Until the next adventure...

All of a sudden, the end of the semester is here. My 42-page final paper (written in Spanish!) on the women of Vida Nueva is done, and everyone is coming back together in just three days for our final weekend together. My dad’s arriving on Sunday, and I can’t wait to spend a week showing him all around Oaxaca. There’s only so much that can be described through words and pictures, so I’ll be very glad to have someone close to me here to experience a bit of it all. Plus, my budget will be much bigger than it’s been all semester, so I can finally try all of the fancy tourist restaurants I’ve been avoiding all semester! Then, in just 12 days, I’m flying back to Madison. I’ll only be there for two weeks, and then I’m spending 6 weeks exploring Germany, France, and Italy with a few good friends. It’s hard to believe that my time in Mexico is ending—on the one hand, I’ll be very glad to move on to my next adventure, but on the other hand there’s a lot I’m going to miss about Mexico. Most of all, I’m going to miss all of the incredible people I’ve met. I’ve definitely grown as a result of this semester, and I’m worried I’ll be in extreme culture shock heading back to the USA. Thanks to my family and friends who’ve spent the semester plowing through my first ever blog. It’s certainly been an interesting experience, this blogging thing. But it’s definitely helped me keep in touch, and I can’t wait until the fall when I’m back in the Midwest to see you all and to hear all about your semester!

Gabe and Angel

The Girls

Hanging out with Zapata

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

Chiapas!

On March 22 we took a night bus to San Cristobal de las Casas, a tranquil and beautiful small city in the heart of Chiapas. We spent the week visiting NGOs, my favorite of which was CIDECI, an autonomous and indigenous school associated with the Zapatistas. We also visited Acteal, the central community of las Abejas, a non-violent liberation theologist organization similar to the Zapatistas. In 1997, what is believed to be government-supported paramilitaries attacked the village, killing 45 people who were in church. We visited the graves of the murdered men, women, and children, and met with the leaders of las Abejas. One man, Manuel, showed me and Maddy a picture of his 5 sisters and parents, all of whom were murdered during the massacre. On top of losing his family, Manuel has an inoperable brain tumor. Despite all he has been through, he is hilarious, and cheered us up by telling us jokes and performing magic tricks.

On Saturday, we left San Cristobal and drove two hours to caracol 5, Roberto Barrios. We petitioned to meet with la junta del buen gobierno (JBG), one of the 5 Zapatista governments. They looked at our passports and agreed to meet with us, but said that it would be several hours. So we sat in the center of the caracol, and observed daily life in a Zapatista village. It was unbelievably hot out, and many residents were journeying to the nearby river to swim and cool off. All around the caracol were brightly-colored murals, with the familiar sayings like "Queremos un mundo donde quepan muchos." No one was wearing their pasamontañas, although several people had bandannas around their necks. While we waited, we chatted with Julio, our guide and driver in Chiapas. Julio was Subcomandante Marco´s driver, although he can’t (or won’t) tell us much about his history as a Zapatista. However, Julio seems to know a lot of people in the community, and he is more than willing to discuss with us the Zapatista movement. After three hours of sitting in the hot sun, we are called by the JBG into their office. The JBG, comprised of four men and one woman, sat in front of us, all masked. An awkward tension filled the room as we starred at each other. We had submitted six questions to them, and the woman member told us they could only answer one, concerning education. She gave a two sentence answer, and then we relapsed into awkward silence. After a few more attempts at conversation, we thanked them and left. According to Julio, this JBG was new (they change members every 2 months) and wasn’t sure whether or not to trust us. They told us we weren’t allowed to even take pictures of the murals, and so we got back in the car and continued on to Palenque. It was a bit disappointing not to be trusted by people I admire a lot, but it was a fantastic experience nonetheless.

 We spent the next two days at a hotel near the ruins of Palenque. Everyone but Matt was sick, and so we spent a lot of time sleeping and lounging by the pool. At 12:30 on our first night there, I woke up to a rustling sound. Sabrina, Matt, and I were sharing a cabana hut, and the two of them were still in Emma and Maddy’s room hanging out. I was on the top bunk, and looked down to see a large grey creature digging through our suitcases. I squealed and grabbed my cell phone, whose light revealed a howler monkey. Mr. monkey turned and made eye contact with me, and then began to climb up the closet and over to my bed. Thinking that the last thing I wanted was a monkey in my bed, I jumped down and ran to the door. The monkey climbed out of a hole in the roof, and I ran out to find Sabrina and Matt. I thought that the monkey had stolen something, but we couldn’t find anything missing. We went and told the guy in charge of the hotel—a shirtless man with Aladdin’s pants—who said, ``un mono!? Es probable!’’ (translation: a monkey? That’s probable!) and then walked away. Mr. Monkey didn’t come visit again, which was fine by me, although Sabrina was disappointed she missed it.

The main street, downtown San Cristobal

CIDECI

Acteal: the church where the massacre occured

The ruins of Palenque

Exploring the ruins of Palenque

Mexico City

We arrived last Monday, February 28, and moved in with host families in Santo Domingo, a working class neighborhood in the Coyoacán municipality. Our excursion guide, Mojdeh, is brilliant. I would highly recommend her travel service to anyone looking to have an authentic visit to the city. Maddy and I lived in the home of doña Luisa, who moved to Santo Domingo in 1971 as part of “the invasion.” Santo Domingo started out as a squatter settlement, built on top of volcanic rock, and slowly transformed into the neighborhood it is today (with a population of about 100,000). The community of 20,000 squatters came together to build their houses, roads, plumbing system, electrical system, and schools with no outside help. Doña Luisa is a powerful woman: once she starts speaking, I wouldn’t dare interrupt her. She is incredibly knowledgeable about everything from the drug war to community development. The sense of community in Santo Domingo is incredible considering that it’s in the middle of Mexico City: the one time a group of students were robbed here, their host mom went to the house of the robber and spoke to the robber’s mother! They got all of their stuff back and the robber was grounded. Doña Luisa and her daughters, all of whom live in the house, run a small restaurant in the front of the house. I would estimate that 13 or 14 people live in the house, and as far as I know they all share one small bathroom. Despite the fact that we were obviously intruding on their small space, everyone was so hospitable, welcoming, and willing to sit and speak with us about their lives. On Tuesday we headed to downtown Coyoacán to check out the blue house (Frida and Diego’s) and Trotsky’s house. On Wednesday Matt and I spent the morning selling bleach and other cleaning supplies from a bicycle-cart with Flavio, one of the homestay dads. The communities around Santo Domingo are very poor, and so Flavio purchases cleaning supplies in bulk and sells them to residents of the neighboring communities in smaller quantities. We walked in the heat for about 3 hours, yelling “claaaaaaaaaarasooooooool” and filling up people’s used bottles for a few pesos each. The work was exhausting—I can’t imagine how Flavio does it for  6 or 7 hours every day of the week. We also had a series of silk-screening workshops with Flavio. One of Flavio’s children was born disabled, something that is neither discussed nor addressed in Mexico, and so Flavio began doing silk-screening workshops for them as a form of therapy and self-expression. Flavio sells the cleaning supplies during the day, he says, because it is the only option he has to make enough money to support his silk-screening project and to feed his family. Wages are low in Mexico City, he explains, and it’s impossible to make enough money to survive unless you find non-traditional work. On Thursday morning we moved out of Santo Domingo and into Hotel Rioja, 2 blocks away from the Zócalo in the historical center of Mexico City. After dropping my stuff of at the hotel, I jumped in a cab and headed to the airport! My flight to Minneapolis was smooth, and it was wonderful to see my parents for a few hours! The Truman interview lasted all day on Friday, and the other finalists were some of the most amazing and friendly people I’ve ever met. Saturday I bid adieu to the USA yet again, and made it back to Mexico City at 9 pm. Sunday I spent the day on my own, doing all of the touristy things (the Zócalo, the national palace, Templo Mayor, Bellas Artes, etc). Then Monday, March 6, we headed back to Oaxaca at 5 am!

Check out Mojdeh’s travel service: http://www.travelmexicocity.com.mx/index.php

Doña Luisa

Flavio, Matt, and Emma making t-shirts

Making my t-shirt with Flavio

Protest in the Zócalo

Templo Mayor and the Cathedral

Homeward Bound (via Mexico City)!

What a crazy weekend. Saturday morning I received an email from the Truman foundation, informing me that I had been selected as a finalist for the Truman scholarship. They told me that my interview would be this Friday, March 4, in Saint Paul, Minnesota. No big deal, since I’m currently in southern Mexico. A hectic 24 hours of booking flights and hotels ensued, and luckily my program was really supportive of me leaving for a few days. We’re all leaving tomorrow morning for a week-long excursion to Mexico City, further facilitating my departure. So from Monday to Thursday morning, I’ll be in Mexico City. From Thursday afternoon to Saturday morning I will be back in the USA. Saturday night I’ll rejoin the group in Mexico City, and then Monday I’ll come back to Oaxaca! It’s going to be a nerve-wracking, exciting, and stressful week! But it’ll be nice to see my parents for 24 hours, and, while I don’t have much confidence that I’ll get the scholarship, the whole adventure will be a good experience.

See the list of 2011 Truman finalists here:

http://www.truman.gov/for-candidates/2011-truman-scholarship-finalists

Mixteca Alta

The cutest little girl in San Isidro

Denise and Augustine making the walls for the cistern

Don Juan Cruz

Discovering the Mixtec tomb

Señora Cruz making tortillas

I just returned from the most incredible extended weekend in San Isidro, Tilantongo, a town of 22 families in the Mixteca Alta—2.5 hours outside of Oaxaca City (1.5 hours on a bus, 1 hour on twisty, pebbly roads in the back of a pickup truck—I need to start writing down all of the “only in Mexico” moments I keep having). The Mixteca Alta is one of the poorest areas of Mexico—erosion affects 83% of its land and it has the highest rate of migration to the United States. On our way to San Isidro, we stopped at the offices of CEDICAM, a democratic and farmer-led environmental organization founded by Jesús León Santos. CEDICAM has planted more than one million trees, built hundreds of miles of ditches to retain water and prevent soil from eroding, and adapted traditional Mixteca indigenous practices to restore the regional ecosystem. Phil Dahl-Bredine, the author of “The Other Game,” who lives in San Isidro with his wife, Kathy, picked us up from the bus station and acted as our guide for the weekend.

When we arrived in San Isidro, the community’s welcome community greeted us with open arms. Juan Cruz, the community’s president, gave a roaring speech, informing us that this was now our community, we were now a part of their family, and that, while they didn’t have much, what they had was ours to share. After a tour of the village, we split up for the evening to stay with different families. Denise, a Chilean grad student, and I were with Juan’s family near the center of the community. Juan took us to his kitchen, where his wife, daughter, son-in-law, and two grandsons (age 3 and 9) were eating dinner. We joined them for a meal of tortillas and nopal soup. We chatted mostly about climate change (Mother Earth is angry, Juan said, because we have taken so much from her without asking her permission or showing her any respect). Juan then showed us to our room. The layout of the Cruz’s house is as follows: a kitchen, the only part of their house with electricity, detached by about 50 feet from two bedrooms, both of which lead to the outside and are made of the gray earth from the area, and an outhouse, 100 feet from the bedrooms (on the other side of the kitchen). Denise and I shared a bed, evidently kicking someone else out of theirs (which I feel very bad about).

The next morning we woke up bright and early (before the sun was up) to see how Señora Cruz and her daughter make tortillas. Every day they wake up about 5 a.m. to take the maíz to the Molino, where it is ground. They then take it back home and, over a waist-level fire, form the paste into tortillas. A note on tortillas: they make up 47% of the campesino’s diet (corn makes up 90%), yet their price has increased 700% since 1994, thanks to NAFTA. We then set out to meet everyone for our day of tequio: community service that everyone in the community is obligated to participate in (if you don’t participate, you could go to jail. It’s that obligatory). The residents of San Isidro don’t have running water. In order to get water, they must journey, with their donkeys, up the mountain to the well. It’s about a 20 minute walk each way. And so the community decided that what they needed was a cistern. So here we are: 5 eager, weak, American vegetarians here to help. Let me tell you, the 95-year-old man we met trekking up the mountain with his donkey was stronger than we are. But we tried, and, with the help of our three Zapotec friends we’d brought with us and the able-bodied members of the community, we managed to make enough progress to earn a wonderful breakfast of tortillas and soup about 11 a.m. After breakfast, we were visited by the administrators of the municipality, Santiago Tilantongo. They brought us soda and gave several resounding speeches about how thankful they were to our international team for our help.

In the afternoon, we were digging the hole for the cistern and making the wall for it out of wire (which will be reinforced with concrete) when we made an exciting and alarming discovery: we were digging the cistern on top of what we believe to be a Mixtec tomb! We unearthed carbon and broken pieces of a pot before Juan made the decision to stop until the community could decide (they use the system of “usos y costumbres”—participatory democracy through consensus) whether to continue excavating or to leave it be (this is, after all, the grave of their ancestors). We were distracted suddenly by a herd of goats—at least 50 or 60—who came running down the mountain towards us to drink from the community’s water source.

That evening we went over to Juan’s sister’s house for la comida, and Brenda, an adorable eight year old, showed a few of us the top of the mountain near the house (and the most beautiful sunset I’ve ever seen). We then went over to Phil Dahl-Bredine’s house to chat about what we’d seen and experienced. What struck me most about the weekend was the openness of the people. We came to them from a culture that has constantly offered “help,” but only caused more suffering, and many of these people had been forced (due to a lack of food and resources) to migrate to the U.S., where they were treated terribly. Because of climate change and international policies (both caused largely by our society), they barely have enough food to feed themselves. But they welcomed us into their community as if we were their children. They gave us the best food they had and the best places to sleep. Because, for them, (and I’m quoting Phil here) “accumulation of wealth does not constitute a value in itself nor does it function as a tangible sign of ones success in this game of life. Rather these indigenous people accumulate wealth so that it can be given back in celebration of and gratitude for life.” “Various times I have heard indigenous people express the thought that having an outhouse or a dirt floor has nothing to do with being ‘poor.’ ‘Poverty,’ they say, ‘is not having land to plant our crops, not having schools for our children, not having access to medical care. Yet they want to convince us that we are poor and pitable because we have customs and ways of life that have served for millennia but are not like that of urban people.”

When we were about to leave, Juan’s sister began to cry. “I know I’ve only known you all for a few days, but I feel like you’re my family now. Anytime you want to, please come back. You are all members of our family,” she told us, hugging us each goodbye.

Read a great story about San Isidro and CEDICAM here:

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/05/13/world/americas/13oaxaca.html?pagewanted=all

See Phil’s book here:

http://www.amazon.com/Other-Game-Lessons-Mexican-Villages/dp/1570757801

Unrest in the City

Tuesday after comida, about 3 p.m., I decided to take a longer route to class. After four hours of Spanish class, I felt like stretching my legs, browsing the selection at Amate books, and grabbing a cup of coffee at Nuevo Mundo. According to my host family, the scheduled events of the President were over, and so, as long as I avoided the Zócalo, I would be fine. I walked from my house down past parque Llano and over to Santo Domingo. I was in front of Amate books when I heard a series of what sounded like shots fired. I looked down Alcalá and saw 40 or 50 police officers, divided into seven or eight lines, marching up the street towards me, shields raised. Behind them, a cloud of smoke billowed, climbing up the street behind the crowd of police. I froze in place, standing on the sidewalk, until a police officer asked me, in Spanish, who I was. When I responded that I was a tourist, he told me to disregard anything I’d seen and to get as far away from downtown as I could. It was at this point that I noticed that the clouds of smoke were getting frighteningly close and that local citizens and vendors were beginning to turn and run. I quickly asked the officer which streets would be safest, to which he suggested I head north on Calle Porfirio Díaz. Following his advice, I joined the dozens of people running up Calle Matamoros. Cars were turning around on one way streets. I ran all the way until Mercado Sanchez Pascua, when it dawned on me that I was panting, crying, and shaking. I called Jonathan, our program director, who came and met me. From there, we drove to the offices of EDUCA, in the northern part of the city, to unite with the other students. We had a rather scatterbrained attempt at holding class there, before we were driven to our host families’ houses. My host family lives near the city center, and so I opted to stay at Maddy’s house, which is about a mile north of my house. Once we arrived at Maddy’s house, we were told not to leave and that classes were cancelled for the time being. Maddy’s mom made me tea, and we watched the national news to figure out what exactly had happened. It seems as though things have calmed down now though, and we do have class tomorrow.

Sunrise Ceremony

Yesterday morning, at 5:30 am, the 5 of us drove with Jonathan (our academic director) and his wife, Ana Maria (the co-founder of EDUCA) to the ruins of Monte Alban, the oldest city in the western hemisphere. Flor y Canto, an organization that works with indigenous rights, was hosting a Zapotec thanksgiving ceremony to celebrate its 15th anniversary. Upon our arrival, we, along with about 100 indigenous peoples, activists, and supporters walked in a circle around the ruins. A group of men played the drums, flute, and conch while a woman in the front carried a pot of burning incense. We then circled around on the west side of the tomb for the giving of offerings—mezcal, tortillas, and flowers, which were placed in the center of our circle. At this point the sun began to rise, entering directly into the archway of the tomb! We held our hands out toward the sun as the woman with the incense said a prayer of gratitude. We then faced each direction, again stating our gratitude for the earth and for each other. The musicians started again, and we danced around the circle. To end the ceremony, we shared the offerings (of food and drink) and looked out over the newly-light mountains below us.

Classes and NGOs-- Week 1

My first week of classes is over! On Monday afternoon, Oliver Froehling, from Unitierra, took us on a “reality tour” of the city. We visited government housing projects, the sewage plant (or lack thereof—the infrastructure for dealing with waste doesn’t really exist), suburbia (complete with a Sam’s Club and Sears), and squatter settlements. As we’re all living with well-to-do families, it was really interesting to see how the majority of the city lives. And yet, despite the stark poverty, I’m learning that the people here are so rich in so many ways that we aren’t. People here have a strong sense of community—I’ve been asked several times why on earth we move away from home at the age of 18. Also important here is tequio, or community work. The entire community is expected to come together to help each other with everything and anything. Even those who have migrated to the US are expected to perform tequio in their home communities—usually by paying others to perform tequios for them. The other day I was talking to my host brother about snow and he asked, "is it true people are responsible for shoveling their own sidewalks and driveways? Why don’t neighbors help each other with this task?" He just couldn't understand the individualistic, nuclear-family based lifestyle that many of us lead. One student asked what happens if someone doesn’t feel like doing tequio, or what happens if someone has other things to do when the municipal government (ruled by usos y costumbres) calls a tequio. The response was, “what do you mean? Why would someone not have the time or effort to help their neighbors when asked?” There’s a whole different paradigm here of what is valuable and what it means to be a part of a community.

On Wednesday, we learned about the history of Oaxacan social movements from Marcos Leyva from EDUCA. On Thursday, during our Spanish class, we went to Casa de las Artesanías, an artisan cooperative here in the city. During the afternoon, we went to INSO, a local NGO that works with water conservation in Oaxaca. Casa de las Artesanías was right up my alley, of course, and I even got to try making the tin folk art figures Oaxaca is famous for. Check out all of the amazing organizations I visited this week here (note, some of these are in Spanish):

http://unitierra.org/09/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=52:unitierra-entradaingles&catid=36:unitierra

http://www.educaoaxaca.org/

http://www.insooaxaca.com/insoeng.html

http://www.casadelasartesanias.com.mx/

Una paracaída: a squatter settlement with houses made mostly of tin and tarp

Oaxaca City

A vendor selling candy at the observation deck

Family

My room

Carmen, her daughter-in-law, and granddaughter

Yesterday I moved in with my host family, la familia Romero. We live in a salmon-colored house north of downtown, about a 20 minute walk to both my language school and the SIT office. Carmen, my mom, lives alone in a second-floor apartment with 4 bedrooms and 2 bathrooms. She’s divorced and works as a landlord for 6 apartments, which are in her renovated childhood home near downtown. She leases them to mostly foreigners and I’m going to help with her website (which is in English). Her uncle, my gran-tío, Juan, lives below us in his own apartment. Juan joins us for la comida, the biggest meal of the day, about 3 pm, but otherwise stays downstairs. Carmen’s son, an international trade lawyer, lives in D.F. (Mexico City) with his German wife Simona and their two year old daughter, Aleni, who surpasses me in both German (obviously) and Spanish. They’re visiting right now but will leave tonight. Carmen’s daughter lives in Puebla with her husband. Since her kids moved out, Carmen has hosted a multitude of foreign students both for the company and because she loves learning about other cultures. As evidenced by the magnets on her fridge, Carmen has traveled all over, as have her children. Also, we have a dog. Toby. Toby and I get alone just fine, mostly because in Mexico dogs exist more as protection from intruders than as pets. Toby lives in our courtyard. Yesterday, after I moved in, the 6 of us went to Tule, a small (touristy) town about 15 minutes outside of Oaxaca. Tule is known for its tree: 45 feet in diameter and over 2000 years old. This entire town has been built around this tree (which is now fenced off and costs 5 pesos to see). There’s even a church next to it, built because the belief is that the tree was created by the wind goddess and therefore has magical powers. After an evening of coloring with Aleni, I went to bed early so as to be well rested for class today. At 8:30 this morning Carmen took me (via bus) to Becari language school, where we take Spanish class. Our first class, two hours of grammaticism, is just the 5 of us. My second class, conversation, which lasts another two hours, is just Matt, Sabrina, and me. Our teachers seem really great, and I already feel like I’m learning a lot.

Ecoalebrije

Today we had the “drop-off,” SIT’s orientation tradition where students are split into groups, given a picture of a place, and have to get there. I was with Matt and Emma, and we were given a picture of an alebrije—the brightly colored painted wooden animals Oaxaca is known for—and told to find Saul in Arrazola. We found out from a man selling shirts at the organic market that Arrazola is a village of about 1,000 people about 20 minutes outside of the city. To get there, we had to ask directions and figure out the local bus system—which was actually a lot easier than I thought it would be. Once in Arrazola, we found Saul at his home, where he and his wife work as members of the artisan association Ecoalebrije. Saul, who has lived in Arrazola his entire life, said that both of his brothers have moved to California in order to find work. The minimum wage in Oaxaca is $5 a DAY, and Saul said that, without the artisan association, he would have had to migrate to either Mexico City or the U.S. The artisan association is comprised of 17 families, and in all of them the men and women work together to carve and paint the animals. Before founding the artisan association, Saul harvested the materials for the alebrijes from nearby Monte Alban, but deforestation made it difficult to find wood. Saul and others took it upon themselves to reforest the area, sustainably growing and using copal trees, which are indigenous to Oaxaca. As Saul explained, “cuidamos los árboles para las generaciones futuras,” “we protect the trees for future generations.” As a part of empowering children, Ecoalebrije works with local schools to educate the youth about issues of sustainability. I bought a little turtle alebrije from Saul, and then he invited us to meet other members of the artisan association. After going to the houses/workshops of two other members, we bid Saul goodbye and went to our second destination. Our clue for location #2 was a postcard of a church-like building, which Saul told us was the nearby Cuelapan ex-convent. We took a collective taxi to the convent, which was beautiful but a bit unexciting after our meeting with Saul. We walked around, took pictures, and navigated the bus system back to Oaxaca City.

Check out Ecoalebrije here:

http://ecoalebrijes.org/ecoalebrijes/main.html

Tierra del Sol

Vegetable Garden

Mi amiga, Mona

The windmill-powered well, kitchen, and orientation hut

On Tuesday morning the 5 of us, plus our academic director Jonathan, journeyed outside of Oaxaca to Tierra del Sol, an organic and sustainable farm run by Pablo, a former airline pilot, and his compañera Adriana. After learning about the impact of modern travel on the earth, they decided to live simply and to educate other city folks about the possibility of buen vivir, living well. Unlike “la buena vida,” buen vivir prioritizes caring for the planet and being part of a community over hyper-individualism and over-consumerism. We have this belief that being successful, developed, and civilized means having a formal education and an office job. But Pablo and Adriana had all of that and gave it up to live down a dirt road with compostable toilets and the most beautiful cow, Mona. Learning how to farm from local campesinos, they have, over the last ten years, learned to grow everything from Alfalfa, which we got to harvest to feed to Mona, to Cuban beans, which we got to plant. They built all of the building using local materials, and the manure from the people and animals is composted and used for fertilizer. They really welcomed us in—lingering over meals, chatting and feeding us the most delicious food (hot chocolate, fruit, stuffed peppers, atole, crepes, garbanzo burgers, and tortillas). Today (Thursday) we returned to Oaxaca and had lunch at the most amazing hole-in-the-wall restaurant—no menu, just make something up and the one worker will make it. Black bean enchiladas with cheese, bread, tortillas, and juice all for about $2.50 (including tip!) spent three hours buying our stupid cell phones. It was such a hassle and I was not feeling the need to reconnect with technology after our wonderful time in the countryside. For dinner, Matt (from University of North Carolina) and I went to another small restaurant, near our hostel. We accidently bought the expensive melon juice (45 pesos aka 4 dollars), which was over our stipend. Luckily, it was another single-family restaurant, and the owner/waitress, Esther, is friends with Norma, the woman who runs our hostel, and we were able to run back to our rooms and grab more money. We also had homework for the first time this semester—getting back into the swing of academics is going to be a challenge...

Day One

After our continental breakfast of coffee (yay!), yogurt, granola, and fruit, Maddy, Emma and I set off to explore the city. We wandered our way past coffee shops and artisan galleries to the Templo Santo Domingo, a cathedral near our hostel which appears to be entirely made of gold. After lighting candles, we walked to the Zócalo, the central plaza. For someone like me who loves people watching, the Zócalo is heaven. It’s frequented by everyone from indigenous older women selling bread from baskets balanced on their head to elderly American tourists to small children running around in their school uniforms. Traditionally, the Zócalo is where protests against the government are held, and sure enough there was a group of activists waving signs while their leader gave an amplified speech. From the Zócalo we wandered south, through the shopping district. At one market, we ended up in row after row of raw meat—entire animals hanging up for purchase. It was a bit hard for me to stomach, but it’s all part of the cultural experience—right? I bought a sun hat from a man who wouldn’t believe that I was American—he thought I was Italian. This was fine by me. The part I love most about Oaxaca: every other store is a chocolatería, selling chocolate mole. They all have free samples, and so you never actually need to buy chocolate mole, you can just go from store to store sampling! I decided to head off on my own for the afternoon, and ended up at a bakery. I got a muffin, a loaf of honey bread, and a churro for 8.5 pesos, or about 65 cents. Now I’m off to our official welcome dinner and the start of orientation!

I'M HERE!

Emma having coffee on the roof of our hostel

Our hostel in Oaxaca

The second floor of the hostel

After a long day of traveling, I am in Oaxaca! I met up with fellow Unitarian Universalist and vegetarian Maddy Phillips, who is from Seattle, in Houston for the last leg of our flight. Once on the ground in Mexico, we successfully talked the customs agents into granting us the 180 day visas (el máximo), and got a taxi to our hostel. I am already in love with Oaxaca. Even through the darkness, the bright colors of the colonial buildings looked like a scene from a movie (or a postcard). Our hostel—Don Mario—is run by the sweetest woman, who explained in very slow Spanish that we must not flush toilet paper down the toilet and that breakfast will be at 9. I understood everything she said perfectly, and was a bit annoyed with her slow pace, so apparently my Spanish is much better than I thought! All of the rooms look out over the courtyard, and I would guess that it is about 65 degrees outside (hasta la vista, Wisconsin winter!) Maddy and I met then Emma Landau, from Cornell, who got here on Friday. Emma, already sick and sunburned, was eager to go to bed, but we all have plans to explore the city tomorrow before our program begins tomorrow night! We’re staying at the hostel for the next week of orientation, and it seems like the perfect place to settle in and get acquainted with la idea de vivir bien.