It's been too long since my last post and the only thing I can say in my defense is that language lessons are hard work. I spent the last three weeks in Guatemala preparing for my trip farther south. Most of this was spent in Antigua, where I had one on one conversation lessons for 6 hours in the day, read the 'Guatemalan New York Times', Prensa Libre, in the afternoon, and spent most evenings out on the town with my new housemates. Antigua is bursting with language students in part due to its beautiful colonial setting at an altitude safe from mosquitoes, and in part due to its ubiquitous language schools and excellent tourist infrastructure (by which I mean excellent coffee and a variety of cuisines). And it's still pretty cheap. Strangely, I had horrible luck with the internet cafes, and in the post language learning exhaustion of my late afternoons I did not have the patience to write on a keyboard with the letters worn off.
A big downside to the heavy foreign presence is that English is the default language to all but the most diligent of students. I was insistent on speaking Spanish with my fellow housemates who were living with the same Guatemalan family. A couple of them had to reply in English since they were beginning speakers, but everyone appreciated the effort. After a week I gave it up when out of class, and I'm glad I did, as I got to know the other students much better when I could fully express myself. It happened by accident at first. The boys from our school played a soccer game against a high school team from town. I played a fairly decent right back-or at least we didn't give up a goal while I was in- until the end of the first of the half when as part of a wall on a free kick I took a shot in the right eye. The ball left a pretty good cut and I couldn't see more than blur out of the eye for a few hours. When night fell I had a semi-circle of blind spot over the top half of the same eye, and this recurred for several nights. A nurse who was a student at our school said it was probably just a broken blood vessel in the eye and that it would heal in a few days. It did. Anyways, the night of the game my head was still throbbing and the Spanish just wouldn't flow. Rather than sit in silence I said my first English words at the dinner table. It was hard to switch back.
I did have time to do some traveling. A fellow Wesleyan alum gave me some great advice about Guatemala: ¨You must ride at least one Chicken Bus while your down there.¨ Chicken buses are the brightly painted reincarnations of American school buses that form the backbone of intercity transit in Guatemala. People cram three to a bench with the occasional fourth sprawled over laps when the aisles get too full. The straight backed metal seats pound the knees of a gringo of average height with every bump in the road-these things were designed for children. While gripping the metal bars across the seat backs the chicken bus has the comfort and feel of a rollercoaster. But stakes are deliciously higher. You might lose your wallet or sun glasses on the double loop de loop and 100 foot plunge, but in a moment you’ll return to the same platform you left 90 seconds ago and file a lost found request with the 19 year old manager who seems to be the only one with the know how to run the darn thing. On the other hand, when the madman behind the wheel of your bus is trying to pass a Mack truck and a real school bus full of uniformed kids while going around a blind turn, its either you or the children taking the 100 meter plunge over the shoulder should another car happen to come speeding from the other direction.
Maybe that’s why they play the music at full volume. It’s hard to be nervous when there are Spanish rap or Meringue beats blasting through a surprisingly sharp stereo system, though the music quality and sound system are hit or miss depending on the driver/chicken bus. Provided you can hear them over the music, you're almost sure to have a conversation with one of the Guatelmaltecos squeezed up on either side of you. I got some great travel advice this way, and even met a Guatemalan family from Los Angeles that hadn't come back to visit in over 14 years because it took that long to get their legal resident status confirmed in the states. The youngest son only understood Spanish but could not speak. They made him be quiet any time a negotiation was in process since English speakers, whatever their apparent background, pay at least double for almost anything in Guatemala.
In time I'll back post a few of my Guatemala stories along with the rest of the Oaxaca narrative as I work my way south. This afternoon I am in the port town of Dangregia in Southern Belize waiting for the ferry that leaves tomorrow morning for Honduras. I hope to reach Trujillo-- the city where great (x4) grandfather Walker was executed by firing squad-- Sunday afternoon in time for the Superbowl.
Click Here to Read More..
Monday, January 22, 2007
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
Oaxaca II
The past eight months have been tumultuous for Oaxacans, and some say a sharp divide remains amongst fellow citizens. There is disagreement even within some families in the quiet now after the unrest. It is unclear at the moment to what extent the protests will continue. In the meantime, the streets are quiet and a heavy police presence remains (This written yesterday, today a group demonstrators who entered the city clashed with the riot squads still stationed in numbers).
The interviews I will share are not intended to reconstruct a day by day of past events. I think it more interesting to hear some different voices and sort the facts later. I have done my best to capture the residents´ perspectives who did share their experiences and opinions. Many people are reluctant to open up to an inquisitive outsider, and are suspicious of interest, however innocuous, in a political climate that has included too many crackdowns and arrests. Others, whose tales I deemed too paranoid- consistently attributing astoundingly precise execution of ´black ops´ to a government that was inept at every other juncture- to be real, would add little aside from the suggestion that whatever did happen took a heavy toll on the collective psyche.
Going in with the little knowledge I could glean from the press, and with no contacts, I was free to imagine a romanticized version of APPO (The Popular Assembly of the People of Oaxaca), the decentralized coalition in the demonstrations against the governor. I pictured teachers, students, and artists manning the barricades like the Parisians in the summer of 1830, though even the limited coverage the protests received back home suggested the reality of APPO was less than the ideal. I have found people who have maintained most sympathetic views of APPO despite some of the needless mayhem to which they made a contribution. These broad brush stroke accounts, though at times poetic, left little room for subtleties.
It is a strong possibility my less than proficient Spanish detracted from ability to take in the complexities. This is a big reason I left Oaxaca earlier than planned to get my Spanish skills up to speed in one of the ubiquitous and supposedly excellent schools in Guatemala.
By the accounts I gathered at the home of Raul Herrera, a local painter and supporter of APPO, there was no need for nuance in understanding the Oaxacan conflict. A noble battle had been fought, and for the time being, the good guys had lost. Raul´s home and studio that he shared with his wife, also a painter, and two photographers, is situated around a pleasant interior courtyard which seems far removed from the city center at their front door. Herrera´s slightly paunched frame, silvery hair, and deep meditative facial lines, jarred my mental image of the typical protester I expected to encounter from last October’s riots. This graying revolutionary would make a worthy protagonist for any story about a revolutionary movement. Herrera had been in the front line facing the riot shields, and as he brought himself back to the event a fire began burning in his eye.
He delivered his account with the command of an artist in command of his medium. He spoke little as he preferred to let his sketches drive his narrative. The deliberate words he did choose acquired the weight of Zen koans. The Chinese and Japanese influences in his paintings along his speech, appearance, and manner- in which he spiraled around the events in question- all lent him the air of an eastern esoteric. It took some time to get to the subject of the protests. We spoke about Oaxaca and its charms, the galleries, his studio. He’d move closer to the topic of demonstrations, and then would back away.
After explaining that an art movement springing up around the anti-government demonstrations, Raul talked for some time about his methods and influences in art. A few cigarettes later, Raul went for a book that contained his sketches inspired by the demonstrations. His sketches, in ink and charcoal, were in a neatly bound hardcover book. The drawings were minimalist though they captured an astounding range of action and emotion. The first scene showed the masses of demonstrators in a bulging formation that surged towards the fraying police line. The officers were shown holding their shields to protect their backs as they scrambled in disorderly retreat.
¨First we retook the square. Then, they returned in their chariots, ¨ Raul said as he turned the page to show a monstrous armored vehicle from the perspective of the crowd. The reinforced riot squad returned with overwhelming force. The following sketches were busier than the first. The pen strokes were more fragmented. He showed me image after image of broken limbs and writhing bodies. You could hear the bones crunching; smell the teargas as the pages turned.
The more people I talk to, the more I am piecing together something of a consensus that can be drawn from the citizens of Oaxaca. I will attempt to recount this common ground in a later post. In short, the governor has no support, APPO had little organization, let alone leadership, in the streets-- it became a good cause gone awry-- and the presence of hundreds of federal troops is little better than the preceding anarchy. The middle ground here is limited. There are some bitter disagreements over crucial moments in the days leading up to the violent clashes between the federal troops and the protesters.
One of these points, where an American is concerned, is over the death of the American independent journalist Brad Will. The account that Reuters provided, and what was also posted on indie media sites, is that plain clothes officers shot Will while filming at one of the barricades. There is some speculation, however, that he may have been shot by APPO to escalate the crisis.
Later on I’ll provide reflections from two residents whose contrasting stories diverge from the ´consensus´, yet both shed interesting light on the some of the contentious issues as Oaxacans reconstruct the recent past. Click Here to Read More..
The interviews I will share are not intended to reconstruct a day by day of past events. I think it more interesting to hear some different voices and sort the facts later. I have done my best to capture the residents´ perspectives who did share their experiences and opinions. Many people are reluctant to open up to an inquisitive outsider, and are suspicious of interest, however innocuous, in a political climate that has included too many crackdowns and arrests. Others, whose tales I deemed too paranoid- consistently attributing astoundingly precise execution of ´black ops´ to a government that was inept at every other juncture- to be real, would add little aside from the suggestion that whatever did happen took a heavy toll on the collective psyche.
Going in with the little knowledge I could glean from the press, and with no contacts, I was free to imagine a romanticized version of APPO (The Popular Assembly of the People of Oaxaca), the decentralized coalition in the demonstrations against the governor. I pictured teachers, students, and artists manning the barricades like the Parisians in the summer of 1830, though even the limited coverage the protests received back home suggested the reality of APPO was less than the ideal. I have found people who have maintained most sympathetic views of APPO despite some of the needless mayhem to which they made a contribution. These broad brush stroke accounts, though at times poetic, left little room for subtleties.
It is a strong possibility my less than proficient Spanish detracted from ability to take in the complexities. This is a big reason I left Oaxaca earlier than planned to get my Spanish skills up to speed in one of the ubiquitous and supposedly excellent schools in Guatemala.
By the accounts I gathered at the home of Raul Herrera, a local painter and supporter of APPO, there was no need for nuance in understanding the Oaxacan conflict. A noble battle had been fought, and for the time being, the good guys had lost. Raul´s home and studio that he shared with his wife, also a painter, and two photographers, is situated around a pleasant interior courtyard which seems far removed from the city center at their front door. Herrera´s slightly paunched frame, silvery hair, and deep meditative facial lines, jarred my mental image of the typical protester I expected to encounter from last October’s riots. This graying revolutionary would make a worthy protagonist for any story about a revolutionary movement. Herrera had been in the front line facing the riot shields, and as he brought himself back to the event a fire began burning in his eye.
He delivered his account with the command of an artist in command of his medium. He spoke little as he preferred to let his sketches drive his narrative. The deliberate words he did choose acquired the weight of Zen koans. The Chinese and Japanese influences in his paintings along his speech, appearance, and manner- in which he spiraled around the events in question- all lent him the air of an eastern esoteric. It took some time to get to the subject of the protests. We spoke about Oaxaca and its charms, the galleries, his studio. He’d move closer to the topic of demonstrations, and then would back away.
After explaining that an art movement springing up around the anti-government demonstrations, Raul talked for some time about his methods and influences in art. A few cigarettes later, Raul went for a book that contained his sketches inspired by the demonstrations. His sketches, in ink and charcoal, were in a neatly bound hardcover book. The drawings were minimalist though they captured an astounding range of action and emotion. The first scene showed the masses of demonstrators in a bulging formation that surged towards the fraying police line. The officers were shown holding their shields to protect their backs as they scrambled in disorderly retreat.
¨First we retook the square. Then, they returned in their chariots, ¨ Raul said as he turned the page to show a monstrous armored vehicle from the perspective of the crowd. The reinforced riot squad returned with overwhelming force. The following sketches were busier than the first. The pen strokes were more fragmented. He showed me image after image of broken limbs and writhing bodies. You could hear the bones crunching; smell the teargas as the pages turned.
The more people I talk to, the more I am piecing together something of a consensus that can be drawn from the citizens of Oaxaca. I will attempt to recount this common ground in a later post. In short, the governor has no support, APPO had little organization, let alone leadership, in the streets-- it became a good cause gone awry-- and the presence of hundreds of federal troops is little better than the preceding anarchy. The middle ground here is limited. There are some bitter disagreements over crucial moments in the days leading up to the violent clashes between the federal troops and the protesters.
One of these points, where an American is concerned, is over the death of the American independent journalist Brad Will. The account that Reuters provided, and what was also posted on indie media sites, is that plain clothes officers shot Will while filming at one of the barricades. There is some speculation, however, that he may have been shot by APPO to escalate the crisis.
Later on I’ll provide reflections from two residents whose contrasting stories diverge from the ´consensus´, yet both shed interesting light on the some of the contentious issues as Oaxacans reconstruct the recent past. Click Here to Read More..
Oaxaca Part I
All is quiet in Oaxaca. At the moment it is closer to a ghost town than a traveler’s Mecca, as the preceding months demonstrations have kept the tourists away and sent many locals seeking refuge with friends and family elsewhere. Some hotels have boarded up for the season, and the restaurants that remain open are lucky to have two or three tables’ worth of customers at peak times. The craft bazaars were bereft of buyers. Amazingly, this did not seem to affect market equilibrium. Listless merchants, once engaged in a haggle over a rug or a shirt, sprung to action with a steely enthusiasm that made me look over to shoulder to see if there were really were a dozen other shoppers after the same item.
The only element Oaxaca is not in short supply of at the moment is a police presence, both local and federal. All of the access points into the zocalo, the old town’s main square, and varying intervals along the major roads into the central city are manned by a half dozen flak-jacketed, machine gun bearing troops, with riot shields and batons stacked against the piles of eight foot steel barriers at the ready to cordon off the streets. Last Saturday, on Dia del Reyes, the Mexican day for their equivalent to Santa Claus, the barriers were up. All streets into the zocalo and six blocks around the Santo Domingo church were cordoned off by groups of twenty troops per check point, their riot shields and tear gas canisters in hand. All this bravado for a march of 300 or so men women and children, on their way to a toy giveaway for the children of political prisoners, those who lost their parents, and the kids who live in the public housing complexes around the valley.
It is hard to really get off the beaten track these days, and though Oaxaca is mainstay on the Gringo trail, I have had the rare chance to imagine myself as a solitary wanderer far removed from the backpacking crowd. I had several museums to myself the last few days, and it was nice to take them in as one might a private collection. I was walking to breakfast this morning when I heard the sound of frantic sandals slapping down on the cobblestones behind me.
¨San Francisco Guy, Wait! ¨
I turned to see a set of gangling limbs flailing in my direction. It was a woman from New York I had met at the vegetarian restaurant the day before yesterday. A block and a half beyond her was the cab she must have sprung from upon seeing me, its back door was still open and it was idling in the middle of the street.
¨I thought you might want to check out one of the villages today, you want to go? ¨
I explained that I was on my way to breakfast but she insisted I could just as easily grab a bite at the bus station. The cab dropped us off at the second class bus station where there is line of colectivos, shared taxis that service different villages outside of the city. We found the one marked with our destination in the front window and hopped in the backseat. Normally a colectivo would cram in as many people as possible before setting off, but as there was no one around we only waited a few minutes before he started his engine and the three of us set out. The mountains seemed a lot closer once we got out of the city, and the light and vegetation was not unlike the mountains of southern California. We picked up a few villagers on the way to Ocotlan, and Lia and I chatted about her job in New York, she’s a researcher for a quiz show, and some of her other travels in Mexico.
The driver let us out at a dusty zocalo ringed by dingy shops and a somewhat attractive 16th century church. We wandered into the church and looked at the various saints and ornamentation. In a side chapel there was what looked to be a fake tree wrapped with vines that several women were praying around. The rest of the town was very sleepy. We decided to walk off the square until we hit dirt road. This took three blocks. Before the end of the pavement there was an entrance to a graveyard. Most of the tombs were elevated, the cheaper ones built up with tile, but most had nicer stone, granite and even marble finishes. Some of the structures with columns, porticos, and resident angels and saints, approached the size of the shanties we had seen on the road into the village. There were many elaborate plots for children who didn’t survive their first year. Well over a year’s median income went into many of these displays for the departed, and after a few minutes we ran into what looked to be a grounds crew. In Ocotlan, the dead seemed to sleep more comfortably than the living.
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The only element Oaxaca is not in short supply of at the moment is a police presence, both local and federal. All of the access points into the zocalo, the old town’s main square, and varying intervals along the major roads into the central city are manned by a half dozen flak-jacketed, machine gun bearing troops, with riot shields and batons stacked against the piles of eight foot steel barriers at the ready to cordon off the streets. Last Saturday, on Dia del Reyes, the Mexican day for their equivalent to Santa Claus, the barriers were up. All streets into the zocalo and six blocks around the Santo Domingo church were cordoned off by groups of twenty troops per check point, their riot shields and tear gas canisters in hand. All this bravado for a march of 300 or so men women and children, on their way to a toy giveaway for the children of political prisoners, those who lost their parents, and the kids who live in the public housing complexes around the valley.
It is hard to really get off the beaten track these days, and though Oaxaca is mainstay on the Gringo trail, I have had the rare chance to imagine myself as a solitary wanderer far removed from the backpacking crowd. I had several museums to myself the last few days, and it was nice to take them in as one might a private collection. I was walking to breakfast this morning when I heard the sound of frantic sandals slapping down on the cobblestones behind me.
¨San Francisco Guy, Wait! ¨
I turned to see a set of gangling limbs flailing in my direction. It was a woman from New York I had met at the vegetarian restaurant the day before yesterday. A block and a half beyond her was the cab she must have sprung from upon seeing me, its back door was still open and it was idling in the middle of the street.
¨I thought you might want to check out one of the villages today, you want to go? ¨
I explained that I was on my way to breakfast but she insisted I could just as easily grab a bite at the bus station. The cab dropped us off at the second class bus station where there is line of colectivos, shared taxis that service different villages outside of the city. We found the one marked with our destination in the front window and hopped in the backseat. Normally a colectivo would cram in as many people as possible before setting off, but as there was no one around we only waited a few minutes before he started his engine and the three of us set out. The mountains seemed a lot closer once we got out of the city, and the light and vegetation was not unlike the mountains of southern California. We picked up a few villagers on the way to Ocotlan, and Lia and I chatted about her job in New York, she’s a researcher for a quiz show, and some of her other travels in Mexico.
The driver let us out at a dusty zocalo ringed by dingy shops and a somewhat attractive 16th century church. We wandered into the church and looked at the various saints and ornamentation. In a side chapel there was what looked to be a fake tree wrapped with vines that several women were praying around. The rest of the town was very sleepy. We decided to walk off the square until we hit dirt road. This took three blocks. Before the end of the pavement there was an entrance to a graveyard. Most of the tombs were elevated, the cheaper ones built up with tile, but most had nicer stone, granite and even marble finishes. Some of the structures with columns, porticos, and resident angels and saints, approached the size of the shanties we had seen on the road into the village. There were many elaborate plots for children who didn’t survive their first year. Well over a year’s median income went into many of these displays for the departed, and after a few minutes we ran into what looked to be a grounds crew. In Ocotlan, the dead seemed to sleep more comfortably than the living.
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Mexico City
Mexico DF
I was expecting urban insanity, maybe somewhere between Bangkok and Los Angeles, on my first trip to Mexico City, and everyday my expectations were blown away by this extraordinary and truly accessible place. Most street were tree lined, there were dozens of parks, and we never felt unsafe walking around even late at night. Apparently the city has made great strides over the past decade to improve its transportation network and thereby improve the air quality. There was smog, but not much worse than Houston or L.A., and much better in my opinion than the urban centers I have visited in China or Southeast Asia. The new express bus lines with their own lanes and boarding platforms are as quick and convenient as the metro. Both are cheap, comprehensive and nearly as quick over long distances as taxis. We did hail a few taxis on the street against the better advice of the Garcias and my spanish professor who made me read a story about the nefarious green bug taxis before coming down. They proved much cheaper than the radio taxis from the hotels and we had no problems, even from the green bug we took to dinner one night.
The bulk of the Chloe-Jason wedding attendees stayed in Condesa, a posh neighborhood to the southwest of the historic city center. Two oval ring roads surrounding a park were lined with cafes and restaurants, and the few that we sampled were generally excellent. A Tabascan restaurant in the neighborhood, the author´s pick from Lonely Planet was one the better meals I have had over the past couple years. Tabascan is a seafood heavy cuisine, so I cheated and had a coconut shrimp dish, marinated in tamarind and ginger and accompanied with a guava dipping sauce.
There is a large goth scene in MDF. We went to a punk rock flea market, and amidst the punks and other rocker sub types the goth kids were prevalent. Dressed to the upside-down Nines. Hilarious. According to Jason Schwartz there were some excellent record vendors to be found in the sea of t-shirts and punk paraphenalia that lined the sidewalks for blocks .
The lights on the zocalo for Christmas and New Years were spectacular. All the nativity images and traditional holiday pictures in brilliant, flowing colors made by thousands of bulbs strung on the surrounding buildings, plus displays of Mexican crafts workers with alternating lights providing motion. And a giant lit up piñata at the center of the square. Jason S., Dana and I were stuck in a cab for an hour on the zocalo on our way to the wedding´s rehersal reception, though I was thoroughly entertained by the dancing lights as we slowly became intoxicated by a head tingling mixture of CO and ozone.
I had only seen the Diego Rivera in the Dartmouth Library before this trip, and as popular as his partner Frida Kahlo is these days, I wanted to see more of his work. My favorite is his reproduction of the mural commisioned for the Rockefeller center. What else could he have expected than the Rockefellers to put a jackhammer to it? It was a strident middle finger to everything they stood for, and despite the bold colors one of the darkest visions of capitalism imaginable at that time, and this during the Great Depression.
Unfortunately I caught a cold during my last days in the city and ran out of time to go south to Coyoacan to see Frida Kahlo's or Trotsky`s home. If I have time on the end of my trip I might stay in the southern part of the city for a couple days to take in these sights. Click Here to Read More..
I was expecting urban insanity, maybe somewhere between Bangkok and Los Angeles, on my first trip to Mexico City, and everyday my expectations were blown away by this extraordinary and truly accessible place. Most street were tree lined, there were dozens of parks, and we never felt unsafe walking around even late at night. Apparently the city has made great strides over the past decade to improve its transportation network and thereby improve the air quality. There was smog, but not much worse than Houston or L.A., and much better in my opinion than the urban centers I have visited in China or Southeast Asia. The new express bus lines with their own lanes and boarding platforms are as quick and convenient as the metro. Both are cheap, comprehensive and nearly as quick over long distances as taxis. We did hail a few taxis on the street against the better advice of the Garcias and my spanish professor who made me read a story about the nefarious green bug taxis before coming down. They proved much cheaper than the radio taxis from the hotels and we had no problems, even from the green bug we took to dinner one night.
The bulk of the Chloe-Jason wedding attendees stayed in Condesa, a posh neighborhood to the southwest of the historic city center. Two oval ring roads surrounding a park were lined with cafes and restaurants, and the few that we sampled were generally excellent. A Tabascan restaurant in the neighborhood, the author´s pick from Lonely Planet was one the better meals I have had over the past couple years. Tabascan is a seafood heavy cuisine, so I cheated and had a coconut shrimp dish, marinated in tamarind and ginger and accompanied with a guava dipping sauce.
There is a large goth scene in MDF. We went to a punk rock flea market, and amidst the punks and other rocker sub types the goth kids were prevalent. Dressed to the upside-down Nines. Hilarious. According to Jason Schwartz there were some excellent record vendors to be found in the sea of t-shirts and punk paraphenalia that lined the sidewalks for blocks .
The lights on the zocalo for Christmas and New Years were spectacular. All the nativity images and traditional holiday pictures in brilliant, flowing colors made by thousands of bulbs strung on the surrounding buildings, plus displays of Mexican crafts workers with alternating lights providing motion. And a giant lit up piñata at the center of the square. Jason S., Dana and I were stuck in a cab for an hour on the zocalo on our way to the wedding´s rehersal reception, though I was thoroughly entertained by the dancing lights as we slowly became intoxicated by a head tingling mixture of CO and ozone.
I had only seen the Diego Rivera in the Dartmouth Library before this trip, and as popular as his partner Frida Kahlo is these days, I wanted to see more of his work. My favorite is his reproduction of the mural commisioned for the Rockefeller center. What else could he have expected than the Rockefellers to put a jackhammer to it? It was a strident middle finger to everything they stood for, and despite the bold colors one of the darkest visions of capitalism imaginable at that time, and this during the Great Depression.
Unfortunately I caught a cold during my last days in the city and ran out of time to go south to Coyoacan to see Frida Kahlo's or Trotsky`s home. If I have time on the end of my trip I might stay in the southern part of the city for a couple days to take in these sights. Click Here to Read More..
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