Mexico City. 1984. When the plane wheels touched down on the tarmac of Mexico City’s Aeropuerto Internacional Benito Juárez, a wave of uncertainty rolled over me. My stomach churned with nerves—not from turbulence, but from not knowing what lay ahead. I was alone, truly alone, and stepping into a city I knew only from books and flickering images in my mind. My Spanish vocabulary was nonexistent. I had just eight dollars in my pocket. The rest, I carried in hope.
What helped calm me was the thought that Professor R. Narayanan, my mentor from Jawaharlal Nehru University, had made arrangements. He had written to a former student of his living in Mexico City, asking him to pick me up from the airport. This was before email or mobile phones; everything moved through letters. Communication, like everything else in that time, took patience—and trust.
Thankfully, the student kept his word. He met me at the arrival gate, his smile a small island of comfort amid the unfamiliar chaos. As we took a cab through the city, the contrasts were everywhere—colonial facades alongside concrete brutalism, leafy boulevards hemmed by rows of chaotic microbuses, cars and the buzz of a metropolis that never slept. Mexico City in the 1980s was a sprawling organism, chaotic and beautiful, vibrant and overwhelming.
His room—my first home in Mexico—was in a basement of an old colonial-era house in the central part of the city. The space was humble: two tiny beds, no window, and a shared kitchen with the landlord’s family upstairs. The bathroom was across a cobblestone courtyard, and right beside it, to my astonishment, were nearly a dozen rabbits hopping around in makeshift cages. Rabbits! I could only laugh. So this was my “foreign posting”? Not quite the cosmopolitan fantasy I had imagined. No sleek apartment, no modern amenities—just dust, rabbits, and a leaking faucet.
Still, my childhood instincts kicked in. I had been through worse. Growing up in my village India had trained me in resilience. I knew how to survive. More importantly, I knew how to adapt.
The first few days were lost in a fog of jet lag. It hit me like a freight train. I slept through sunrises and sunsets, too disoriented even to explore the neighborhood. Eventually, when the fog lifted, I exchanged my eight dollars for pesos and took the first real step into my new life: heading to El Colegio de México, where I was to begin my research work and, more critically, collect my scholarship.
The journey there was a challenge in itself. My friend explained the bus routes, sketching crude directions with a pencil on the back of a cereal box. I nodded, pretending to understand, but the reality was I had no clue. I made it to the bus stop, watched bus after bus whiz by, but I couldn’t decipher the numbers or destinations. I tried asking people, but not a single person spoke English. My confidence cracked. I returned to the room in defeat.
That evening, my friend didn’t laugh. He was kind. The next morning, he personally walked me to the right stop and helped me board the correct bus.
What followed was a revelation. As the rickety bus rumbled through the city, I watched the Mexico I had only read about unfold outside the window. Grand murals of Rivera and Siqueiros flashed past. Children played football on dusty patches of ground. Tortilla vendors flipped dough in open stalls, their scent wafting through the open windows. Amidst the chaos, a rhythm existed—an unspoken order to the disorder.
El Colegio de México stood proudly at the southern edge of the city, surrounded by hills and trees. The building itself felt monumental—academic, austere, yet welcoming. It had the quiet dignity of a place where ideas mattered. As I stepped into its courtyard, I felt for the first time since arriving a sense of home.
I was directed to the President’s office to meet Professor Victor L. Urquidi, a name that had loomed large in my studies. Back at JNU, we read his theories on development economics—his analyses of Latin America had shaped my own understanding of the region. Meeting him in person felt surreal.
Urquidi was gracious, elegant, and sharp. With his crisp suit and French-accented English, he radiated a quiet authority. Born in France and a graduate of the London School of Economics, he had transformed it into a hub for economic and social research in Mexico. I could see why Professor Narayanan admired him. Urquidi welcomed me warmly and introduced me to Professor Sergio Aguayo, under whom I would begin my research on human rights in Latin America.
Professor Aguayo was already a rising intellectual star, known not just for his academic work but for his activism and journalism. Over time, I would come to admire his clarity of thought, his moral integrity, and his relentless curiosity. In the years since, he has become a towering figure in Mexico’s political discourse, a respected voice across continents. But in that moment, he was simply my advisor—one who saw promise in a young, confused Indian trying to find his place and learn about Latin America.
The next day, I went to the Mexican Foreign Ministry to pick up my scholarship payment. But bureaucracy had other plans. I was told, bluntly, that the funding would only begin in March—not February, as I had been led to believe.
I stood there stunned. I had no money. No family. No language. My mind raced through options, none of which existed. I returned to the Colegio the following day and pleaded for an urgent meeting with Prof. Urquidi. His secretary led me in. I explained everything. He listened, nodded once, and then called for his assistant.
“Please issue him a check for three months’ advance payment,” he instructed, without hesitation.
That moment changed everything. I walked out with tears stinging my eyes. His generosity—and faith—would stay with me forever.
With funds in hand, I immersed myself in the life of Colegio. The campus was abuzz with ideas, debates, seminars, and the occasional poetry reading. I met students from across Latin America—Chile, Argentina, Brazil—many of them exiled scholars or the children of political refugees. They found it equally curious to meet a student from India. We bonded over stories of dictatorship, development, democracy—and telenovelas.
But outside the Colegio walls, I remained mute. The language barrier loomed large. Every trip to the market, every ride on the metro, every attempt at ordering food turned into a comedy—or tragedy—of errors.
One breakthrough came when a friendly Mexican acquaintance invited me to dinner at his family’s house. Excited, I put on my best clothes and rode with him to a modest home in Coyoacán. His family greeted me warmly—but no one spoke English. We stared at each other across the table, smiling, nodding, helpless.
And then, inspiration struck. I pulled out a piece of paper and a pen. I began drawing: a plate, vegetables, faces, a chicken, a question mark. They drew back: a pig, a pot, a laughing face. Laughter broke out, barriers fell, and soon we were all drawing and miming our way through the evening. It was one of the most joyful, human connections I’d ever had.
The very next day, I enrolled in a Spanish course at UNAM (Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México). It was a three-month crash course—but truthfully, most of my Spanish came from the streets. From bus stops and fruit stalls. From watching soap operas and listening to street musicians. From making mistakes—and being laughed at.
One morning, feeling confident, I stopped at a juice stand and declared, “Quiero un licuado de zapato.” The vendor froze, and then burst out laughing. So did everyone else in line.
“No hacemos licuados de zapatos en este país,” he chuckled. “We don’t make shoe shakes in this country.”
I had meant to say plátano—banana—not zapato—shoe. I blushed, laughed, and learned. That’s how I learned everything: one shoe shake at a time.
Stay tuned for Chapter 12: Mexico—The Mexican Advebtures Begins
(Mr. Mishra is the managing partner of The Mishra Group, a diversified media firm based in Waltham, MA. He writes about his three passions: marketing, scriptures, and gardening.)
