Mexico City, perched more than 7,000 feet above sea level and famously higher than Denver, Colorado, has long defied the tropical expectations many outsiders bring to it. Instead of lush mangoes or guavas, the city’s altitude has always favored fruits like peaches and pears—produce more at home in northern latitudes than in the tropics. But in recent years, the city’s climate has begun to shift in surprising and sometimes unsettling ways.
At the heart of this transformation sits Huerto Tlatelolco, an urban garden nestled in the middle of Mexico City. Walking through its raised garden beds, beneath the dappled shade of fruit trees and the scent of fresh herbs, visitors might be forgiven for thinking they’ve stumbled into a horticultural anomaly. Gabriela Vargas, who has managed the garden for over a decade, gestures proudly at the bounty: more than 150 varieties of edible plants thrive here, from olive trees—which typically prefer subtropical climates—to the unlikeliest of residents: papaya and banana trees.
"Right here, we're under, you know, a peach tree and an apple tree," Vargas explains, her voice echoing with both pride and bemusement. According to NPR, she points out olive trees nearby, but then surprises her guests: "But we also have papaya." She adds, almost as an afterthought, "And bananas." For a city whose climate once kept tropical plants at bay, these new arrivals are nothing short of remarkable.
The story of Huerto Tlatelolco’s bananas is a microcosm of the changes sweeping through Mexico City. When Vargas first arrived, the garden boasted a single banana tree, stubbornly refusing to bear fruit in the cold. "The bananas wouldn't grow. No, it was just, like, the leaf," she recalls. But as the years passed and the city’s climate warmed, that lone tree began to propagate. Flowers appeared, and then, to Vargas’s delight, actual bananas—"It actually tasted pretty good," she says with a smile.
But perhaps the most dramatic shift has come with the papaya trees. For the past two years, and for the first time ever, these skinny trees with their radiant, finger-like leaves have begun to bear fruit. NPR’s Eyder Peralta visited the garden and counted at least six papayas ripening on the branches. "So a serious papaya tree," he quipped. Vargas agreed, "Yeah, serious papaya tree." The novelty of harvesting papayas in a city known for its cool nights and crisp mornings feels, as Peralta puts it, "magical, like spotting a snowy owl in Florida."
Yet, for some, this magic is tinged with worry. Francisco Estrada, a climate change researcher at the National Autonomous University of Mexico, sees these changes as harbingers of something far less enchanting. "Nah, all of this is totally tragic," he tells NPR, his words translated from Spanish. The world, he notes, has already warmed by nearly 1.5 degrees Celsius—a threshold scientists say will usher in a new era of climate disruption. But Mexico, he warns, is moving even faster: "We are hotter. And we're getting hotter quicker than the globe as a whole." The country’s average temperature has increased by 1.8 degrees Celsius, outpacing the global average and pushing Mexico’s agricultural systems into uncharted territory.
The consequences are already visible. In Veracruz, one of Mexico’s key coffee-growing regions, yields have dropped by a staggering 48%. "At this latitude, we used to have ideal growing conditions for many crops," Estrada explains. But now, as he tells NPR, "the weather is not so ideal." Almost all of Mexico’s staple crops are expected to face tougher times ahead. The outlook for rain-fed corn—a dietary and cultural staple—looks especially grim. By the end of the century, Estrada warns, Mexico may struggle to harvest enough corn to meet its needs.
Back at Huerto Tlatelolco, the mood is less apocalyptic, though no less reflective. Butterflies flit among the purple lavender flowers, and the laughter of children on a school trip floats through the air. Even on hot days, the garden offers a cool respite. "On a hot day, we can have 9.5 centigrades," Vargas says, referring to the difference in temperature between the street outside and the shaded garden beds. The contrast is striking, and for a moment, the doom and gloom of climate change feels distant.
But the new reality is never far from Vargas’s mind. When asked whether the appearance of tropical fruits in her garden makes her happy or sad, she shrugs, a gesture that captures the bittersweet mood of many in the city. "I mean, what can we do? And for me it's like, OK, we're here now. What can we do?" she says. There’s a sense of resignation, but also a quiet determination. If the climate is changing, she seems to suggest, then adaptation—however imperfect—may be the only way forward. "At this point," she jokes, "we might as well harvest bananas."
For many residents of Mexico City, the changes in their gardens and markets are both a curiosity and a warning. The ability to grow bananas and papayas at high altitude is a testament to human adaptability and nature’s resilience. Yet, as scientists like Estrada remind us, these new fruits are also symptoms of a deeper crisis—one that threatens the livelihoods of farmers, the security of food supplies, and the ecological balance of an entire nation.
Mexico’s warming climate is not just a local story; it’s a chapter in the global narrative of climate change. The city’s experience mirrors trends seen in other highland regions around the world, where crops and ecosystems are being reshaped by rising temperatures. The stakes are high: as traditional crops falter and new ones take their place, communities must navigate a complex web of economic, environmental, and cultural challenges.
In the end, the story of Huerto Tlatelolco is both hopeful and sobering. It shows what’s possible when people work with nature, even as that nature changes in unexpected ways. But it also serves as a reminder that adaptation has its limits—and that the fruits of climate change, however sweet, come at a cost that’s still being counted.
