Some say it sounded like a cat screeching at first, to others it sounded like a motorcycle racing and it also felt like a stuffy hum. It was a roar. A loud whistle. Otis arrived at 12:25 a.m. Wednesday with winds of more than 155 miles per hour, hitting Acapulco as a category five hurricane. It devastated him. One of Mexico’s tourist gems has been without electricity and water for three days, and there is no internet or 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 were looted. As the state of emergency threatens to bring Acapulco to ruin, 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 street, one of the main streets in Acapulco that runs parallel to the sea, is now a trail of fallen palm trees, broken glass, buildings without glass or walls, it is a street of rubble. Where there were once terraces with music and seafood restaurants, today the logos of dozens of official vehicles line up: the Federal Electricity Commission (CFE), the Navy, the Army and the National Guard.
Aerial view showing the damage caused by Hurricane Otis in the Acapulco hotel zone in Guerrero, Mexico. Monica González Islas
In total, the government of Andrés Manuel López Obrador has deployed 13,500 security personnel and more than 1,300 electricians to prevent the collapse. But it’s late and the work is just beginning. Official figures speak of 27 dead and four missing, a figure that has not been updated since Wednesday morning and covers the information gaps of Guerrero Governor Evelyn Salgado, who has not appeared since the disaster. Doubts about the accuracy of the numbers are growing as maritime patrols find drowned bodies and many colonies and communities have been without access or help for 72 hours.
City of hikers
As you walk, avoid Costera’s utility poles and dilapidated signs. 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 get fuel so he could return to Mexico City with his elderly parents. It was impossible. “We didn’t eat anything yesterday either,” says this cook from Pereira (Colombia), who came over the holidays, almost resignedly. They survived the hurricane in the area of the stairs of the now destroyed Hotel Mar Azul, as did 80% of the accommodation in Acapulco. While he looked for a way out, he left his parents behind, accompanied by another bottle of water. And that’s it.
People from the Zapata neighborhood in Acapulco shop for groceries in the area of Acapulco affected by Hurricane Otis. Monica González Islas
The hurricane has turned Acapulco into a city of hikers. Hundreds of people walk under the sun to look for water or something to eat, to get to the bus station or to check if their family is still alive because calls are not working. There is also no public transport and most roads remain closed. So in a city of almost a million people, the size of Valencia in Spain or Austin in the United States, people can only go on foot. Or hitchhike.
Eloína Sevilla is a teacher. She and her husband stocked up long before the hurricane, but she hasn’t heard from her sister since Tuesday evening. He started looking for her at 6 a.m. and has already spent two hours in his muddy shoes. He still has half of the way to the other side of the bay to go. You’ll traverse Papagayo Park, a natural landmark of the city that appears to have been cut down, you’ll pass two-hour queues to charge your cell phone in the TV satellite van, and you’ll see the pieces sticking out of the sunken boats in the marina and the destroyed yachts, right down to the cars that try to flee Acapulco with no windows and flat tires.
A man looks for food in a looted supermarket in Acapulco.Mónica González Islas
This catastrophic scenario is occurring in the government’s priority area. What those who leave from other, more modest places or from neighboring communities such as Coyuca de Benítez say is total devastation. Diane – not her real name – slept in her mother’s arms on Tuesday in their tin-roofed, wooden-floored house in Pie de la Cuesta: “We thought we were going to die.” That didn’t happen and she continues to get to work after a three-hour walk , as a guard for the Ministry of Public Security to monitor the shopping malls. 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 looting the bars. He doesn’t even try. Instead, he asks, “If there’s no electricity, how are they going to pay me for my two weeks?”
The soldiers patrol, remove branches and debris, set up a tent to distribute blankets and food. But they do nothing about the robberies. Neither does the National Guard, who have to watch them leave Liverpool with new refrigerators on their shoulders. As desperation grows, other pressing questions emerge: Were four hours enough to issue an evacuation notice in the face of a Category Five hurricane in a city of nearly a million people? How long can a city go without electricity? And without running water? Has the state taken control of Acapulco? Where is the governor?
Night falls in Guerrero and like a curtain, the film gets worse and worse. The city has collapsed between the thousands who want to leave the city, the relief workers who want to enter and those who return 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 exodus. Carlos’s sentence resonates as he leans against the frame of his house, beneath the sea and destruction: “We have seen the end of the world and we still have a long way to go.”
People from the Zapata neighborhood leave Acapulco this Thursday afternoon. Monica González Islas
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