Words and Photos by Julie Schwietert Collazo 

I
am hurtling down Avenida Reforma, one of Mexico City’s main arteries, in one of the ubiquitous green and white Volkswagen taxis
that everyone—tourists and locals alike—waits for, favoring nostalgia
and its slight discomforts over the newer red and white Nissan Sentra
taxis, which have no personality as far as we’re concerned. Nearly
every block features an impressive monument rising up from the center
of the avenue, each of which eventually becomes just another detail
in the backdrop of life’s daily shuffle here in the capital city.

Mexico
City, “D.F.” to locals, is a fascinating place where the old and
new, the urban and the rural don’t so much collide as co-exist.
Step into the heart of the city and you’ll find business people in
suits, as likely to make important transactions over a lunch of sushi
as over a one-peso huarache, or an ear of roasted corn bought
at the corner food stand. Alongside the business people you’ll also
find men and women in indigenous clothing sitting on blankets on the
sidewalk where they sell handcrafts, gum, and phone cards. Many people
who come from the pueblos to make temporary homes in the city
have no plans to stay. They come to make money and go home. But they
also come for a reason that is equally as urgent to them, and that is
to bring their political and social concerns from the country here to
the capital city, where they hope to attract attention for various causes:
the alleged abuse of elderly people, illegitimate politicians who were
not elected, land seizures, and the like. These campesinos, who form part of a movement known as 400 Pueblos, build tent cities on the
side of Mexico City’s busiest thoroughfares, where they cook and live
and protest, using the visibility of their location to bring abuses that are invisible to city-dwellers to the attention of the
government, Mexico’s urban citizens, and to tourists alike.

From
the taxi I notice the nude and semi-nude men, who have grouped more than 100 strong, around one of the city’s most important statues,
one that is strategically positioned in the middle of a round-about
where the city’s principal avenues converge. I ask the driver to stop
and let me out, and I watch the men, entranced. They march, single-file,
around the statue, not shouting, not waving banners, not doing any of
the things one typically expects of a protester. Some of the men are
completely nude, their penises hidden only by a photo of a politician,
which is secured to their hips with string. Most of the men, though,
are in their underwear, with little else other than shoes—tough, worn-in
work boots or sandals—or hats to shield
them from the alternating chill and heat of a typical day in Mexico
City. They range in age from young boys to elderly men, some handsome,
some not, some thin, others obese. Some are wearing briefs, others boxers. Some underwear looks newer, but most is threadbare. The men do not appear
to be having fun—it is obvious that this is not gratuitous exhibitionism—nor
do they appear humiliated. They simply look determined, as if they believe
completely that their presence in this place, on this day, matters.
What strikes me, as I stand on the sidewalk, is how
powerful a statement they are making, and I wonder how anyone could
ignore them.  Read More...