The Mija Chronicles

Mexican food and culture, on both sides of the border

city life

How to take taxis in Mexico City, without getting ripped off

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I don’t have a car, so I take cabs in Mexico City at least once every two days. I’ve been pretty happy with the cabs here, but a small number of drivers have tried to cheat me, usually by giving me an inflated fare. Yesterday for the first time, a driver gave me the wrong change and then laughed when I told him he owed me 10 pesos. “I can’t give you 10 pesos because I don’t have it,” he said. “Sorry.”

This galled me. Sorry, I don’t have it? What was I supposed to do with that?

This morning I woke up before the sun came up and started thinking about all the things I’ve learned about taking cabs here over the past 2 1/2 years: always ask whether there’s a meter, pay attention to the route, carry small bills. I thought this might be interesting to other people, too, particularly people who live here or visit frequently.

I’m not complaining about Mexico City cab fares being too high, by the way. Taxis in Mexico City are much cheaper than what you’d pay in the States, and in fact I think rates in Mexico City are too low for the amount of time the drivers spend on the road.

But in the interest of ensuring that consumers get a fair rate — and in making sure they’re conscientious riders — here’s my advice on taking taxis in Mexico City.
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On a clear day, it’s a whole other city

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The view today outside my office window, looking west

Mexico City lies in a basin, surrounded by mountains. Usually you can’t see them because they’re wrapped in smog, but every now and then, cool breezes sweep through and unmask everything.

It’s rare for this to happen without rain. (Think the equivalent of warm spring days in Boston, or a humidity-free summer day in New York.) For the past two days, though, Crayton and I have woken up to find the mountains peeking out over the rooftops, like these ghostly creatures that have suddenly developed an interest in studying our chaos and traffic.

It’s almost spooky. Where did these aliens come from?

Their other-worldliness makes me think of a line I read in The Conquest of Mexico, about how seemingly normal events used to freak out the Mexica. A rabbit running into a house wasn’t just a rabbit running into a house — it meant something, it was a sign, it had to be studied.

I hope the mountains’ arriving amid an otherwise hot, dusty and sweaty June means it’s going to rain soon. So far we’ve only gotten sprinkles. It’s almost July. Rainy season, where are you?

Sexism, crime and taxis in Mexico City

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An authorized "Pink Taxi" in Puebla, which only picks up women.

I’ve lived in Mexico City for two-plus years without a car. In that time, I’ve only had female cab drivers twice — once coming back from the bus station in 2009, and once a few weeks ago, when I was returning from a doctor’s appointment in Polanco.

Apparently more than 800 female drivers work in the city, according to an article published last year in Milenio. A 2008 article from Inside Mexico indicated that there could be thousands more, but the overwhelming majority aren’t officially registered.

As a woman I’d love to see more female cab drivers, especially in crowded areas where there are no taxi sitios. It’s still not safe in Mexico City for single women to hail cabs off the street. Female customers traveling alone can be robbed, beaten or raped.

I was really interested in how this female cabbie got her job, so we struck up a conversation. To my surprise, she seemed eager to share her story.

The driver’s name was Clara Dominguez, and she said she ended up as a cabbie four years ago after being laid off from her job in sales.

“I did very well in sales — very well,” she said, as we zoomed down Thiers, a busy avenue that connects Polanco to Reforma. “My boss wanted younger women.”
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Racism and classism in Mexico City

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Crayton and I have been searching for apartments for the past three months. There’s nothing wrong with our current place, but after more than a year here, I’ve thought it’d be great to have more space and more light.

A few days ago, we finally found a place we loved. It’s huge. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Hardwood floors, a master bedroom with enough space for a library/reading area, and a rooftop area where we could put our grill. The dining area has enough space to fit a table for eight people, which is a sueño of mine, because my current table only seats four. (I could have more dinner parties!) The apartment is close to Crayton’s job, our gym and my yoga studio.

When we were leaving, we told the broker that we were very interested.

“I’m glad to hear it,” he said. “There’s another couple who’s interested too, a couple with a baby, but I think the apartment owner will prefer you over them.”

“Why?” we asked.

“They’re Koreans,” he said.

I waited for him to go on. Like — they’re Koreans and they happen to be drug dealers. Or they’re Korean and they happen to have 12 children, and the family won’t fit in the apartment. But the man didn’t say anything else.

“What’s wrong with Koreans?” Crayton asked.

“Oh you know,” the broker said. “They’re very informal.” The word he used was “informales.” “They don’t pay their rent on time. Sometimes they vacate before the contract’s up.”
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Not the most wonderful time of the year

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I loved all the colors and the pageantry of Día de los Muertos in Mexico. I expected I’d love Christmas here too.

Not so much. Traffic is now insane in my neighborhood, largely spurred by the presence of the World’s Largest Christmas Tree. It’s impossible to find a taxi. The markets are crowded and crazy, and for the first time in my 11-month marketing experience, some of the vendors I encountered were rude. One at Mercado de la Merced sighed and acted annoyed when I told him I only needed a half-kilo of tamale flour. Dude! Por favor.

In the Zona Rosa yesterday, the streets were nearly empty, hopefully because everyone was fleeing the city. Unfortunately, less people meant less crowds, which meant I was suddenly a walking target for folks selling things. One lady approached me and said, “Hola chica guapa!” and then asked if I wanted to buy some lotion. Another one approached with incense.

Usually if you say “no gracias,” they’ll leave you alone. But one guy started walking right next to me, matching my fast pace as I walked down the street. (As a sidenote: None of this has never happened to me in the Zona Rosa before. Usually there are so many people, you’re able to walk safely and anonymously.)

The guy was yammering on about religion, or something, and I said “no gracias.” He kept on walking and talking, staying close to my left side.

I started to feel uncomfortable, so I said no gracias again.

“Are you an angry person?” he asked me. “Are you sad about your life? God can help.”

He kept on talking, but I couldn’t tune him out. Finally I looked at him and barked: “Déjame en paz! Por favor. Gracias.”

He looked startled and walked away.

Lord. Seriously? Is this what it takes now? Puro yelling on the street to get people to leave you alone?

Right after that, various men walked by and murmured “hola chiquita” at me and made a lip-smacking sound. I HATE THE LIP SMACKING SOUND. Mexican men do it all the time. It’s like some carnal form of cat-calling. It’s disgusting.

Can’t wait for life to get back to normal around here again. Merry Christmas, yeah, great. But January cannot come quick enough.

*Photo of a Christmas piñata in front of Mercado Sonora, taken on Dec. 14, 2009

The etiquette of begging for money

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A Mexican fifty-centavo peso coin, worth about 1/26th of a U.S. dollar

One of the things I’ve noticed in Mexico City is the politeness people have toward the poor. Countless times I’ve heard Mexicans say “no, thank you” to beggars pleading for change.

It’s the same way with street vendors peddling their wares. The vendor may interrupt your shopping trip at the tianguis, or your conversation at a sidewalk cafe, to push the greatness of wooden salsa spoons, mesh strainers, plants, rugs. Instead of acting annoyed, it’s culturally acceptable to say no thank-you. If the vendor persists, the person being intruded upon might say, “No, thank you, very kind of you to offer.”

And the way the word thank-you sounds: It has this semi-regretful tone, as if the person with money really would love to help out, but he can’t right now, and he really appreciates the poorer person asking.

I’m so curious as to where this behavior comes from. Does it stem from Mexicans’ overwhelming value of work, and so beggars are not disregarded because they’re only trying to make a few pesos? Or are Mexicans just generally more empathetic toward the poor than Americans, because more Mexicans live in poverty, or know people who do?

In the U.S., when people asked me for change, I ignored them. Crayton and I did donate money to charities that helped the homeless. But I hardly ever looked a homeless person, or a poor person, in the eye. Here I do often. But (I shamefully admit), I only started doing it because everyone else was, too.

Any Mexicans out there care to elaborate on this? And for all the Americans, why aren’t we more polite to the poor? Should we be?