¡Semana Culiacana!

For years now we've been complaining about the way the media depicts Mexico as some sort of salsa-scented killing field, though our argument usually breaks down to, "yeah, there's some crazy shit, but there are a lot of safe parts, too, like where we live." So last week, having finally gotten some down time around here, we decided to spend the week in Culiacán, the capital of Sinaloa and home to the eponymous drug cartel, and where the murder rate is 87 times higher than Querétaro's, to see some of that crazy shit for ourselves. Needless to say, if we've lived to write about it here, it can't really have been that crazy, can it?

Via GeoMexico

We went there with an American TV channel we won't name - partly out of discretion, since we weren't officially part of the crew [all commentary and opinions expressed herein are solely those of Burro Hall Enterprises, S.A. and its affiliates, and in no way represent, etc, etc...], and partly because we, uh, "forgot" to give them back their laminated press pass, which might as well be made of solid freakin' gold. Seriously, we could walk into Gov. Calzada's house with this thing and make out with his daughter, and no one would dare ask any questions. Writing about this stuff while we were there seemed like a bad idea (we're not complete idiots), so all this week we'll be bringing you the posts we would have writing for you last week.

We'll start off with a non-Culiacán digression: there seems to be a new rule in all Mexican airports that the plastic trays in which you place your laptop, keys, phones, change, etc., are now kept outside of the security area. So what happens now is that you show your boarding pass, then walk over to the pile of trays, and then, because you only have two hands and are already carrying two bags, tuck a couple of trays under your arm and head to security, only to be told, no, Señor, you must fill the trays here. Which you do, and then have to struggle with a tray in each hand and your backpack over your shoulder, while kicking your suitcase ahead of you, into the security area, which is nice and roomy because all those trays have been moved outside. We know it's not a big thing, and we're only reinforcing the notion that gringos will bitch about absolutely everything, but it just makes no fucking sense whatsoever.

Okay. Thanks for listening.

Anyway, Culiacán is a short two-hour flight from Mexico City, near (but not on) the Sea of Cortez, and it is without a doubt the most humid place we've ever been. Usually, when people talk about the perils of living in Sinaloa, we'd assumed they were talking about the violence, but they could just as easily have been referring to the weather. On our second day there, we soaked through our belt. We were not aware this was physically possible. And the overwhelming amount of moisture in the air makes it impossible for anything - like, say, gringo perspiration - to evaporate. By the time we left, our laundry bag reeked of ammonia. We're surprised they even let us carry it onto the airplane.

This is just the first of several Culiacán-related posts this week, so we'll leave you with this first glimpse of Culiacán Airport. Despite being large enough to land a 747, the tarmac looks like a Cessna dealership. Row after row of two-seat, single-engine, radar-evading prop planes. We wonder what on Earth they could be used for.