How I Won a Mexican Standoff and Broke a Farmers’ Blockade
Date posted: August 21, 2021There are two ways to get to Mexico’s Puerto Escondido from Oaxaca. Drive the western route on winding roads over a mountain, or drive the eastern route on potholed roads over a mountain.
We chose the eastern route for no other reason than the last hour runs by the sea.
It was challenging. Narrow roads, hairpin bends and speeding traffic. For four hours we proceeded.
Then we encountered a tail back and it stretched as far as the eye could see. “It happens all the time,” said a newfound friend as we sat by the roadside.
The cause was an overturned minibus, its rear hanging precariously over a precipice. The Mexican army had been called, as had two tow trucks and insurance assessors. Three hours later the road was cleared.
As the hours passed the fog came down and darkness followed. Exhausted, we stopped at a roadside store for a sugar boost. Coke, overly-sugary biscuits and prunes; there was little else of substance on the shelves.
It was here we first heard of the blockade of Puerto Escondido. There’s one bridge over a river there, explained the shop owner, and demonstrators were stopping all traffic going both ways.
On arrival to Puerto Escondido, we encountered hundreds of stranded vehicles parked on the road awaiting the lifting of a five day blockade. Ahead, in the distance, scores of men wearing cowboy hats stretched across the road.
Conversations with taxi drivers and locals informed that the demonstrators were “campesinos” – farmers – and by creating a blockade of all traffic, they were putting pressure on local and federal governments to resolve a zoning issue. It was about boundaries, tourism revenues, farm land, property and tradition.
The blockade was little more than an inconvenience. A taxi would take you to the edge of the blockade, you cross on foot, then take a second taxi to continue your journey.
Our day of departure arrived. The petrol tank was full. The blockade was still in place and with a plane to catch, we headed east.
Five kilometres outside Puerto Escondido, disaster. We encountered a second hastily assembled blockade.
For those keeping count, that’s two blockades: one to the west and now another to the east, our car in the middle. We had a 300km mountain road journey ahead. It was 11.15am. The rental car had to be returned by 7pm, we had a plane to catch at 8.25pm and we had no exit out of town.
And so I played the foreigner card. I sensed speaking English in this situation might be intimidating enough to put the responsibility on a non-speaker to try to communicate with me and relent. That failed. I switched to Spanish and tried to play the innocent tourist caught in a fight not my own. That failed.
Suddenly I came to the realisation that not only was I blocked, but where I left my car on the road had also unintentionally blocked access for the campesinos as they scurried back and forth between their lines. In the rising tensions, this suddenly seemed like a great thing.
As one campesino tried to exit and waved at me to move, I found myself shaking my head. I told him if they weren’t moving their trucks then I wasn’t moving my car. To my surprise I was joined at the shoulder by a driver transporting propane who said he also wasn’t moving. Suddenly we had a stand-off. A veritable Mexican stand-off.
“OK, we said we were going to end the blockade in an hour, but we’ll stay longer now.”
And so it continued. Thirty-two degree heat so the car engine remained running to provide cool air.
We had two litres of water, a snickers bar, a bag of crisps, some cookies and three limes. We weren’t going to camp out here, a decision had to be made.
A knock on the window. A man in a white shirt, neatly pressed.
Did we want to get past the blockade? Si.
Did we want to follow another route he knew? Si.
Would we pay him something small, like 100 pesos, if he guided us? Si.
Would we reverse back the road 100 metres and wait for him to catch-up? Si.
And that’s how we met taxi driver 02-699.
He’d had this same conversation with the other drivers and suddenly we had formed a convoy. We took a dirt road off the motorway and headed north.
Taxi driver 02-699 had paid a local man to sit with him as guide and he was now turning a profit. Smart.
Yes, I did think of kidnappings and robbery, but did I mention our “epic” adventure? Plus, my dander was up now.
Our northernly route turned to the east – more rocky and dusty as we proceeded – until we reached an unfinished motorway and turned south again. A 15km trip in total. There we met a line of cars.
So desperate were so many to avoid the blockade that a previously passable road was now cut-up and largely impassable, except for higher-powered 4x4s.
With no recourse, we returned 15kms to the eastern blockade. The campesinos were still there. We were back to square one.
Taxi driver 02-699 again: “You paid me, so I’ll show you another way, but this time we’ll try go past the other blockade.”
A myriad of turns through the alleyways of Puerto Escondido brought us across a feeble wooden bridge, which signalled the crossing of the fabled river so carefully protected by the campesinos. A fist bump and a 50 peso note was shared and we were set free.
It was now 1.30pm. We had 249kms to cover over the mountains of the western route. We had 5h 30m to return the car, 7 hours to catch our plane and Google Maps was estimating a journey time of 5h 52m. The race was on.
At 6.15pm, some 4h 45m later, we sat down at Taqueria “El Primo” in Oaxaca, early for both our car return and plane departure. Success, we thought.
But, the province of Oaxaca had one final test for us. Arriving to Oaxaca airport, we received a phone call from Hertz. Apparently they can make outbound calls.
“Where are you? You can’t come back to the airport!”
“Why not?”
“Hasn’t the airline told you? The airport is blocked.”
— The — airport — is — blocked —
Not campesinos this time but university students, dubbed “normalistas.”
It was explained to me a number of times why they were demonstrating but it was never very clear, something to do with temporary university placements versus the guaranteed places they desired.
And there they stood for four days. We waited them out for three days in a hotel on the edge of town. We had hoped to catch an Aeroméxico plane but it was cancelled, then a newly booked Volaris flight, but it too was cancelled. We finally made our escape on a seven hour ADO bus journey to our destination, Mexico City.
I do admire the willingness of the Mexican people to demonstrate peacefully. I admire the Mexican authority’s patience in accommodating them. I lament there are so many situations in Mexico where they feel it is required. We saw many crossroads and junctions blocked that weekend, all for different reasons. Farmers, students, natives, workers.
One waiter had said to me: “In Mexico, anything is possible.” What he didn’t say: In Mexico, anything can happen.