Lucha libre is a term in Latin America referring to a form of professional wrestling without the restrictions of traditional greco-roman wrestling.
Professional wrestling reminds me of my dad because we used to watch it together when I was in elementary school. As long as my memory serves, even until this day, he’s worked the graveyard shift and had Sundays and Mondays off (unless a holiday fell on those days). Spending time with him in the evenings was special. We used to watch Monday Night Raw in the living room, just the two of us. He’d buy me t-shirts of my favorite wrestlers and when I wore them to school, boys who’d acted like I never existed would talk to me. In elementary school I always befriended the new girls, the lonely ones. Their imposed social isolation mirrored something I felt. Inevitably, they always moved again. By my freshman year it was too difficult to spot the loners so I became one, working on my lunch break and then eating my lunch behind the trailers in the back of the high school so no one could see me. By then, I’d long stopped watching wrestling with my dad, but it has never ceased to remind me of him.
The Guy used to wrestle in high school too which gave us both personal incentives to watch the luchadores (wrestlers) in Guadalajara. The arena was tucked away in a decrepit neighborhood people warned us not to linger in at night. We went in search of tickets by daylight hours. A long distance bus stop, always a little questionable in safety and filthy, was nearby. Drug addicts and homeless people laid passed out in the streets. The hustle of the city and its vendors ceased being so loud while people lounged in their plastic chairs staring at us as we walked by. After we asked one man for directions, he attempted to charge us 100 pesos. I never really know what to do in those situations, but The Guy scoffed loudly and walked away, so I followed.
We returned to the arena in the late afternoon to purchase our tickets and waited in line. Once seated, several men ran by loudly advertising beers and drinks for sale. Another vendor wore a Sombrero filled 3 feet high full of flat pieces of pork rinds. He also carried with him an impressive 5 gallon red bucket of salsa and the scent of jalapeños tickled my nose when he walked by. Still others sold popcorn, chips, ice cream, and fruit covered in lime juice, chili powder, and salt. One man’s tray had just onions and lime, which unfortunately remained full for the duration of the event. He might need to consider updating his inventory.
The arena could fit a few thousand people but about 300 were in attendance. The crowd was predominately middle class and older, live entertainment being a lavish luxery. The luchadores were supposed to engage with the crowd and maintain interaction. One woman to our left screamed enthusiastically for the teams she rooted for and booed against the others, adding to the rowdy atmosphere. Three people in the front row heckled and cussed at the luchadores, inciting real anger several times. The teams consisted of two, usually three, luchadores who had their own corners. Sometimes, members would go into the ring without being tagged in and “badly hurt” one of the opposing luchadores. They would then apologize by falling to their knees and offering a handshake. Every time, the opposing luchador would hesitate and ask the crowd if he should accept the apology as he got bashed in the head from behind.
Sometimes they would jump out of the ring, but the chairs viewers were seated on were so close to the ring there was real potential to injure the luchador as well as viewers. One luchador jumped out, broke the entire first row, and left on a stretcher. Normally I’d think it were an act, however he was part of the “winning” team and couldn’t get back on stage to revel in his glory. No one stopped or mentioned it because the show must go on. As the evening wore on, the luchadores got progressively shorter and less fat. Their acrobatics grew more precise and they had more flexibility, but it was ultimately the same things on repeat.
My overall experience of watching lucha libre was akin to watching a mediocre comedy show with a higher probability of bodily damage. The badly timed stomps that accented the sounds of their falls followed by grown men slapping each other repeatedly on the chest was enough to get us both laughing out loud multiple times. It was well worth the $5 it cost for three hours of entertainment.
By the time it was over, it was dark outside. Following locals’ advice, we headed quickly out of the neighborhood, past our hotel, and headed back toward the center when we saw a man sprinting toward us. We stepped to the side as he got closer. He ran by with his face covered in a thick sheen of sheer panic. We realized it wasn’t normal that the main road, normally filled with traffic at all hours of the day, was completely abandoned. Up ahead a small crowd had gathered and traffic had been blocked off. A man lay bleeding heavily in the road sprawled out on his stomach as policemen stood nearby without any attempt to assist. Seconds later, paramedics arrived and my view was blocked off by a man carrying a small child pushing his way in for a better look. Around the corner, a man was blacked out drunk and leaned against a large prostitute. She held him up by his pants but simultaneously dug through all his pockets, ensuring a good morning to follow for him.
The area around the center was drastically different from the previous scenes. We walked the cobblestoned streets, admired the horse drawn carriages, enjoyed the colonial buildings in the plazas, and felt very safe about it. When we left the center to head back to our hotel, we didn’t encounter any issues because we were together. Sometimes The Guy would be out at night alone and reported that transvestite prostitutes came out after dark. They would solicit patrons by grabbing their crotches and pickpocketing the drunk ones. I can also attest that walking around Guadalajara alone (during the day) illicited a different experience. When we walked together, all the males would stare intently at The Guy with maybe a glance at me. As soon as I was alone whistles, jesting, and blatant staring ensued. One parking lot attendant followed me around the entire perimeter of the lot while I walked on the sidewalk asking questions.
Where are you going?
Would you like company?
Are you married?
But are you happy?
You’re sure you don’t want company? Etc.
Street harrassment is a bit of an issue but it’s to be expected and no different than any other big city. Guadalajara was a lot of excitement and offered festivals, events, and new experiences. It was relatively safe as long as we remained vigilant and didn’t seek out trouble. The internet and guidebooks don’t suggest Guadalajara as a city to stop in but it’s been one of my very favorite places in Latin America (out of 8 countries I’ve visited). The balance of charm and reality set in this colonial city makes it a stop well worth the time.
Your travel is extremely tense and exciting!