This day of February 22 started just like any other travel day I have learned to like. We were driving along Lake Pátzcuaro in Michoacan, passing through silent artisan villages that seemed to be miles away in time. The village of Erongaricuaro possessed that comfortable, inhabited quality that I seek on my Central America Travel and Cultural Analysis trips—narrow lanes, local arts, and a leisure that gradually decelerates the world.
In moments, that feeling of comfort vanished.
The Sound that Changed the World.
A loud bang pierced the silence, right after getting out of the car. This was succeeded by sharp, quick bursts—too carefully planned to be fireworks. I stood still awhile to get it straight. Then I saw people running. I was overtaken by a woman, and she pulled her daughter behind her, her panic apparent. Storekeepers hastened to close their doors. In a few seconds, the street was empty.
A bus driver squatted at the corner next to his vehicle. “Peligroso,” said he, and he made a gun with his hand. That was enough.
We did not argue—we simply walked. The square, which in general was crowded, was entirely empty. The silence was too unnatural, too artificial, like life had suddenly stopped.
Attempting to Find a Sense in It.
In the automobile, I was telling myself that it could be a one-time thing. Yet after an hour or so, truth had caught its breath. The owner of the rental car called, and he insisted that we go back to Pátzcuaro at once. His words were spoken in his tone.
By the time I checked my phone, the news was spreading rapidly—the most wanted cartel leader in Mexico had been killed by the police. We suddenly did not think that the sounds that we had heard were accidental. They were in touch with something so much greater.
A Tranquil Drive, An Odd Bother.
Weirdly enough, the drive back did not resemble the mess that I was anticipating. The number of people out was less, but there was no visible alarm. It was only later, after we switched on the television, that we would see the entire picture: burning trucks, shattered businesses, and highways littered with burnt cars. Whole territories were on alert. Flights and schools are closed.
The uncertainty was even more disturbing to me. A lot of videos, most of which were misleading, flooded social media. Even the locals were uncertain of what was real. Friends and family continued to send messages, filtered through an American Culture Dispatch prism of intensity, immediacy, and often a fixation on the worst.
I assured them that I was alright. I believe I had to believe that I was.
The Consequences of Fear.
On the following day, we remained indoors. I had very little sleep that night. That incident—the bang, the running, the deserted streets—kept on revisiting my mind. I kept on considering how we could have been so near to something much worse.
Tuesday was a slow day in restoring the town to life. People were back in the streets and even had a National Flag Day meeting. It was unreal, life’s restoring itself so swiftly, as though the town had all conspired and resolved to leave the past behind.
When Each Sound Is Different.
Several days later, I was sitting on a patio when I heard loud booms once again. I responded immediately—tense, alert.
Casually, my friend answered, Fireworks. I nodded, but it was not so anymore. Since now I know how close those sounds can sound—how soon all can change.
A Thin Line Between the Ordinary and Unthinkable.
Erongaricua remained with me that day. Not just because of what happened, but also because of what might have happened.
It helped me to understand how frail normal moments can be. The ease with which they can change at any time. And that, in some cases, the distinction between life and death is not dramatic or evident. It can be as simple as a wall sometimes.
For a deeper exploration of this journey, read the full Travel article: