Mexico City —

Ruth Rojas got a flat tire almost as soon as she picked us up, so she slowed her little red car to a crawl. There was a tire shop four blocks away, an interminable distance at that speed with the evening heat and rush hour exhaust pouring through the open windows.

By the time we reached the tire shop, the sky was darkening and the sidewalk in front of the little shop partially blocked by a group of drunken men, one quietly vomiting between his knees.

The tire was just bad luck. After everything she’d seen on the road, Rojas was cool about it; we’d be back on route soon, she assured. A punctured tire is the least of the concerns of a female cabbie in Mexico City.

In a country where thousands of people disappear every year and mass graves keep turning up, surviving a nigh

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