Holy Week in Teotitlán

Roman soldier boy in Monday's procession

Eating the offerings with the figures of Jesus and Marry in background

Carrying an angel through the procession

Carrying Jesus from the church to the cemetery

Death eaters lead Jesus to the cemetery

I am loving living at the cooperative’s headquarters. The differences in gender roles between this house and the last is unbelievable, and, as a side benefit, I have a shower and wireless internet! (Truthfully, I don’t know how good either one of those is for me, but it is what it is). My favorite thing is when tourists come to visit the cooperative and I get to play translator. There they are, standing in the courtyard, an arduous journey by public transportation to reach this semi-remote village, and an American college student in her pajamas is about the last person they expect to see come out to greet them. (Note: I am battling Montezuma’s revenge and therefore have spent the better part of the last three days in bed trying to make my stomach stop hurting. Hence the pajamas). Today we had a group of girls in their mid-20s from Australia, England, and Canada visit, and I love that I got to teach them about the cooperative and all of the wonderful things the women here are doing. They purchased purses and donated to the community project, which was wonderful as well.

On another note, holy week here was something to behold. On Monday a large procession of about 1000 people led states of Jesus and Mary through the town, stopping at every corner to offer the images flowers and food. From a research perspective, I got to note the ritual aspects of the community, and how gender roles are enacted in these events. The women cook the food to be offered, and then men bring it from inside of the house to the men who are carrying the statues, serving them before serving the women and children who comprise the rest of the procession. A band, which is made entirely of men although I hear that there are band with women in them here as well, leads the procession, followed by women carrying candles and the men carrying the statues. On Thursday night we all brought flowers, money, and candles to Jesus, who had been kidnapped by a bunch of 7-8 year old boys dressed up as Roman soldiers and placed in a room in the courtyard of the church. On Friday Jesus was brought out again, this time with Mary, Mary Magdalene, and San Jose. The latter three went one way through the town, and Jesus went the other. When Jesus reached our house, we went outside and threw water and flowers in front of him, cleaning and beautifying his path. Then we followed the procession of about 2000 people to the town’s municipality (about 1 block) where Jesus encountered the other three images. The Catholic priest then came out and gave a rousing sermon about everything from domestic violence to alcoholism to machismo (all of which are huge problems here). I was quite impressed with how liberal he was, but I guess that’s the liberation theologist movement here in action. Friday night Jesus was led one last time, this time in a coffin, to the village’s cemetery, where he was buried. Leading him were a bunch of men in robes with pointed black masked hats—DEATH EATERS! I think I was the only one in the crowd that made the Harry Potter connection. Now holy week is over, and all that happens Easter Sunday is a mass. Next week is the town’s carnival though, which should provide plenty of other entertainment!

Second week in Teotitlán

Riding a horse during the holy week procession

Marina making tortillas in her kitchen

Angel and Eric walking home (the house is the door straight ahead of them)

Eusebio at his loom

My ISP has now been underway for a week, and I feel much more acclimated to life here in this tiny little Zapotec town. Semana Santa-- holy week-- has begun, and the town is celebrating. Every day there are giant festivals, and everyone has taken the week off of work. My research has come to almost a complete halt, as no one wishes to do anything except eat food and rest. Yesterday I took my very first bucket bath, and absolutely loved it! It was so refreshing and fun, although I don't think I could do it for the rest of my life. The family I am with now has accepted me as their 'guerra'--whiteskined-- relative. Marina calls me her daughter, and jokes that she had me with a gorgeous Canadian man. But I've discovered that here the women aren't allowed to go anywhere on their own, or without the permission of their male relatives, which is further hindering my research as I can't even go to the cooperative without asking permission and having one of the boys go with me. So on Wednesday I will be moving into the cooperative's headquarters, where the foundering family lives. They are all single, and deliberately break every social norm here, such as walking around the streets--gasp-- alone. So from there I will not only be able to focus on the cooperative, but I will be able to begin conducting interviews! It's stressful to move again-- I am worried that I'll hurt my current families' feelings. This is the 16th bed that I have slept in this semester. It's getting a bit tiring. But I think this living situation will work out much better for everyone.

Teotitlan del Valle, Take 2

So after several days here, I am starting to settle into a daily routine and to feel more comfortable here. My day begins at 8, in the normal time, 9 in the governments time, when Eric (11 years old), Angel (6 years old), and I go with Rufina to the market. After saying many Shaack-sheens (good morning in Zapotec), we return home and eat breakfast. Then it´s time for my favorite activity-- tortilla making lessons with doña Marina-- Rufina´s mom. We laugh and chat as I attempt to not ruin the family´s main food source. The wooden fire is smokey in the hut, and my eyes sting, but my tortillas are now so advanced that it´s been declared by the entire family that I am now fit to marry a nice man from Teotitlán. I really hope they are joking, but I kind of doubt it. After breakfast we go visit Sylva, Eric and Angel´s mom and Rufina´s sister. We spend four hours there, as they all chat away in Zapoteco while I either stare into the distance or play with the boys.

This is also when I usually find time to chat with Rosa Margarita-- Sylvia´s aunt-in-law who just moved in with them. Rosa has become my unofficial Zapotec teacher, and is one of the most interesting women I have met. About 75 years old, she was born in Teotitlán to a very ´humble´ family. At the age of 7, she was sent to be a nanny in another village, and there she learned the ´women´s work´--making tortillas, atole, and caring for the children and animals. From there she went to work in Mexico City, where at the age of 17 she married. She lived there until recently, when her husband passed away and now she is (semi-begrudgingly) back living here with her nephew.

About 4 we head back to Rufina´s to eat, and then we venture out to the countryside to collect leña, firewood. This is quite a process, as it has gotten difficult to find leña near the town. About 2 hours later, we load up the wood and carry it—either strapped to our backs or, if we´re lucky, in a rickshaw—back home. After a small dinner of bread, it is time for bed.

The most frustrating things about being here are 1) not being able to speak Zapotec, which results in me missing out on all of the daily conversations, and 2) not having any freedom. This is the first time I have gone anywhere by myself, and I only got to this internet café by myself by asking to take Eric and Angel to school and then talking their older brother, Carlos, into letting me go off alone. Nonetheless, I think I hear him outside waiting for me. So much for trying. Tomorrow I am going into Oaxaca for the day, which will be a nice break.

Teotitlan del Valle

Yesterday I moved in with a Zapotec family in Teotitlan del Valle, about an hour outside of Oaxaca. Thus far, it has been the hardest experience of the semester. Everyone in Teotitlan speaks Zapotec, so I cant participate in any of the conversations. They only speak Spanish to me, and then continue their conversation together in Zapotec. The average marrying age here is 14, so when I tell people I am 20 and not married I usually get a look of amazement, then pitty, then desperate suggestions to find me a nice husband here. Every woman in the village in determined to make me a nice little arranged marriage before I leave. There are poisonous spiders, toilets with no flushers, and no showers. Ive already encountered alcoholism, and machismo to a degree I didnt think still existed. Yet everyone is really nice and the town is beautiful! I have learned about 3 sentences in Zapotec, which is enough to be presentable. My cell phone has no reception, and I cant walk in the streets without a chaperone, so I have to make this entry short as my chaperone is currently standing behind me and waiting for me to go. This will be an interesting month.

Let's try this Zapatista thing again...

On Monday morning, we left Palenque early and headed to Zapatista caracol 4, Morelia. We knew we had arrived by the signs along the road: "You are in Zapatista territory... here the people demand and the government obeys." Our experience in Morelia was 180 degrees that of Roberto Barrios: from the minute our van drove into the fenced caracol, community members greeted us with open hearts. After waiting for just a few minutes, the Junta del Buen Gobierno (JBG), poetically named “the heart of the rainbow of hope,” ushered us into their office. No one wore pasamontañas (masks), they never asked to see our passports, and the door was kept wide open. “All who come are welcomed here,” they explained to us. We waited outside for ½ hour while they discussed our questions, which we had prepared ahead of time, in their native languages. The JBGs make all decisions by consensus, and this JBG represented three municipalities which are home to three indigenous languages. As you can imagine, working through 4 languages (Spanish is their second language) to come to a consensus is no easy task, but they gave noble and concise answers. We learned about the role of women, the education and healthcare systems, and their current struggles with the government and military. While their answers were too complicated and long to repeat here, suffice it to say that all of the paradigms you read about the Zapatistas resisting and creating were reaffirmed. Until 1994 and the Zapatista uprising, for example, indigenous people weren’t allowed to walk on the sidewalks in San Cristobal. They still face violence (both physical and mental) from the government and from government-supported paramilitaries. After they finished speaking, we shared a bit about ourselves and were granted permission to take pictures of the caracol, although we had to be careful not to include any unmasked compañeras or compadres in them.

On March 31, we left San Cristobal with Julio, his wife, and their four-year-old son Roger Alejandro to drive to the coast of Oaxaca.  We were stopped at a military checkpoint, and got to witness first-hand the corruption of the Mexican military. Julio told the soldier that he wasn’t allowed to demand of them their identification—in Mexican law, the military has the right to ask to see identification, but the citizen does not have to show it. Akin to our own racial profiling laws, the police and military do not have the same rights as immigration officials, and Mexican citizens have the right to travel within their own country. Julio told the soldier that if he wanted to search the vehicle he could, but that a group of 6 Americans, a 4-year-old, and two parents were not drug dealers. The soldier demanded that Julio get out of the car, so that he could “teach him” about the law. A group of other soldiers gathered behind him, and you could tell that he wasn’t about to back down in front of his peers. Julio refused to get out of the car, and told the man with the AK-47 that he needed to “learn his limits” and that his job was to “protect the people of Mexico,” not to blindly obey the government. Julio then asked to speak with the man’s superior. The man was obviously taken aback by Julio’s boldness, and offered to let us go if Julio’s wife showed him her ID. She did, and we drove on, all terrified by the thought of what might’ve happened if Julio had gotten out of the car. Julio explained that these military checkpoints are a way of intimidating the Mexican people, and that the soldiers need to actually understand what the law says, and not just what their superiors command. It was a scary experience, but it was very powerful to see a small, real-life example of the issues we read and hear about.  After eleven hours of driving down twisty, mountainous roads, we arrived at an Iguana sanctuary about an hour west of Puerto Escondido. We spent the night in their eco-cabanas, and in the morning we toured the sanctuary, held some Iguanas, and visited E-Costa, an environmental organization near the sanctuary. We then drove to Puerto Escondido and spent three wonderful days laying on the beach doing absolutely nothing before heading back to Oaxaca Sunday night. A note on night buses: they are possibly one of the cruelest things in the world. No matter how much Dramamine I take, I am guaranteed to get sick. So my Sunday night was spent throwing up in the back of the bumpy bus as the movie “Santa Clause 3” played on the televisions. Quality movie choices are also a guarantee on night buses in Mexico. Now we’re back in Oaxaca for a week of prep for our Independent Study Projects!

Me in front of the JBG office

The van in which we spent so many hours, parked in front of the women's dormitory of caracol 4

Caracol 4

The Iguana man, Maddy, Julio, and his family

Puerto Escondido