Tear Gas

A few weeks ago, the Zocalo was transformed from a tranquil, shady plaza, a pleasant destination for strolling and listening to street musicians, into a hectic marketplace.  The walkways were invaded by a horde of traditionally-dressed indigenous women and  rasta-haired hippies who spread their wares on the ground.
'Oaxaca has enough handicraft markets,' I whined to myself, 'why do they have to be in my favorite spot?'
To me, the added color, did not make up for the crowded feeling , nor for the smell of frying  snacks.  I asked an acquaintance what happened.  As far as I could understand, he attributed the change to the newly elected Governor.  I assumed the new Governor relaxed the regulations to provide more attractions for tourists while at the same time increasing his popularity.  This evening, I realized again, how lack of language fluency can lead to wildly wrong assumptions, and leaves me still a visitor in a foreign town.

Before dusk, Adi and I went into the still warm air to shop for art supplies.   Walking towards the Zocalo we passed a large villa whose exterior was being painted.  We attributed the strange smell to the fresh paint. However as we moved on, the smell did not diminish and ours eyes began to water.
'Something is wrong'  I thought.
It took a while to register that most people were walking in the opposite direction, all of them with teary eyes.  Some were trying to cover their faces with shawls or handkerchiefs.
Coming towards us, I saw our Danzon instructor, his face red and puffy.  Although he did not want to linger, he explained that the police deployed tear gas to expel illegal vendors from the Zocalo.  Apparently persuasion did not work, and the police resorted to force.  It must have been quite a show of force, because six blocks away, we were still finding it hard to breath.  I could only imagine what was going on at the epicenter.
"Is this like 2006?"  I asked.
"Not exactly" replied Lucio.
This was not the appropriate time for a lengthy political discussion.  I suppressed my inclination to go the Zocalo. and turned back home.  It took a while for our eyes and throat to return to normal.

I guess the street vendors assumed that the change of administration is a moment of weakness, which provides them with an opportunity.  The 2006 uprising erupted in the Zocalo when the Governor clashed with the middle-class teachers union.  I doubt whether the squatters of today have this kind of political organization or will.  Meanwhile, I am feeling slightly guilty.  True, I wished them gone, but I certainly did not wish them to be drowned in tear gas.