They say that at first it sounded like a cat screeching, to others it sounded like a motorcycle race, and that it also felt like a stuffy hum. It was a roar. A fierce whistle. Otis It arrived on Wednesday at 12:25 a.m. with winds of more than 250 kilometers per hour and hit Acapulco as a category five hurricane. It devastated him. One of the tourist gems of Mexico has now been without electricity or water supply for three days, there is no internet, nor gasoline. Food is already scarce. In one of the country’s coastal paradises, money is of no use, there is nowhere to buy. All supermarkets and supply centers have been looted. While the emergency threatens to sink Acapulco, the Government has deployed the Army to try to contain the chaos.
The rich condominiums of the Costera Miguel Alemán are bare and the large hotels look like shells. The famous beach and sun destination no longer exists. This road, one of the main roads in Acapulco, which runs parallel to the sea, is now a trail of fallen palm trees, broken glass, buildings without glass or walls, it is a route of rubble. Where the terraces with music and seafood restaurants were, today the logos of dozens of official vehicles line up: the Federal Electricity Commission (CFE), the Navy, the Army and the National Guard.
In total, the Government of Andrés Manuel López Obrador has sent 13,500 security members and more than 1,300 electricians with the mandate to prevent the collapse. But it’s late and the work is just beginning. Official figures refer to 27 dead and four missing, a number that has not been updated since Wednesday morning, and that covers the information gaps of the governor of Guerrero, Evelyn Salgado, who has not appeared since the catastrophe. Doubts about the accuracy of the figures grow as maritime patrols find drowned bodies and due to the 72 hours that many colonies and municipalities have been without access or assistance.
city of wanderers
Walk avoiding the electric poles and the downed signs of the Costera. He carries two empty jugs and a half-full bottle of water. Jaime Garzón is desperate: yesterday he stood in line for 12 hours to try to get some fuel that would allow him to return to Mexico City with his elderly parents. It was impossible. “We didn’t eat yesterday either,” says this chef from Pereira (Colombia) who had come to spend the holidays, almost resigned. They survived the hurricane in the area of the stairs of the Mar Azul hotel, now devastated, like 80% of the accommodations in Acapulco. While he looked for a way out, he left his parents accompanied by another bottle of water. And that’s it.
The hurricane has turned Acapulco into a city of wanderers. Hundreds of people walk under the sun to look for water or something to eat, to get to the bus terminal or to check if their family is still alive, because calls do not work. There is also no public transport and most streets remain blocked. So in a city of almost a million people, the size of Valencia, in Spain, or Austin, in the United States, people can only walk. Or asking lift.
Eloína Sevilla is a teacher, she and her husband stocked up well before the hurricane, but she hasn’t heard from her sister since Tuesday night. She left at 6 in the morning to look for it and has already spent two hours with her muddy shoes. She still has half of the way to reach the other side of the bay. You will cross Papagayo Park, a natural emblem of the city, which seems to have been cut down, you will pass two-hour lines to charge your cell phone in the satellite trucks of the television stations, you will see the pieces that protrude from the sunken boats in the Marina and the destroyed yachts, to the cars that try to escape from Acapulco without windows, with flat tires.
This catastrophe scenario occurs in the priority area for the Government. What those who leave from other more humble points or from neighboring municipalities, such as Coyuca de Benítez, say is the total devastation. Diane—not her real name—slept on Tuesday hugging her mother in her home with a tin roof and wooden floor in Pie de la Cuesta: “We thought we were going to die.” It didn’t happen and she continues to arrive at her work, after a three-hour walk, as a guard for the Ministry of Public Security to monitor the shopping centers. She is not armed because she is part of the so-called white guard and there is no way to stop the hordes of people who are looting the establishments. She doesn’t even try. Instead, she asks: “If there is no electricity, how are they going to pay me my fortnight?”
The soldiers patrol, remove branches and debris, prepare a tent to distribute blankets and food. But they do nothing about the robberies. Neither does the National Guard, who sees how they leave Liverpool with new refrigerators on their shoulders. While desperation grows, other pressing questions arise: were four hours enough to give the eviction notice in a city of almost a million inhabitants in the face of a category five hurricane? How long can a city last without electricity? And without a running water supply? Has the State taken control of Acapulco? Where is the governor?
Night falls in Guerrero and like a curtain the movie gets worse. The city is collapsed between the thousands seeking to leave, the help trying to enter and those returning from Chilpancingo with gasoline and spare parts. There is only one path for everyone. Nobody promises security. The dust rises between the big trucks and the mud screams the exodus. Carlos’s phrase resonates, leaning against the frame of his house, below the sea and the destruction: “We have lived through the end of the world and we still have a long way to go.”
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