at festivals in chocolate form. For a spiritual overnight ayahuasca or peyote retreat, you should go with a group that has been previously recommended to you, as there are charlatans out there! Hydrate and be careful when mixing with alcohol. Watch out for your friends, and have them look after you as well. But, overall, have fun! Photo by Sandra Blow. Assure quality!

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