Early on Monday morning, civic ceremonies and small acts of individual rememberance took place all over Mexico to mark the 20th anniversary of the disaster.
Gicela’s story
TV news stations broadcast retrospectives and newspapers all covered the earthquake on their front pages. La Jornada, which was preparing to celebrate its first anniversary the same day the earthquake struck, published a 32-page pull-out supplement.
Even distant quakes get amplified in Mexico City. On this day, the effects were overwhelming and deadly. High-rise buildings built on the soft sediments of an old lake bed were jostled in the soup bowl that is the Valley of Mexico.
But while much of the attention has understandably focused on the tragedy that unfolded in the capital, the maximum registered intensity of the quake was felt in and around the industrial port city of Lázaro Cárdenas, about 210 miles southwest of Mexico City and close to the epicenter.
This week, Gicela has spoken to me again of her memories of that fateful day. She was 16 years old and had just started her second year at high school in Lázaro. This is her story…
* * * * *
September 19, 1985
It began much like any other Thursday. A school day.
As always, I was ready for school before my four brothers. Classes started at 8 o’clock.
I sunk to my knees to say a little prayer. At 07:19 I was staring at the floor; it began to move. I got up and tried to steady myself.
The walls were swaying back and forth so much we thought they were going to collapse in on us. My mother instinctively hurried me and my brothers outside into the street to wait out the tremors. It was not easy to walk.
The shaking was more intense and lasted longer than any we had experienced before. The ground rolled for over two minutes.
My mother kept repeating, “¡Dios Santo de los Cielos, esto no va a parar!” Will it never stop.
There was a crescendo of noise as household items like crockery and glass crashed onto polished concrete floors. Such was the movement of the earth that the rusty steel reinforcing rods which sprouted from almost every roof clanged together, announcing some terrible apocalyptic event.
The shaking eventually stopped and calm returned. I felt dizzy and my heart was pounding in my chest. Neighbours huddled in groups as the early morning sun dusted the tops of the houses. Amazed and thankful that the houses had somehow survived intact, we began to file back into our homes.
We went back into the house, rather gingerly. All the furniture had either shifted position or been turned upside down. Our possessions were strewn all over the floor. Although we sensed that this had been no ordinary tremor, at first we returned to our usual routines.
All through the quake, I had had my school bag tucked under one arm. Perhaps through shock, my mother put up no resistance when I announced that I was setting off for school.
The buses seemed to be operating normally. A few minutes later, I boarded a shuddering and groaning Ruta 1 at the stopping place next to the local market.
Not long into my journey I became aware of the many cars, buses and trucks parked up along the side of the main road. Their drivers stood next to their vehicles with bewildered looks on their faces.
My own bus stopped abruptly at the ramp of the bridge over the fast flowing Rio Balsas. The driver informed me, and the handful of other passengers, that this was as far as he would be taking us; the bridge was damaged and was dangerous. I stepped down from the bus and joined others who were crossing the crippled bridge on foot.
Once on the island side of the broad river, the magnitude of the quake began to dawn on me. A fracture scarred the road where the ground had opened up. It gaped a metre wide at one end. I peered into the chasm. It was dark and deep. I couldn’t see the bottom.
I walked on. Twenty minutes later I reached the palm trees which guarded the entrance to the school like sentries. I went straight to the lab. Outside I greeted a few of the other early arrivals – students who lived further a field. I don’t remember there being any teachers.
Many of the school buildings were visibly damaged; cracks zigzagged down walls; large chunks of concrete that had broken off buildings lay crumbled on the ground.
We felt aftershocks at regular intervals. These would continue all day [there were over sixty recorded]. They each lasted for only a few seconds. There would be a second major quake the next day. A crushing blow to frantic rescue efforts in Mexico City.
No classes. I returned home.
With no news, we began to think that the quake had been localised, that we were the only ones affected.
This optimism dissolved by mid-afternoon. The family began to get concerned for the well being of my father who had travelled to Mexico City to buy new stock for the market stall.
This feeling of unease feeling turned to dread once some power was restored and the chaotic scenes of destruction and loss of life began to appear on the TV news.
But Don Poli had been fortunate; he was already on his way back to the Pacific coast, asleep on the bus when the quake hit. He knew nothing of the disaster until the bus reached Arteaga, a couple of hours from home.
News began to filter through to our neighbourhood of the “pancaking” of a two-storey zapateria - shoe shop – in the town centre. It was now a pile of rubble witnesses said.
That night, many of my neighbours slept outside their homes. The nights were still warm and sultry. The mosquitoes made it difficult to sleep, so my parents moved their children indoors, under door frames.
There were credible stories of the ocean retreating, leaving fish flapping in the salty air; revealing rocks never before seen…before surging in to smash beach side properties.
To this day, my father exudes pride over the deep concrete foundations – zapatas - that he planted in the corners of the house in Lázaro. It was these, he says, that kept the house from toppling down on his family.
* * * * *
Gicela tells me that she never did learn of the full extent of the damage the earthquake caused along the Pacific coast – nor details such as the number of casualties. We will never know. But today we remember all of them.
Mexico City, Built on ‘Gelatin,’ Unprepared for the Next Quake - 23/09/05
