A Woman Confronts the Si or No of Safe Sojourning Through Mexico

I love Mexico. But quite frankly, I’ve shied away from visiting the country since the spring of last year, when the U.S. State Department warned that crime in Mexico City had reached “critical levels.” Government advisories since then have mentioned, among other problems, frequent robberies and assaults on taxi passengers in the capital, the killing of a U.S. citizen during a robbery attempt at a Mexico City ATM, and three murders of other American travelers in remote areas of the country. This was more than enough to give me pause, particularly since I stand out south of the border--a blond woman who travels alone and speaks only un poquito de espanol.

Nonetheless, last month I visited Mexico to sample three spas around Cuernavaca. I’d never been to the hill city 50 miles south of the capital before, though I’ve traveled fairly widely in Mexico without disaster. Then, too, I fancy I’ve developed instincts that warn me about potential dangers, and I always play it safe.

Sometimes I wonder if I play it too safe, turning away cautiously from opportunities that could come only once in a lifetime. What, for instance, was down that empty, potholed road a hundred miles south of Cancun I didn’t take 10 years ago? Deserted Mayan ruins, or something dangerous? Was my fear of what might happen justified?

I asked myself these same questions while preparing for my Cuernavaca trip, consulted guidebooks and contacted a woman who lives in the Mexican capital for further advice. She said I probably wouldn’t run into trouble, provided I didn’t drive at night or take any unlicensed taxis.

The average spa guest would be unlikely to visit three spas in a single trip, and could avoid most potential problems by booking a round-trip airport-to-spa transfer ($100 to $200) or taking a very first-class Pullman de Morelos bus directly from Mexico City’s Benito Juarez International Airport to Cuernavaca ($9). But I was on assignment and needed to see three establishments, making the logistics more complicated.

I planned the details carefully, arranging for a transfer from the Mexico City airport to the first spa I visited, the Hotel Hacienda Cocoyoc about 60 miles southeast of the capital. Two days later, another transfer would take me 20 miles west to Cuernavaca, where I’d reserved a VW Beetle at Hertz for the two-hour drive to another spa in the town of Ixtapan de la Sal. After that, I’d drive back to Cuernavaca, return the car and spend two nights at Mision del Sol, a spa on the outskirts of town, before catching the bus to the airport for my flight home.

Still, as I flew south, I felt edgy, which is probably why I panicked in Mexico City when I couldn’t find the driver from Cocoyoc who was supposed to meet me at the airport. I must have walked through the crowd in the arrivals area four times looking at the names of passengers written on signs held up by the drivers. But mine wasn’t on any of them.

Then I got on the phone to the spa and learned that, though the resort had my reservation, they hadn’t received the fax I’d sent telling them when my flight arrived. Still, the Cocoyoc staff member at the other end of the phone said he’d try to get me a driver. I should stand by the tourist information desk and wait.

Amazingly, 15 minutes later, a middle-age man in a blue shirt approached carrying a sheet of paper with my name on it. He introduced himself as Alegandro Garcia, took my bag and led me out of the airport, across a busy street to a parking lot. We stood there in the heat for at least 20 minutes while I tried to find out what we were waiting for--to no avail because he couldn’t speak English or understand my fractured Spanish. Finally a battered blue sedan pulled up with a young man at the wheel. Garcia put my bag on the back seat and opened the front door for me.

I didn’t know what to do. Getting into an unlicensed vehicle at the airport is precisely the sort of thing travelers aren’t supposed to do. I asked Garcia for identification. But when he produced a card for his car service--not the spa--it didn’t make me feel any better. I had to go on my instincts. I stood back and sized him up. He looked like somebody’s father. So I got in the front seat, next to the driver, with Garcia in the back.

Right away I took out my map to follow our progress. At first we seemed to be going in the right direction, so I relaxed slightly. But after 10 minutes, the driver pulled off the highway, winding along back streets into a slightly ramshackle neighborhood.

“Donde? Donde?” I asked frantically. But no one could help me understand where we were going.

We eventually pulled into a driveway at the rear entrance of a house. Garcia got out and gestured for me to do the same. This was it, I thought. My instincts had failed me. I was just about to become another crime victim in Mexico City.

At that moment a woman appeared at the door and waved toGarcia. He said something to her in Spanish, and she smiled at me.

“Su casa? Su esposa?” I asked.

“Si, si,” he said.

Suddenly things started to fall into place. Garcia had been at the airport without a car and gotten his friend to pick us up. We’d come to the house to get Garcia’s car--much nicer than the sedan because it had air-conditioning.

From there on, it was smooth sailing to the spa, and Garcia and I even managed to communicate. He pointed out the cloud of steam atop a nearby volcano and told me to hold on when we went over speed bumps.

Later I found the Cuernavaca-Mexico City airport bus a marvel of efficiency, and I also had no trouble driving, rediscovering the pleasures of the countryside along the way. Now I’d go back to the area without fretting, though I’d still be on guard and do my best to avoid Mexico City. But I’m no longer going to avoid Mexico.