Mexican police keep a close watch on one of the beaches in Acapulco Pedro Pardo
The Plaza Sendero shopping mall on the outskirts of Acapulco has a fabric store, a shoe shop, and a movie complex, screening Tron: Legacy, The Tourist, and Gulliver’s Travels. A red-eyed dog lies asleep in the shade of the mall entrance, and nearby a man sits on his haunches, awake but equally motionless. The parking lot is scattered with bright orange shopping carts. Across the adjacent highway, shanties cling to an eroding hill, where the scorching sun has singed off almost all greenery. Smoke drifts upward from a cooking fire or burning rubbish.
A pedestrian bridge spans the highway. On it someone has pasted a flyer for a local church that promises salvation for those who suffer from vice, broken families, curses, or sicknesses with no known cause. Fifteen bodies were dumped here in January, most with their heads cut off and bodies mutilated. Six more were found stuffed into a nearby taxi. Their hands and feet had been bound. Two police were shot and killed the same day.
Handwritten posters at the crime scene link the murders to one of the drug cartels in the midst of a war for territory and export routes in Mexico. The victims almost certainly belonged to rival gangs. They are among more than 1,000 murdered over the past year in Acapulco, a popular vacation spot for Canadians.
The violence in Mexico began to soar four years ago, when President Felipe Calderón intensified a crackdown on drug cartels. The cartels fought back, but also turned against each other, where previously a sort of fragile truce had persisted in the interest of mutual profit. The growth of domestic narcotics consumption drives the escalating competition. “The size of the pie has increased,” says Jorge Chabat, a specialist in Mexico’s drug cartels at CIDE, a Mexico City think tank. “There are more reasons to fight.” A staggering 35,000 people have been murdered since Calderón took office in December 2006.
Terror and cruelty have exploded along with the death toll. Decapitations are now commonplace. A policeman or soldier involved in taking down a drug lord, if identified, risks losing his family. Dying first won’t save them. Mexican marine Melquisedet Angulo died during a 2009 raid against a cartel. He was celebrated as a hero. Hours after his funeral, gunmen burst into his home and murdered his mother, aunt, brother and sister.
Now, members of elite anti-drug units wear masks and die anonymously. Even street-level police patrol without ID. “The most dangerous thing is not knowing who might attack us, who we should worry about,” says one local officer, standing on an Acapulco sidewalk with a submachine gun. “If the criminals wore uniforms like us it would be too easy.” He declined to give his name. “I’m afraid of reprisals.” It’s more difficult for senior officers to hide. Gunmen in Acapulco attacked the home of a local commander last month. He, along with his son, survived. Politicians are likewise threatened. At least 14 Mexican mayors were murdered last year.
Many in authority are also corrupt. Faced with choosing between promised death and an offer of cash, some politicians, bureaucrats and security officials choose the latter. Calderón’s government has purged thousands of compromised police and law enforcement officials, including from top levels of the country’s security apparatus. But no one believes the problem has been eradicated.
