Mexico City, a sprawling metropolis where the only thing more abundant than traffic jams is the sheer, unadulterated chaos of daily existence, has taken a decidedly damp turn. The city, desperate for international attention that doesn't involve cartels or crumbling infrastructure, has decided to attempt a world record for the largest ever urban surfing session. Yes, you read that correctly. Mexico City, a landlocked concrete jungle, is trying to become the world's biggest wave pool.
This aquatic ambition, however, has provoked a tidal wave of cultural backlash. Local traditionalists, the sort of people who still call plastic chairs 'modern,' are up in arms. They argue that surfing, an activity imported from the Pacific islands and then Californicated, has nothing to do with Mexican heritage. 'We have lucha libre, we have mariachi, we have tequila,' huffs Señor Rodrigo de la Peña, president of the Society for the Preservation of Things That Should Not Be Wet. 'Why do we need to stand on bits of foam and pretend we are in Hawaii?'
The city's mayor, a man whose hair defies gravity in a manner that suggests he has made a pact with the devil of hair gel, insists the event will showcase Mexico City's 'resilience and adaptability.' He has ordered the installation of wave-making machines in the Zócalo, the main square, which will require the diversion of water from the already-strained reservoir system. The plan is to create a series of artificial waves strong enough to carry a grown man on a surfboard, though I suspect the only thing that will be carried is the city's sewage, given the state of local plumbing.
Critics, including a coalition of environmentalists and people who simply don't want to see middle-aged bureaucrats in wetsuits, have pointed out the monumental waste of water in a region plagued by drought. 'This is not a wave, it is an obscenity,' declares activist Maria Gonzalez, who demands the water be used to fill the city's failing public fountains. 'We could have a beautiful fountain show,' she says, 'but instead we get a bunch of fat gringos trying to stand up on water.'
The irony is, of course, that surfing requires waves, and Mexico City is famous for its lack of them. The city lies in the Valley of Mexico, a high-altitude basin that has not seen a proper wave since the last ice age. The planned solution: massive pumps and a system of sluices that will release water in a controlled torrent. It is, as one engineer described it, 'like trying to flush a toilet on an airplane while flying through turbulence.' The world record attempt, scheduled for next Tuesday, will involve 500 surfers simultaneously riding these man-made swells. I suspect the only record broken will be for the most amount of people suffering from waterborne illnesses.
But the cultural backlash is the real story. The hashtag #MexicoNoEsHawái has trended on social media, with memes showing sombrero-clad surfers being attacked by chihuahuas. The National Institute of Anthropology and History has even weighed in, calling the event 'an act of cultural imperialism.' They argue that surfing, by its very nature, is incompatible with Mexican identity, which is rooted in the land, not the sea. 'We are not a seafaring people,' states Dr. Elena Vasquez, a professor of indigenous studies. 'We are a people of the earth. The only thing we should be surfing is the internet.'
And yet, there is a strange, desperate charm to this debacle. Mexico City, a city that never sleeps because it's too busy worrying, has found a new way to be ridiculous. The event, should it proceed, will be a glorious monument to human folly, a testament to our ability to waste resources on the most questionable of pursuits. As a gonzo journalist, I cannot help but applaud the sheer audacity, the chutzpah, the sheer, unadulterated Mexican-ness of it all. It is a glorious, damp, absurd mess. And I, for one, will be there, gin in hand, watching as the city tries to surf its way into the history books, or perhaps just into a very large, very polluted puddle.
