I’ve lived in Iztapalapa—Mexico City’s most populous borough, with over 1.8 million inhabitants—for the last 26 years. The borough is considered part of the “periphery” of Mexico City, areas of the metropolis that are both politically and economically marginalized. It has a hilly, dense urban landscape that isn’t one of skyscrapers, but of unfinished, self-built homes. Most are gray, the color of the blocks they are made of; others have painted facades that are showing their wear. Inside, taps go months or years without running water, meaning that most inhabitants have to wait for tanker trucks to bring it in.

Another of the everyday ways that people living here experience our marginalization is in the question of transport. Residents who live beyond the end of the city’s metro system have to rely on a convoluted network of micro-buses, paying higher fares the farther away they live. For most of my life, traveling the six-and-a-half miles from Metro Constitución, at the end of the green line, to my neighborhood of Santa Marta took 90 minutes—and everyone knew the threat of getting mugged on the bus was high.

Then, three years ago, things changed radically. Now, every day, I and 70,000 others travel those densely and chaotically urbanized miles in 35 to 40 minutes, 100 feet in the air, at the cost of 7 pesos—the equivalent of 40 cents—and without the threat of being robbed. What changed? In 2021, the city introduced a novel form of transportation: the Cablebús, a public gondola system.

In 2021, Cablebús Line 2 earned the Guinness World Record for being the globe’s longest cable-car line used for public transportation. As a frequent user of Line 2, what I enjoy the most is the view. Iztapalapa has many hills and mountains, including the Cerro de las Minas (which has been gradually eaten away as its volcanic rocks have been extracted for construction material), the Sierra de Santa Catarina, and the Cerro de la Estrella, an important ceremonial site in the pre-Hispanic era. Between the Torres de Buenavista and Xalapa stations, the ascending ground below you makes it seem like the gondola might brush against the roofs of the houses. As you travel, the wind enters the cabins, brushing your cheeks and occasionally seeming to make the steel cables run faster.

One of the more than 900 murals painted below Line 2 of the Mexico City Cablebús. The line, which opened in 2021, has transformed the way tens of thousands of residents of the dense Iztapalapa borough move around their neighborhood. Photo courtesy of Blake Reyes

At first, not everyone was in favor of the Cablebús. When Line 2 was inaugurated, people who lived along the route protested. They felt it invaded their privacy, since their rooftops were visible from the gondolas. In response, the borough government suggested painting murals on the rooftops along the route, so that the passers-by would have something to look at, and residents would have a work of art instead of just a place to hang their laundry, and to store their water tanks and old appliances.

Since Line 2 opened, artists have painted more than 900 murals along its trajectory, composing what the borough government says is the largest urban mural project in the world. Known as the Iztapalapa Mural, it features portraits of characters from movies; of important figures from Mexico’s cultural, scientific, and technological realms; of local residents known for their commitment to the community;  and of animals like Frida, a search and rescue dog who became famous after the deadly 2017 earthquake for her work finding victims.

In many of the neighborhoods it serves, the Cablebús has transformed public spaces, making them safer and more communal. An example is the Desarrollo Urbano Quetzalcóatl area, formerly known for being among the most dangerous in the city—in 2019, the government even deployed the National Guard there in an attempt to reduce crime.  There used to be an unsafe market, with stores made of sheet metal and cardboard, where the neighborhood’s Cablebús station is now located. Today, alongside the new station, the market has been turned into a colorful, mural-covered place with eateries for Cablebús commuters. Once, fear of crime kept people away from the market after dark; today, they take photos of the murals and attend cultural and sporting events nearby. People feel—and are—safer.

These changes have brought tourism to the barrio. In the past, Iztapalapa wasn’t a place outsiders would visit—on the contrary, they usually avoided it. Now, it’s common for both Mexican and foreign tourists to ride Line 2 gondolas on the weekends. Guides specialize in teaching the history of Iztapalapa from above, utilizing the Cablebús route. I took two guided walks with Beatriz Ramírez, a crónista—local historian—and the coordinator of the borough’s archive. She brought historical images along during our trip to show how the hills of Iztapalapa have changed over time, taken over by the sprawl of the city.

Yet there are also tourist agencies that are less embedded in Iztapalapa’s culture and history. One tour offered on TripAdvisor, called “Fly over CDMX by Cable Car,” advertises itself as a way for foreigners to explore “a part of Mexico City that most tourists miss.” The company charges $42 per person—one hundred times the cost of a Cablebús ticket. This type of tourism benefits tour companies and the platforms they use to sell their excursions, but few benefits reach local residents. I worry that they offer a superficial vision of the place that exoticizes members of my community, turning us into something to be ogled. One such excursion, for the price of approximately $180, brings tourists from some of the wealthiest to the most marginalized neighborhoods in Mexico City, offering the opportunity to “see how different they are” and “feel the magic of the enormous metropolis.” But sustainable, community-focused tourism requires understanding, not just observation, and exchange, not just extraction.

In 2021, when Carlos Tapia Rojas, the Guinness World Records’ Latin America judge, recognized Line 2 as record-breaking, he told Iztapalapa residents, “¡Felicitaciones! Ahora son… Oficialmente, asombrosos.” Congratulations, he told us, we were officially amazing.

As a resident of Iztapalapa and a Cablebús user, I can say unequivocally that the Line 2 has changed our quality of life, along with the way we perceive our surroundings, for the better.

It’s also become clear that the negative impacts of the new form of transit are not in the intrusion of stations and poles into neighborhoods, nor even that onlookers might see you hanging out your laundry on your messy roof. They’re in the potential impact of being officially amazing. When you come to Iztapalapa to ride our gondola, seek out guides like Beatriz, who are real crónistas of the area, who are dedicated to sharing our culture and history, not just selling it. They’re the ones who can teach you what life is really like in Iztapalapa.