A Café Tacvba experience to remember

I guess I should have known something was up when Miriam sent me a text message requesting that I 1) buy a bus-ticket to arrive in Veracruz more than ten hours before the concert was scheduled to start and 2) bring a pair of black pants. While I was able to justify the first by thinking to myself, "That's totally normal. They probably just want to spend some extra time hanging out in the city before going to the concert," the rationale behind the second eluded me. Still, I didn't think much of it.

The second I arrived to the bus-station to meet Charlie and Miriam before boarding, they asked me if I had the pants. I pulled out the dark bluish/gray dress pants, eliciting tentative head nods. I guess compared to their pitch black jeans, my contribution was a little disappointing, but still, how important could having dark pants actually be? Was it a style thing? I mean, were they really that obsessively concerned with me fitting in with the Mexican youth's social scene?

To eliminate some of the doubts that Miriam detected were running through my head she decided to fill me in on the secret. "Don't feel obligated to agree or anything, but if we want to, we can get into the concert for free..." Waiting for the catch, but also a little confused considering I had given Charlie 200 pesos the night before which he had told me would go toward covering my general-admission ticket, I listened carefully. "I have a friend who can get us a job working at the concert. Not only would we not have to pay, we'll probably get to go back stage." Still having absolutely no idea what she was talking about, I was put at ease by at least realizing why the early departure and black pants had been so necessary. Assuming I would figure out what was going on sooner or later I opted out of asking more questions and got on the bus excited to be unsure of how the day would unfold.

After stopping at Mariam's house just long enough to drop off our stuff, change into my darker, but not quite black pants and grab a bite to eat, we walked to the main road to catch a taxi. We rode in the taxi for maybe 15 minutes before hopping out, GTA style, crossing the street and squeezing into Miriam's car, that her dad had left for her in front of his office. We then drove to the back of the Baseball Stadium to which I presumed we would return later in the evening to attend the concert. I was just a little off.

We got out and, passing a group of security guards manning the entrance to the stadium, we walked toward a loading dock where about 40 college-aged kids were sitting in anticipation. Of what, I still had no idea. Drawing a wave of stares that I've come to expect when sticking out (literally, I have a good six inches on most Mexican men) as the sole 'gringo,' I followed Charlie and Miriam over to an important-looking, but casually dressed woman who had a clipboard on which she appeared to be taking down people's names as they arrived. After saying my last name (my first normally passes as local) had provoked the generic 'look, there's a 'gringo' among us!' giggles, I joined the group in taking a seat on the steep, concrete ramp of the loading dock. We then sat, waiting for a reason to leave the tormenting glow of the hot, afternoon sun, for more than two hours.

All of a sudden, a van marked 'security' pulled up in front of us, from which several security guards emerged. They marched to the back of the van, opened the trunk and began feverishly handing out 'security' tees to the impatient group. With girls given preferential treatment, more than half of the guys were left without the proper security apparel. Disappointed, we once again took our seats on the hot pavement. After waiting for another hour, another van pulled up and was immediately swarmed by the 30 of us. Eventually, each of us was given either a black security shirt or a orange reflector vest. I decided to go for the vest.

After getting properly outfitted, we circled up and listened as the head of security gave us a quick run-through of what we'd be expected to do. I know it sounds slow on my part, but this was really the first time that I fully appreciated what I was going to be doing at the concert. I guess I had had images of spending the night with a industrial size walky-talky in my hand, sitting backstage as the band and I, over glasses of expensive champagne, shared stories from being on the road (I realize now I wouldn't have had much to contribute to the conversation, but at the time, it seemed to fit). Anyway, it was now obvious that I would be spending the evening as an official member of event security.

We were then asked to line up in rows of 10, out of which 12 other guys and myself, of the maybe 50 that had now arrived to get a free pass into the show, were asked to come to the front of the group. Dwarfed by the sheer mass, but not really the stature, of the other 12, my task quickly became apparent. Marching with our shoulders raised (at least mine were) and our chests pushed forward, we proudly walked through the bleachers, onto the field and into the 'gold,' or $50 a ticket seating area, where each of us then staked out a 5-meter section of the fence where we'd be fastened for the remainder of the night. Standing just meters from the front and center of the stage, any doubts I had had were quickly replaced with...other doubts: Do they actually expect ME to be the guy assisting crowd-surfing drunk guys and girls, the majority of which will probably out-weigh me, over the fence? Again, my doubts were erased when, after asking that exact question, the guy in charge answered with a firm 'Yes, exactly, you got it genius!'

More waiting around and standing ensued until 6pm. At that time, we continued to wait and stand, but were accompanied by the wave of fans that began to trickle in a couple hours before the show was to begin. One of the lucky 'gold ticket' holders quickly started chatting me up, taking my mind off the fact that for the next six hours I would continue to do what I had been doing for previous six; standing (but at times sitting) with little to no idea of what I should be doing. After about an hour, the opening act came out and played an unexciting 45 minute set that left the crowd chanting for the main attraction of the evening: Café Tacvba.

I think intrigued by the fact that I probably looked five years too young (and 50 pounds too light) to be working for security and that I was a clueless, out of place 'gringo,' the group of maybe ten front-rowers that I had befriended couldn't get enough of me. As the opening act packed up and preparations were underway for Café, the group stepped up their efforts to make me break character and tried to get me to chug one of their cups of stale corona (it sounds appealing, right?). I can proudly say I resisted drinking on the job, but I wasn't able to escape being pulled in on several occasions for group snap-shots. Perhaps it was because of all this that, when one of the official security personnel approached me and in a stern tone told me to go back stage, I assumed I was being punished for not being a tough enough security guard/bouncer/stage protector (yes, I included the three to emphasize the complexity of the task to which I was assigned).

After five minutes of aimlessly wandering around, casually brushing shoulders with the drummer of Café, I decided to return to the front to ask for an explanation. My plan was scrapped when Café took the stage and immediately hoards of the once-tame concert-goers began frantically leaping over the fences to get a closer look at one of Mexico's most popular rock bands. While at first I felt obligated to tell a few that they weren't to pass, I soon saw my efforts as futile and began lending a hand, and sometimes a face, to people as they hoisted themselves over the meter and a half tall security fence. To add to the excitement, at almost the exact moment Café began playing, the skies opened up and delivered a well-deserved down pour in which, thinking I was Andy Dufresne from Shawshank Redemption, I looked up toward the heavens with my arms outstretched, and began ripping off my clothes (OK, so I added the part about the outstretched arms).

The rest of the concert went off without a hitch. Of course, in true, melodramatic and testosterone-driven security guard fashion, my boss for the night would occasionally run over to me, juggling his clipboard and walky-talky, and bark off some orders about covering a leak in the fence in one place or another. For the most part, though, I got to spend the concert hooting and hollering like the rest of the crowd with the added bonus of knowing I hadn't paid a cent(avo) to get my front-row seats.

After the show finished, we went to one of the halls inside the stadium to join the rest of the volunteer security forces, a group that had swelled to nearly 100 people. When we got there, we were told to once again line up, only this time, in groups of five. Not sure if we were going to be given food as payment or be the butt of some twisted event security practical joke, we waited, like we had since one in the afternoon, for something to happen. We ended up sitting for nearly two hours before one of the security chiefs came forward and began handing each worker a 100 peso (equiv. to $10) bill. Unfortunately, he ran out after going through the first few lines and so for another half hour, we sat, and waited. When we saw the same guy approaching we all jumped to our feet and filed back into our lines of five. While I got my pay this time around, the others that I was with were still waiting, and would continue to wait for another hour.

I tried to think about what 100 American lower to middle class college-students would have done in a similar situation. I feel like after finding out the day's wage was just enough to, as one of the kids bitterly pointed out, pay for a cab home, the place would have cleared. Maybe I'm wrong. Anyway, all 100 workers waited, some for more than four hours, to be paid. Once everyone in my group had gotten their 100 pesos we again squeezed into Miriam's car, arriving home at 3:30 in the morning.

Originally (and still when we fell asleep at four that morning) the plan had been for Charlie and I to return to Xalapa on the 7am bus as to get back in time for Charlie's Saturday morning class. I'm not sure when the decision was made, but we opted out of the early departure, and ended up not coming back until Sunday evening at 9pm.