After writing up a draft on the plane bound for Portland following my last entry full of elegant, poetic prose and deep thoughts, I've decided to scrap it and it's come to this: I don't want to go to school! All the adventure, the change, the feeling that the world holds so many interesting and wonderful secrets, it's frankly quite hard to come back to the same house, the same city, the same position. But I should start from where I left off.
Dallion picked me up from the airport and we experienced a strangely awkward hour or so, laughing every time we looked at each other just at the absurdity of our closeness and unfamiliarity, we spent two days in the Portland heat wave, hard put to even find a bar that was open. The next few days was farm time, and during which I realized that a) I really want to try a rural/creative life there and b) I'm going to start a pie-making company called Pooney's Pies, and c) goat's milk can be really tasty. So many good things in such a short amount of time! Takilma (the area Dallion was staying in) is awesome and lovely- good people, good place. And we still have yet to check out Happy Camp, a similar town closeby on the California side.
We took off from Oregon with a fellow traveler- Jim Barile, friend and long-time roommate of Dallion's dad, and his annoyingly fluffy white cute dog Charlie. Charlie could perhaps be described as one of those beautiful people who are just never left alone- it seemed we couldn't walk two feet without Jim getting stopped by some cooing girl to ask the same old run of questions about his little Soft-haired Wheaton Terrier. We went to Glacier, stayed with Mateo (Dallion's friend) and his family at their lakehouse on Flathead Lake, and spent a good amount of time in the small white rich town of Whitefish right during the huckleberry festival, so we got our fill of huckleberry this and that (including delicious beer!) From there we spent questing for a Taco John's -the flavor of West-Mex- with no luck, stopped in a gorgeous natural area near Missoula where we climbed a mountain and bathed in the ice-cold stream and once again, got lucky and didn't get caught sleeping in the back of the Albatross (Dallion's truck). Thank you, Great Spirit!
The next couple of days were spent at the Grand Tetons- truly a grand place, though we had very little time to hike due to our general exhaustion and inability to get out of bed (which has continued for me), and to top it all off, it seemed that things were awry on the homefront, so we booked it back to Austin, driving late nights and early mornings to get back and clean up all the shit that hit the fan.
It's not as bad as expected, but it's still requiring a bit of elbow grease to clean up and some things just cannot be solved. I need to keep my head above water until I say goodbye once and for all to Austin and school and hope for the best for the things I cannot change. After all the excitement and wonders and challenges of traveling and Mexico I'm ready for a break, for things to be quiet and settled, but the world keeps on spinning and life keeps on spinning with it. But perhaps one day soon I'll have a little shack in the country with a goat and pie company and garden, and maybe even a horse (I still think of Chestnut everyday!) With that, though, will I really be happy? Or does discontent come from some other place besides your surroundings? Will I feel tied down? Bored? Only time will tell, and until then I'm going to milk everything, including my goat, for all it's worth. And perhaps my memories and dreams will be the lifesavers I need to keep afloat, along with the wonderful people I'm so grateful to have in my life and without whom I don't know who or what or where I'd be.
Love to all and happy trails!
Allison
Monday, August 17, 2009
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
So Long, Mexico!
As I said in my last post, I did go back to Primero to stay with my family for a couple of days; we ended up going to some ruins and I finally went to the infamous "river" that Isaura kept inviting me to go to; it was a bit dirty, the women had to wash clothes, you couldn't really swim, and there was a half-destroyed bridge upstream so I had to watch out for the metal spikes sticking out the water from it! I also met Isaura's dad because he took us to the ruins in his truck, both of which have interesting stories. The father left her mom when she was little for another women in a nearby town, and now has two wives simultaneously and each of them have kids! One of the wives came with her two little girls; all were quiet and not very friendly and gave me strange looks. And the truck is called the "Sueno Americano"- her father tried to cross the border 4 times without luck, and decided to have a laugh about it by naming his truck after his American Dream.
Unfortunately I was in a weird mood (as usual)- the quiet one that usually is the calm before the storm, so I wasn't as bright and sunny as I would have liked to be for the last couple of days with them. And to add to it, I bought all the women beer when the men where out fishing at night and of course was the only one to get kind of drunk! Add to that watching part of Apocolypto, equally gory and sad made me both mute and deaf. In the morning it got worse- first we watched part of a movie about a dysfunctional family whose daughters were constantly beaten, and then a movie where a happy couple got in a car accident and the woman dies. All my feelings bubbled to the surface a few minutes before my bus left as I was showing pictures of my loved ones to Isaura, and BAM! the hose came loose and I was sitting there in the dining room sobbing, scared to travel again, sad to leave, thinking about how much I love my family and friends and just how crazy and wonderful and delicate life is, how everyone shares that. Needless to say, it was intense, though not in a bad way.
After hugging Isaura, German, Kevin, and Brandon goodbye (while fighting back tears), I accompanied some members of the community to a little market they go to every 2 Saturdays to sell their wares, and from there headed to Papantla for the last time to catch the bus to Cuetzalan, a little town I had heard about the day before from Lindsey and a few others- it was supposed to be really beautiful, and I thought, "Hey, what the hell! I need another adventure," so off I went in a questionable bus on an even more questionable road for three hours, cursing each bump for the sake of my poor bladder. As we hit the hills and started moving upward, the climate and landscape changed- it became more like a cloud forest, with beautiful views and rock formations. I got to town in the rain, and a boy from the bus led me to my hotel, which was run by a group of indigenous Nahual women (who weren't very friendly, actually). Lonely and feeling the shock from changing places again and the heaviness of the day brought a cloud of despair above my head; thus, I decided to go get a beer and some food to try and clear it away.
In the restaurant I chose quite a few women were peddling their wares, a practice I find equally annoying and shameless because they use ruthless guilt techniques on the unsuspecting diners. A man came up a little later, selling some pecan pies, and we got to talking. It turns out he was a guide and invited me to go to some waterfalls and a nature/coffee trail the next morning. I had a good feeling about him; he was friendly and honest and just seemed like a good person, so I decided to join them. The morning came and I met the guide (Delfino), but the couple didn't show up. We headed off to the trail, which is actually a combo organic coffee farm/conservation area, and our guide knew a ton about the local flora, so it was a wonderful trip. After a cup of coffee Delfino and I headed to the waterfalls; they were gorgeous and the little pools below tempted me to jump in. The trail was a bit dangerous going down as we had to climb down a trail made of tree roots; Delfino, a funny old fart, kept saying, "Are you sure you're ok, you're not going to fall?" every 3 minutes, trying to take me hand to lead me, sincerely concerned. In the end though, I just bounced along and it was he who fell with a high-pitched squeal. We bumped into the disappeared couple at the falls, who turned out to be really nice and the guy may come visit Austin, then Delfino and I walked the rather long was back to town. It was worth it, though; rocks jutted out of fields full of maiz and beans, the views were great, and Delfino and I got some more time to talk and I learned more about the area.
We got back to town, I bought some coffee, and he lead me to the hotel to keep talking my ear off even though I was tired from a full day and was ready to head to the bano de tamascal, a little hut made of palm that is basically a sweat lodge.
TO BE CONTINUED
Unfortunately I was in a weird mood (as usual)- the quiet one that usually is the calm before the storm, so I wasn't as bright and sunny as I would have liked to be for the last couple of days with them. And to add to it, I bought all the women beer when the men where out fishing at night and of course was the only one to get kind of drunk! Add to that watching part of Apocolypto, equally gory and sad made me both mute and deaf. In the morning it got worse- first we watched part of a movie about a dysfunctional family whose daughters were constantly beaten, and then a movie where a happy couple got in a car accident and the woman dies. All my feelings bubbled to the surface a few minutes before my bus left as I was showing pictures of my loved ones to Isaura, and BAM! the hose came loose and I was sitting there in the dining room sobbing, scared to travel again, sad to leave, thinking about how much I love my family and friends and just how crazy and wonderful and delicate life is, how everyone shares that. Needless to say, it was intense, though not in a bad way.
After hugging Isaura, German, Kevin, and Brandon goodbye (while fighting back tears), I accompanied some members of the community to a little market they go to every 2 Saturdays to sell their wares, and from there headed to Papantla for the last time to catch the bus to Cuetzalan, a little town I had heard about the day before from Lindsey and a few others- it was supposed to be really beautiful, and I thought, "Hey, what the hell! I need another adventure," so off I went in a questionable bus on an even more questionable road for three hours, cursing each bump for the sake of my poor bladder. As we hit the hills and started moving upward, the climate and landscape changed- it became more like a cloud forest, with beautiful views and rock formations. I got to town in the rain, and a boy from the bus led me to my hotel, which was run by a group of indigenous Nahual women (who weren't very friendly, actually). Lonely and feeling the shock from changing places again and the heaviness of the day brought a cloud of despair above my head; thus, I decided to go get a beer and some food to try and clear it away.
In the restaurant I chose quite a few women were peddling their wares, a practice I find equally annoying and shameless because they use ruthless guilt techniques on the unsuspecting diners. A man came up a little later, selling some pecan pies, and we got to talking. It turns out he was a guide and invited me to go to some waterfalls and a nature/coffee trail the next morning. I had a good feeling about him; he was friendly and honest and just seemed like a good person, so I decided to join them. The morning came and I met the guide (Delfino), but the couple didn't show up. We headed off to the trail, which is actually a combo organic coffee farm/conservation area, and our guide knew a ton about the local flora, so it was a wonderful trip. After a cup of coffee Delfino and I headed to the waterfalls; they were gorgeous and the little pools below tempted me to jump in. The trail was a bit dangerous going down as we had to climb down a trail made of tree roots; Delfino, a funny old fart, kept saying, "Are you sure you're ok, you're not going to fall?" every 3 minutes, trying to take me hand to lead me, sincerely concerned. In the end though, I just bounced along and it was he who fell with a high-pitched squeal. We bumped into the disappeared couple at the falls, who turned out to be really nice and the guy may come visit Austin, then Delfino and I walked the rather long was back to town. It was worth it, though; rocks jutted out of fields full of maiz and beans, the views were great, and Delfino and I got some more time to talk and I learned more about the area.
We got back to town, I bought some coffee, and he lead me to the hotel to keep talking my ear off even though I was tired from a full day and was ready to head to the bano de tamascal, a little hut made of palm that is basically a sweat lodge.
TO BE CONTINUED
Friday, July 24, 2009
Primero de Mayo- Finalmente!
It’s come down to this: all those horrible, long, tortuous weeks of suffering, discomfort, and continual nervous breakdowns from worry were for naught- the community is great! Working with them has been a wonderful experience (minus one or two days, of course); most everyone has been so kind and open to me, generous with their time and food and with what they have. I went to go stay for three days starting last Wednesday, arriving in a daze from Papantla with my huge backpacks full of my stuff, sweating profusely from having to walk about 45 minutes from the highway in the sun with my heavy load. I went to the house of the president of the cooperative, Don Basilio, waited a while and tried not to be bothered by the frightened/hateful looks of his two boys (they’re anomalies, thankfully), and got to talk to Don Basilio for a bit and do my first interview.
He then led me to the house I’d be staying at; it is owned by Don Rosendo, a single guy who has consistently migrated to Los Angeles to work at American Apparel and whose wife left him, but his neice and nephew and their two little boys also share the house so I wouldn’t be alone. After getting over the mandatory introductory discomfort, my impressions of the family and house were good. The littlest boy, Kevin, is a cheerful little brat, and Isaura, the mom, is a 25 year old over-worked housewife who was delighted to have someone closer to her age come and hang out. I was fed twice in two hours, a telling sign of things to come; Dona Estela, Basilio’s wife fed me homegrown chicken in the most delicious mole I’ve ever tasted, with handmade tortillas, and when I went to Isaura’s house she fed me fried pork in a spicy sauce with even more delicious handmade tortillas. The facilities are very rural- outhouse for bathroom, river or bucket of water for bathing. The kitchens all have open stoves with wood burning for cooking, masa is made to make tortillas by first chucking the dried corn, grinding it, and making tortillas on a big skillet called a comal. There's no air conditioning and houses are made of different materials; some wood, some cinder blocks, and most are a combination. All in all, though, I loved it! It felt homey and real and not cold or sterile in any sense.
Later that night and continuing into the next day I had more interviews with more farmers, had a tour of the vanilla fields, and was convinced that with just 3 days I would have enough interviews and information for my purposes and was ready to head out. Honestly, I was starting to feel lonely and sick (probably from eating so much food- hasn’t changed- and from the heat, sun, and lack of water), plus the little boys were getting on my nerves- they just wouldn’t leave me alone or stop talking, and I couldn’t understand a WORD of what they were saying. Really, I just needed a break, so I was relieved when Lindsey, a grad student of my “supervising” professor Rebecca, came to do some of her own interviews on migration and get to know the community. I left with her that day to stay in an expensive hotel in Papantla on the other side of town from my old apartment- thankfully I have yet to run into the same people I constantly bumped into before! Lindsey and I continued conducting interviews in the days following, and Sunday took a gringo day to Poza Rica, an awful industrial city belching out oil fumes, to go to a diner for a huge salad and to the movies to see Harry Potter (which was surprisingly good!).
The other interviews have left me feeling much more enlightened about the community and its complicated social, political, and familial structure; almost everyone is related, and everyone has a story to tell. Perhaps one of the most surprising finds was meeting a man named Manuel; he actually migrated to Boerne back in 2001! His story of working there was interesting- for me, he provided a much needed link between my world and this one. It’s hard to imagine what life is like for these people in the States when they migrate, and feel like now I have a much better understanding and can empathize a bit more. The world is opening up some of its secrets, and I feel like everything is a bit clearer, more connected.
The interviews with women were especially interesting; stories of abusive, irresponsible, cheating husbands, long days working around the kitchen and house, and lack of other job opportunities left me feeling that this idealized rural life definitely isn’t ideal for some, for those who don’t know how else it could be. They have to make all the food and tortillas by hand, take the clothes down to the river to wash them, get water from the one well in town with buckets (the men help with that sometimes, too), collect firewood to cook, take care of the kids, take early lunch to the men in the fields, and just in general keep order around the house. Where is the time to read, to relax, to have fun? Most women have the television or radio blaring in their smoke filled kitchens as they cook for company, and perhaps to drown out the kids. Men too work hard, though they just go to the fields usually from 7-2 and are done for the day, coming home expecting their lunch to be ready and their clothes washed and off they go to relax and hang out and play soccer and drink. In Primero it’s not as bad as other communities; men don’t drink as much or as often and also work on community projects. Women have a bit more say in things as well, and are usually included in decisions of the community. Still, it is a very traditional system and one in which I know I couldn’t live, not without some changes.
Again, though, it is more of the culture that is at fault, and not the people as individuals; every culture has its ups and downs, its costs and benefits. Here people make time to keep the community like a family, to have parties and celebrations together, to dance and have fun. They support each other and have managed to stay united, and their lifestyle isn’t nearly as destructive to the environment and other people as that of many in the United States. They eat what they grow, though that is changing too with the years and with the influence of outside forces. And just about everyone is generous and kind and honest, as far as I can tell; you go to someone’s house and they offer you what they have, including their time, food, and knowledge, and sit and chat and take their time, even though they already have more than enough to do. Like any small towns, there are downsides to this familiarity too; everyone knew me before I knew them, and rumors even spread like wildfire- some thought I was Rosendo’s girlfriend whom he brought back from Los Angeles! And when something bad happens, everyone knows. But how are secrets any good, anyway?
Well, I’ve been doing my best to understand the community and have been working hard to try and help out the cooperative; every person I talk to says “we need markets!” so I’m doing what I can and will continue to do so until I meet some success that will last. Who knows, maybe I’ll keep coming back here…in the meantime, I have to catch the next bus to Primero; I’ll be staying there until Sunday morning, swimming in the river with Isaura, hopefully gathering a few recipes and knitting together more information about the community and cooperative, and maybe even going to visit the nearby ruins that I’ve heard so much about. Sunday morning I’ll accompany a member of the cooperative committee to one of the only restaurants in miles- they have a special shindig every 2 weeks and they’re going to take some crafts and vanilla to try and sell. After that, it’s back to Xalapa and then Mexico City, back to where I started, as scared as a squirrel with a dog on its tail, not knowing what would happen, what I was doing, what anything meant. It’s funny how our imaginations play against us, and how powerful that fear and worry is when really it’s just a shadow in our mind, a figment of our imagination. And I’m sure I’ll keep learning and experiencing that. But in the meantime, I’m off to go spend my last 4 days in the country learning and enjoying what I can. Handmade tortillas, hammock, and river, here I come!
He then led me to the house I’d be staying at; it is owned by Don Rosendo, a single guy who has consistently migrated to Los Angeles to work at American Apparel and whose wife left him, but his neice and nephew and their two little boys also share the house so I wouldn’t be alone. After getting over the mandatory introductory discomfort, my impressions of the family and house were good. The littlest boy, Kevin, is a cheerful little brat, and Isaura, the mom, is a 25 year old over-worked housewife who was delighted to have someone closer to her age come and hang out. I was fed twice in two hours, a telling sign of things to come; Dona Estela, Basilio’s wife fed me homegrown chicken in the most delicious mole I’ve ever tasted, with handmade tortillas, and when I went to Isaura’s house she fed me fried pork in a spicy sauce with even more delicious handmade tortillas. The facilities are very rural- outhouse for bathroom, river or bucket of water for bathing. The kitchens all have open stoves with wood burning for cooking, masa is made to make tortillas by first chucking the dried corn, grinding it, and making tortillas on a big skillet called a comal. There's no air conditioning and houses are made of different materials; some wood, some cinder blocks, and most are a combination. All in all, though, I loved it! It felt homey and real and not cold or sterile in any sense.
Later that night and continuing into the next day I had more interviews with more farmers, had a tour of the vanilla fields, and was convinced that with just 3 days I would have enough interviews and information for my purposes and was ready to head out. Honestly, I was starting to feel lonely and sick (probably from eating so much food- hasn’t changed- and from the heat, sun, and lack of water), plus the little boys were getting on my nerves- they just wouldn’t leave me alone or stop talking, and I couldn’t understand a WORD of what they were saying. Really, I just needed a break, so I was relieved when Lindsey, a grad student of my “supervising” professor Rebecca, came to do some of her own interviews on migration and get to know the community. I left with her that day to stay in an expensive hotel in Papantla on the other side of town from my old apartment- thankfully I have yet to run into the same people I constantly bumped into before! Lindsey and I continued conducting interviews in the days following, and Sunday took a gringo day to Poza Rica, an awful industrial city belching out oil fumes, to go to a diner for a huge salad and to the movies to see Harry Potter (which was surprisingly good!).
The other interviews have left me feeling much more enlightened about the community and its complicated social, political, and familial structure; almost everyone is related, and everyone has a story to tell. Perhaps one of the most surprising finds was meeting a man named Manuel; he actually migrated to Boerne back in 2001! His story of working there was interesting- for me, he provided a much needed link between my world and this one. It’s hard to imagine what life is like for these people in the States when they migrate, and feel like now I have a much better understanding and can empathize a bit more. The world is opening up some of its secrets, and I feel like everything is a bit clearer, more connected.
The interviews with women were especially interesting; stories of abusive, irresponsible, cheating husbands, long days working around the kitchen and house, and lack of other job opportunities left me feeling that this idealized rural life definitely isn’t ideal for some, for those who don’t know how else it could be. They have to make all the food and tortillas by hand, take the clothes down to the river to wash them, get water from the one well in town with buckets (the men help with that sometimes, too), collect firewood to cook, take care of the kids, take early lunch to the men in the fields, and just in general keep order around the house. Where is the time to read, to relax, to have fun? Most women have the television or radio blaring in their smoke filled kitchens as they cook for company, and perhaps to drown out the kids. Men too work hard, though they just go to the fields usually from 7-2 and are done for the day, coming home expecting their lunch to be ready and their clothes washed and off they go to relax and hang out and play soccer and drink. In Primero it’s not as bad as other communities; men don’t drink as much or as often and also work on community projects. Women have a bit more say in things as well, and are usually included in decisions of the community. Still, it is a very traditional system and one in which I know I couldn’t live, not without some changes.
Again, though, it is more of the culture that is at fault, and not the people as individuals; every culture has its ups and downs, its costs and benefits. Here people make time to keep the community like a family, to have parties and celebrations together, to dance and have fun. They support each other and have managed to stay united, and their lifestyle isn’t nearly as destructive to the environment and other people as that of many in the United States. They eat what they grow, though that is changing too with the years and with the influence of outside forces. And just about everyone is generous and kind and honest, as far as I can tell; you go to someone’s house and they offer you what they have, including their time, food, and knowledge, and sit and chat and take their time, even though they already have more than enough to do. Like any small towns, there are downsides to this familiarity too; everyone knew me before I knew them, and rumors even spread like wildfire- some thought I was Rosendo’s girlfriend whom he brought back from Los Angeles! And when something bad happens, everyone knows. But how are secrets any good, anyway?
Well, I’ve been doing my best to understand the community and have been working hard to try and help out the cooperative; every person I talk to says “we need markets!” so I’m doing what I can and will continue to do so until I meet some success that will last. Who knows, maybe I’ll keep coming back here…in the meantime, I have to catch the next bus to Primero; I’ll be staying there until Sunday morning, swimming in the river with Isaura, hopefully gathering a few recipes and knitting together more information about the community and cooperative, and maybe even going to visit the nearby ruins that I’ve heard so much about. Sunday morning I’ll accompany a member of the cooperative committee to one of the only restaurants in miles- they have a special shindig every 2 weeks and they’re going to take some crafts and vanilla to try and sell. After that, it’s back to Xalapa and then Mexico City, back to where I started, as scared as a squirrel with a dog on its tail, not knowing what would happen, what I was doing, what anything meant. It’s funny how our imaginations play against us, and how powerful that fear and worry is when really it’s just a shadow in our mind, a figment of our imagination. And I’m sure I’ll keep learning and experiencing that. But in the meantime, I’m off to go spend my last 4 days in the country learning and enjoying what I can. Handmade tortillas, hammock, and river, here I come!
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
More stories of Veracruz
Aha! I forgot two stories, the story of the palm reader and the story of the skirt fixer!
So I had bought this dress, an awesome one with zebras that made of a light fabric fit for the beach, and I went to a grundgy bathroom in an internet cafe to change into it from my heavier dress from Papantla. I made a few unfortunate observations after I left the cafe: it was obvious I wasn’t wearing a bra (proof came later when I went up to a hotel clerk to ask directions and he just stared at my boobs for a full 10 seconds); there was hole the size of a quarter at my belly (so that’s why it was half off!); and the bottom was so narrow I couldn’t take my usual gringa strides. A few minutes later, fed up, I sat down on a bench to try to rip the seams of the bottom to make more room for my legs and found one side already ripped and the other almost impossible to get the seams out with my pen tip. I was sitting there, sweating in the sun, obstinately poking away at my dress when an older woman came up and offered to help me, pulling out her swiss army knife. Then in a very motherly way she proceeded to rip the seams as if this happened to her every day, was completely normal occurrence. Hey, maybe it is! We chatted a bit, both sweating profusely now, and when she had finished tearing it up, we stood to say our goodbyes. I thanked her profusely, and she almost didn’t let me give her a kiss on the cheek, embarrassed by the drops falling off of her face, wetting the brick-covered ground. It doesn’t matter! I said laughing, and gave her a couple of hugs and kisses, so happy that this stranger wasn’t a stranger and helped me with the utmost familiarity and kindness of a grandmother. We parted ways, both beaming with mutual humanity.
One of the other women I encountered that day approached me at the Malecon (Boardwalk), head wrapped in a shawl, the usual pleading look in her eyes of someone who is selling something they know you don’t want to buy. In low Spanish she said, “I’ll read you palm, the lines will tell you the future…” I paused; it has been a goal of mine for while to get my future read, and she jumped on the opportunity, grabbing my hand and saying, “20 pesos, the lines will tell you.” And as she read the first one I could tell it was completely bogus, so I smiled my best innocent, stupid American smile and said, in Spanish, “I’m sorry, I don’t speak Spanish well, I can’t understand you,” but she kept my hand in her grip until I just kept saying, no thanks, I don’t understand you!, hoping to get out of paying anything before it was too late. I rushed away and thankfully she stayed behind, only to grab her next victim by the palm.
So I had bought this dress, an awesome one with zebras that made of a light fabric fit for the beach, and I went to a grundgy bathroom in an internet cafe to change into it from my heavier dress from Papantla. I made a few unfortunate observations after I left the cafe: it was obvious I wasn’t wearing a bra (proof came later when I went up to a hotel clerk to ask directions and he just stared at my boobs for a full 10 seconds); there was hole the size of a quarter at my belly (so that’s why it was half off!); and the bottom was so narrow I couldn’t take my usual gringa strides. A few minutes later, fed up, I sat down on a bench to try to rip the seams of the bottom to make more room for my legs and found one side already ripped and the other almost impossible to get the seams out with my pen tip. I was sitting there, sweating in the sun, obstinately poking away at my dress when an older woman came up and offered to help me, pulling out her swiss army knife. Then in a very motherly way she proceeded to rip the seams as if this happened to her every day, was completely normal occurrence. Hey, maybe it is! We chatted a bit, both sweating profusely now, and when she had finished tearing it up, we stood to say our goodbyes. I thanked her profusely, and she almost didn’t let me give her a kiss on the cheek, embarrassed by the drops falling off of her face, wetting the brick-covered ground. It doesn’t matter! I said laughing, and gave her a couple of hugs and kisses, so happy that this stranger wasn’t a stranger and helped me with the utmost familiarity and kindness of a grandmother. We parted ways, both beaming with mutual humanity.
One of the other women I encountered that day approached me at the Malecon (Boardwalk), head wrapped in a shawl, the usual pleading look in her eyes of someone who is selling something they know you don’t want to buy. In low Spanish she said, “I’ll read you palm, the lines will tell you the future…” I paused; it has been a goal of mine for while to get my future read, and she jumped on the opportunity, grabbing my hand and saying, “20 pesos, the lines will tell you.” And as she read the first one I could tell it was completely bogus, so I smiled my best innocent, stupid American smile and said, in Spanish, “I’m sorry, I don’t speak Spanish well, I can’t understand you,” but she kept my hand in her grip until I just kept saying, no thanks, I don’t understand you!, hoping to get out of paying anything before it was too late. I rushed away and thankfully she stayed behind, only to grab her next victim by the palm.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Veracruz, Veracruz
These last few days have been an adventure- in a good way, and not in a good way where I have to tease out the goodness and make the best of the worst! After an upsetting Friday where my plans, once again, were shot and I was told to wait until Monday to go to the community, I began Saturday not knowing whether I should a)stay and wait for a grad student of Dr. Torres to arrive to Papantla (I didn´t know when she would get in); b)go visit Linda, a dotty but kind old woman who wants to take me to a waterfall in a nearby town; or c)pack up my stuff and get myself away from the heat and stress of Papantla for a few days and go visit my friend Nelly in Veracruz.
I ended up waiting for Lindsey, who called at 3 pm to say she had arrived (at 12 that same day! grrr!), so I went to go meet her and planned on taking the bus to Joloapa afterwards, though the only one I knew of left at 3:15. As always it took longer than I expected to meet and talk to Lindsey, so I ended up going back to my apartment and deciding in a frenzied rush to try to take the last bus to Veracruz that left in 20 minutes. I threw some stuff in my bag, saw a haggard face look back at me in the mirror as I rushed out the door. I flagged down the first taxi I saw and got to the station with 15 minutes to spare, so I got in the line of the only checker, an old woman slower than a dead sloth, and waited impatiently, like a good American. Finally I got to the window, asked for a ticket, and..."no, no hay un autobus que va a Veracruz hoy..." she said, slowly and painfully like death by sword. "Esta segura? Porque dice en el internet que hay uno ahorita..." I pleaded, looking more like a gringa loca than ever, unwashed, practically melting in a greasy ball of desperation on the shiny, tiled floor. The woman just looked at me briefly, then turned back to do some menial task as slowly as possible with utter concentration.
I turned away, stunned, and stood for a moment facing the stares of the small,crowded station. I shuffled outside slowly, feeling the anxiety and desperation and indecision and desperation bubbling up to the surface, leaned against the wall, and started to sob uncontrollably. Not just little sniffles, but those body-rocking, eye-socking powerful sobs that come with snot and weird noises and headaches. People walked by, trying to ignore me and I them, until a woman got out of her car, walked up and stopped right in front of me, looked me in the eyes sincerely and said to me in perfect (if accented) English, "Can I help you?" I just looked at her mournfully, forced a weak smile, and with a little shake of my head choked out, "Maybe...no I don´t think so, but thanks," and I started to cry even harder. The next 20 minutes I spent wandering around, alternately walking back towards town and staggering back towards the bus station, doubting the words of the old woman, still crying and keeping my head down so as not to face the looks of all those who kept staring. I finally decided to just go to the other bus station and go to Joloapa to visit Linda, but still something kept tugging at me, telling me not to go. I got on the bus anyway (after getting off and on at least two times to the confusion of all), paid my fare, and was on my way when I jumped up, rushed to the bus driver, and asked if there were buses of that line that left for Veracruz. "Si, si hay..." I thanked him and jumped off in the middle of the street, rushed back to the bus station, and after an agonizing 15 minutes decided to get on the bus bound for Veracruz.
As we left I felt good about my decision (a good sign!), and after a long 5 hour bus ride full of stops in nameless towns and putting up with half sharing my seat with a man drooling on my shoulder, I arrived at the bus station in Veracruz. Nelly and I found each other, loaded up in her friends truck (4 people CAN fit on one bench seat, by the way), and we headed off for the center of town. After a quick walk about and a little live music (which was great, and I love you Austin!), we went to a friend´s house where I got tipsy off of one drink after not eating since that morning. Needless to say, I slept long and hard after such a day.
The next morning we started off by going to the market, a smorgasbord of vegetables, meat, manufactured items, artesanias, and delicious...FOOD! The smells were overwhelming- in one moment you would smell some sweetly baking bread, in another a smell of rotting meat, and another of newly pumped plastic. We ordered some juice and enchiladas from a jam-packed stand, surrounded by people shoveling down foods of all flavors, colors, and smells, but almost everything containing tortillas. I had the enchiladas sencillas con mole; four tortillas (probably fried) folded like delicate little napkins, doused with delicious sweet-smoky mole, and sprinkled with white cheese. MMMM! I practically licked the plate clean. From there we headed to San Juan de Ulua, an old fort/prison located island full of bloody history. It started as an island of sacrifices for the Totonacs, became the first treasury of the new world, then a fort, then finally a prison, where many a legendary bandit was kept and tortured by the tight quarters, dripping water, and awful weather. Furthermore, floodgates were opened to create a moat full of sharks around the then-island to discourage escape. Pretty cool...
Dead tired, I was in desparate need of some coffee, so off we went to the center of town again to a place called Cafe Parroquia. They´re famous for their signature coffee; they bring out a glass with a shot or two of espresso, you tap the glass as loud as you can with your spoon and wait for the milk-boy, a waiter carrying two silver kettles full of hot milk, which he pours into the cup from a height of 2-3 feet to make it nice and frothy. Yummm- I already miss it (sorry Papantla, but your coffee isn´t fit to throw in some creep´s face!) The only thing that bothered me about the place was it´s tradition of hiring just male waiters, though I guess it beats other places hiring just busty women.
Afterwards- you may not believe this- we decided to go to...the mall, Plaza de las Americas. Apparently the only movie theater in town is there, and it looks just like one here- big, crowded, with carpet a color designed to confuse you into not noticing stains and other distasteful things. Surprisingly, though, the trapped rabbit feeling never came up- either I was just too tired and desensitized or maybe, just maybe, I´m able to cool my jets and not judge so much anymore! And you know what? It was actually wonderful to be in a movie theater, all dark and cool and anonymous, absorbed in a silly film that was in English- I forgot I was in Mexico and started making comments to Nelly in English!
I decided to delay my flight till the next day as we wandered around a bit more then headed over to a Karaoke bar their friend Felipe works at, where again, I didn´t judge or feel awkward and had a great time (and 5 drinks)! We headed home, exhausted, and the next day had to go to Nelly´s and Wendy´s school, the University of Veracruz Engineering Campus, to have their final project assessed. We waited, and waited, and waited for it to be done to go to breakfast, but finally I gave up at 1 and decided to go to the Parroquia again. After my lechero and huevos a la mexicana I wandered around the center all day buying this and that and poking around the churches and Malecon (seaside area), blissfully unaware that just a few blocks from me there had been a shooting at 2! Apparently it was related to narco-trafficking, and was the first of its kind here in Veracruz. With a couple hours to spare, I decided to go on a tour of a barge docked near the Malecon; at the entrance I ended up meeting Angel, a young sailor from Veracruz, who flirted with me so respectfully and, well, un-creepily, that I didn´t mind. After the amazingly brain-freezingly boring barge tour I tried to get to the campus to catch my bus, but after a frenzied attempt with the help of many to get me there on time, I ended up missing my bus and going back to campus with Nelly to fart around on the computer until 1 am (her circuit still wasn´t done! Poor Nelly!)
I got on the bus this morning, a little contrite that the community had been expecting me Monday, but nonetheless refreshed from such a nice little jot. And I learned so much in just a few days, being with people from here I felt comfortable talking to and asking questions. It feels so good to travel, to get out of the little bubble we create that contains our routines, our paths, our thoughts. To just let go and have fun. And the trip back was beautiful- the beaches are incredible and so naturally beautiful, I hope to visit them someday.
I have decided to go to the community (finally!) tomorrow morning with Lindsey, so work shall begin!
Kareoke!
allison
I ended up waiting for Lindsey, who called at 3 pm to say she had arrived (at 12 that same day! grrr!), so I went to go meet her and planned on taking the bus to Joloapa afterwards, though the only one I knew of left at 3:15. As always it took longer than I expected to meet and talk to Lindsey, so I ended up going back to my apartment and deciding in a frenzied rush to try to take the last bus to Veracruz that left in 20 minutes. I threw some stuff in my bag, saw a haggard face look back at me in the mirror as I rushed out the door. I flagged down the first taxi I saw and got to the station with 15 minutes to spare, so I got in the line of the only checker, an old woman slower than a dead sloth, and waited impatiently, like a good American. Finally I got to the window, asked for a ticket, and..."no, no hay un autobus que va a Veracruz hoy..." she said, slowly and painfully like death by sword. "Esta segura? Porque dice en el internet que hay uno ahorita..." I pleaded, looking more like a gringa loca than ever, unwashed, practically melting in a greasy ball of desperation on the shiny, tiled floor. The woman just looked at me briefly, then turned back to do some menial task as slowly as possible with utter concentration.
I turned away, stunned, and stood for a moment facing the stares of the small,crowded station. I shuffled outside slowly, feeling the anxiety and desperation and indecision and desperation bubbling up to the surface, leaned against the wall, and started to sob uncontrollably. Not just little sniffles, but those body-rocking, eye-socking powerful sobs that come with snot and weird noises and headaches. People walked by, trying to ignore me and I them, until a woman got out of her car, walked up and stopped right in front of me, looked me in the eyes sincerely and said to me in perfect (if accented) English, "Can I help you?" I just looked at her mournfully, forced a weak smile, and with a little shake of my head choked out, "Maybe...no I don´t think so, but thanks," and I started to cry even harder. The next 20 minutes I spent wandering around, alternately walking back towards town and staggering back towards the bus station, doubting the words of the old woman, still crying and keeping my head down so as not to face the looks of all those who kept staring. I finally decided to just go to the other bus station and go to Joloapa to visit Linda, but still something kept tugging at me, telling me not to go. I got on the bus anyway (after getting off and on at least two times to the confusion of all), paid my fare, and was on my way when I jumped up, rushed to the bus driver, and asked if there were buses of that line that left for Veracruz. "Si, si hay..." I thanked him and jumped off in the middle of the street, rushed back to the bus station, and after an agonizing 15 minutes decided to get on the bus bound for Veracruz.
As we left I felt good about my decision (a good sign!), and after a long 5 hour bus ride full of stops in nameless towns and putting up with half sharing my seat with a man drooling on my shoulder, I arrived at the bus station in Veracruz. Nelly and I found each other, loaded up in her friends truck (4 people CAN fit on one bench seat, by the way), and we headed off for the center of town. After a quick walk about and a little live music (which was great, and I love you Austin!), we went to a friend´s house where I got tipsy off of one drink after not eating since that morning. Needless to say, I slept long and hard after such a day.
The next morning we started off by going to the market, a smorgasbord of vegetables, meat, manufactured items, artesanias, and delicious...FOOD! The smells were overwhelming- in one moment you would smell some sweetly baking bread, in another a smell of rotting meat, and another of newly pumped plastic. We ordered some juice and enchiladas from a jam-packed stand, surrounded by people shoveling down foods of all flavors, colors, and smells, but almost everything containing tortillas. I had the enchiladas sencillas con mole; four tortillas (probably fried) folded like delicate little napkins, doused with delicious sweet-smoky mole, and sprinkled with white cheese. MMMM! I practically licked the plate clean. From there we headed to San Juan de Ulua, an old fort/prison located island full of bloody history. It started as an island of sacrifices for the Totonacs, became the first treasury of the new world, then a fort, then finally a prison, where many a legendary bandit was kept and tortured by the tight quarters, dripping water, and awful weather. Furthermore, floodgates were opened to create a moat full of sharks around the then-island to discourage escape. Pretty cool...
Dead tired, I was in desparate need of some coffee, so off we went to the center of town again to a place called Cafe Parroquia. They´re famous for their signature coffee; they bring out a glass with a shot or two of espresso, you tap the glass as loud as you can with your spoon and wait for the milk-boy, a waiter carrying two silver kettles full of hot milk, which he pours into the cup from a height of 2-3 feet to make it nice and frothy. Yummm- I already miss it (sorry Papantla, but your coffee isn´t fit to throw in some creep´s face!) The only thing that bothered me about the place was it´s tradition of hiring just male waiters, though I guess it beats other places hiring just busty women.
Afterwards- you may not believe this- we decided to go to...the mall, Plaza de las Americas. Apparently the only movie theater in town is there, and it looks just like one here- big, crowded, with carpet a color designed to confuse you into not noticing stains and other distasteful things. Surprisingly, though, the trapped rabbit feeling never came up- either I was just too tired and desensitized or maybe, just maybe, I´m able to cool my jets and not judge so much anymore! And you know what? It was actually wonderful to be in a movie theater, all dark and cool and anonymous, absorbed in a silly film that was in English- I forgot I was in Mexico and started making comments to Nelly in English!
I decided to delay my flight till the next day as we wandered around a bit more then headed over to a Karaoke bar their friend Felipe works at, where again, I didn´t judge or feel awkward and had a great time (and 5 drinks)! We headed home, exhausted, and the next day had to go to Nelly´s and Wendy´s school, the University of Veracruz Engineering Campus, to have their final project assessed. We waited, and waited, and waited for it to be done to go to breakfast, but finally I gave up at 1 and decided to go to the Parroquia again. After my lechero and huevos a la mexicana I wandered around the center all day buying this and that and poking around the churches and Malecon (seaside area), blissfully unaware that just a few blocks from me there had been a shooting at 2! Apparently it was related to narco-trafficking, and was the first of its kind here in Veracruz. With a couple hours to spare, I decided to go on a tour of a barge docked near the Malecon; at the entrance I ended up meeting Angel, a young sailor from Veracruz, who flirted with me so respectfully and, well, un-creepily, that I didn´t mind. After the amazingly brain-freezingly boring barge tour I tried to get to the campus to catch my bus, but after a frenzied attempt with the help of many to get me there on time, I ended up missing my bus and going back to campus with Nelly to fart around on the computer until 1 am (her circuit still wasn´t done! Poor Nelly!)
I got on the bus this morning, a little contrite that the community had been expecting me Monday, but nonetheless refreshed from such a nice little jot. And I learned so much in just a few days, being with people from here I felt comfortable talking to and asking questions. It feels so good to travel, to get out of the little bubble we create that contains our routines, our paths, our thoughts. To just let go and have fun. And the trip back was beautiful- the beaches are incredible and so naturally beautiful, I hope to visit them someday.
I have decided to go to the community (finally!) tomorrow morning with Lindsey, so work shall begin!
Kareoke!
allison
What to do for fun in Papantla, from July 10
What is this feeling, boredom? Every time it comes, I grow anxious and almost desperate to drown it out, suffocate it however I can. With boredom comes its companion, a deep, lurking fear that life is meaningless. All the actions we do are meaningless. But what is meaning, anyway? Who really defines it? Is that really what I’m looking for? And why am I driven by that fear, that thought? If I let myself keep thinking, I’ll probably spiral downward. I see meaningless and meaningfulness as two sides of the same coin, the same reality that’s just perpetually spinning around and around in the air…
I feel more and more like I’m in a waking dream; isn’t that reality is, though? That sudden, shocking thought surfaced I when I was still so little, just a kid of 4 or 5 years still haunts me: what if this is a dream too, and I’ll wake up any second? Is this the truth? Is there truth?
Life seems so strange right now- I’m sitting in my lightless room and can hear the poor retarded kid making strange noises and laughing outside my door, perhaps on the stairs. Whenever I see him, I think, how does he work? How did this happen? And if I can’t relegate him to human status yet I still respect him as I would a human, does that mean human and animals are all on the same page? The only thing that makes our species think we’re better is that our limited view point and ignorance of the future makes us think we’re the best there will ever be.
Where does that kid live? He’s always here, but I saw Polo the elder being sort of rough and cruel with him, making him carry that big box of rotting stinking trash down the stairs on his dirty back, like a regular Quasimodo, coming down from the bell tower. And Polo is so aggressive, he gets this glint in his eye and I could see how it could be intimidating. That combined with his disheveled out of control eyebrows and crazily glinting silver teeth; might as well be a star in a horror film.
Who is this boy? Where did he come from, who is the stranger that gave birth to him? How old is he? What does he do? I’ve been politely ignoring my own questions, and smile and make small talk with him as much as I can to cover my discomfort and guilt. I barely understand a word he says, but when I saw him on the street he yelled something after me, and earlier he sat at the top of the stair behind my office; I don’t know if he was watching me, but it seemed like it. He is always curious about what I’m doing in my stair step office. Que haces, amiga? I tell him like I tell everyone- working. Talking to my boss. The less questions the better.
Which reminds me- Enrique and I bumped into each other twice today- the first on my way to go find some fruit for dinner, and he walked with me to find there was none and then walked with me to get water. “What are you doing tomorrow?” he asks. I tell him my friend is coming and I’m going to go visit Linda to go visit the waterfalls. “When will you be back?” I tell him I don’t know (and if I did I wouldn’t tell you, I’m sorry). He continues this painful dialogue with an equally painful look on his face, as if he knows he’s a dog being kicked but keeps coming back to whimper, just to be kicked again. He said, “Would you mind coming with me for a second? I’m going to give a guy a massage.” At first I thought he said he was going to give a guy a message, so I agreed, trying to play it cool, and when I figured out what he really meant and we arrived at the man’s house (which was really close) I bowed out really fast and said I had to go. “But wait, I’ll walk with you.” And he walked toward me as if there was no question. No, no thanks, I almost plead, I can make it back fine, I’m ok. Esta bien. I’m worried he might see right through my thin mask, whose veneer is peeling off at the prospect of him following me to my apartment. “Are you sure?” he says, repeatedly. Yes, I’m very sure, thanks. See you later! And with that I turn and walk away, feeling like I just barely got out before the shit hit the fan. The people in the house had looked confused the whole time, even after we had walked up and Enrique said, “oh, this is a friend.” I wonder what they thought; I tried not to look into their faces. Did they think I was some loose little American girl? Did Enrique want me to come so he could show me off and insinuate something that didn’t exist?
I got home safely, did a mandatory email check, and went upstairs to read or something (I already can’t remember!) Soon I got hungry, and so walked down to the corner store to get some peanuts. On my way back, lo and behold- Enrique calls my name in the dark. I call out cheerfully back to him. Play it cool, play it cool. I don’t even think he would really do anything, I just don’t want to give him the opportunity to let the thought even enter his head. Don’t touch me, don’t touch me. Leave me alone. Just 100 ft to my apartment. I offer him some peanuts, and we repeat the painful dog whipping; he seems to have forgotten the answers to all the questions he had asked before. Perhaps he’s smitten. He almost looks like he’s ready to climb the stairs ahead of me (good god, he knows which room I live in!), but I don’t even go near the stairs. I stay and do the dog kicking, declining his invitations to hang out with a cool face and vague lies like, “well, my professor said she’d be on after 9 to talk” (after asking him the time and saw it was 9), and “oh, I don’t know when I’ll be back but we’ll probably see each other since we always seem to!” (no I don’t want to see you again, bug off!); with perhaps obvious relief I abruptly blurt out, “Well, since we don’t know if we’ll see each other again thanks for everything and it was great meeting you!” He looks confused, a little hurt; perhaps he could feel my real thoughts. Ok, he says, yes it was wonderful meeting you! And shakes me hand a couple of times, kisses my cheek, hugs me in an awkward attempt to hang around for a little while longer while my mind is already hurrying up the stairs, getting away, feeling the relief of his absence.
What gets me is the not knowing- can I trust him? Is he just a friendly, lonely guy looking for a friend? He seems nice enough, but I just can’t take that chance. It’s too risky, and I won’t go down that road. I don’t really feel guilty though, unless by not taking a risk it will have been my own loss.
And as I walked down the dark street tonight, I clenched my fists as a huddle of men, standing in the dim puddle of light cast by the leaning street lamp, turned towards me to look. Or at least so I imagined. And I imagined all the dirty things they were thinking, my jaw clenching as tight as my fists, my eyes growing hard and angry. Don’t look at me, or I’ll beat the living shit out of you, I thought, over and over, more and more angry. I’ll beat the living fucking shit out of you, assholes. Don’t try anything. I felt like I shouldn’t be angry, I had no evidence of what they were thinking, and I have no responsibility for that, anyway. But those same fantasies I had as a kid alone in the car, in the parking lot of the grocery store came back; try to touch me and I´ll kill you.. All that anger, twisting me in it’s hot fury, hot lava spouting from a well of deep hurt and fear whose origin I know nothing of. Fear cultivated by the media? But I think it is deeper than that; when I was so little, no older than 4, I got so angry at people looking at me in my bunny costume. “Stop looking at me!” Mom reports me saying, in a hissing voice poisoned with hatred. What is that hatred, what is that fear? Can I tease it out with rationing and thoughts, or will I just have to do the hardest thing, cut it free, and just let it go?
I feel more and more like I’m in a waking dream; isn’t that reality is, though? That sudden, shocking thought surfaced I when I was still so little, just a kid of 4 or 5 years still haunts me: what if this is a dream too, and I’ll wake up any second? Is this the truth? Is there truth?
Life seems so strange right now- I’m sitting in my lightless room and can hear the poor retarded kid making strange noises and laughing outside my door, perhaps on the stairs. Whenever I see him, I think, how does he work? How did this happen? And if I can’t relegate him to human status yet I still respect him as I would a human, does that mean human and animals are all on the same page? The only thing that makes our species think we’re better is that our limited view point and ignorance of the future makes us think we’re the best there will ever be.
Where does that kid live? He’s always here, but I saw Polo the elder being sort of rough and cruel with him, making him carry that big box of rotting stinking trash down the stairs on his dirty back, like a regular Quasimodo, coming down from the bell tower. And Polo is so aggressive, he gets this glint in his eye and I could see how it could be intimidating. That combined with his disheveled out of control eyebrows and crazily glinting silver teeth; might as well be a star in a horror film.
Who is this boy? Where did he come from, who is the stranger that gave birth to him? How old is he? What does he do? I’ve been politely ignoring my own questions, and smile and make small talk with him as much as I can to cover my discomfort and guilt. I barely understand a word he says, but when I saw him on the street he yelled something after me, and earlier he sat at the top of the stair behind my office; I don’t know if he was watching me, but it seemed like it. He is always curious about what I’m doing in my stair step office. Que haces, amiga? I tell him like I tell everyone- working. Talking to my boss. The less questions the better.
Which reminds me- Enrique and I bumped into each other twice today- the first on my way to go find some fruit for dinner, and he walked with me to find there was none and then walked with me to get water. “What are you doing tomorrow?” he asks. I tell him my friend is coming and I’m going to go visit Linda to go visit the waterfalls. “When will you be back?” I tell him I don’t know (and if I did I wouldn’t tell you, I’m sorry). He continues this painful dialogue with an equally painful look on his face, as if he knows he’s a dog being kicked but keeps coming back to whimper, just to be kicked again. He said, “Would you mind coming with me for a second? I’m going to give a guy a massage.” At first I thought he said he was going to give a guy a message, so I agreed, trying to play it cool, and when I figured out what he really meant and we arrived at the man’s house (which was really close) I bowed out really fast and said I had to go. “But wait, I’ll walk with you.” And he walked toward me as if there was no question. No, no thanks, I almost plead, I can make it back fine, I’m ok. Esta bien. I’m worried he might see right through my thin mask, whose veneer is peeling off at the prospect of him following me to my apartment. “Are you sure?” he says, repeatedly. Yes, I’m very sure, thanks. See you later! And with that I turn and walk away, feeling like I just barely got out before the shit hit the fan. The people in the house had looked confused the whole time, even after we had walked up and Enrique said, “oh, this is a friend.” I wonder what they thought; I tried not to look into their faces. Did they think I was some loose little American girl? Did Enrique want me to come so he could show me off and insinuate something that didn’t exist?
I got home safely, did a mandatory email check, and went upstairs to read or something (I already can’t remember!) Soon I got hungry, and so walked down to the corner store to get some peanuts. On my way back, lo and behold- Enrique calls my name in the dark. I call out cheerfully back to him. Play it cool, play it cool. I don’t even think he would really do anything, I just don’t want to give him the opportunity to let the thought even enter his head. Don’t touch me, don’t touch me. Leave me alone. Just 100 ft to my apartment. I offer him some peanuts, and we repeat the painful dog whipping; he seems to have forgotten the answers to all the questions he had asked before. Perhaps he’s smitten. He almost looks like he’s ready to climb the stairs ahead of me (good god, he knows which room I live in!), but I don’t even go near the stairs. I stay and do the dog kicking, declining his invitations to hang out with a cool face and vague lies like, “well, my professor said she’d be on after 9 to talk” (after asking him the time and saw it was 9), and “oh, I don’t know when I’ll be back but we’ll probably see each other since we always seem to!” (no I don’t want to see you again, bug off!); with perhaps obvious relief I abruptly blurt out, “Well, since we don’t know if we’ll see each other again thanks for everything and it was great meeting you!” He looks confused, a little hurt; perhaps he could feel my real thoughts. Ok, he says, yes it was wonderful meeting you! And shakes me hand a couple of times, kisses my cheek, hugs me in an awkward attempt to hang around for a little while longer while my mind is already hurrying up the stairs, getting away, feeling the relief of his absence.
What gets me is the not knowing- can I trust him? Is he just a friendly, lonely guy looking for a friend? He seems nice enough, but I just can’t take that chance. It’s too risky, and I won’t go down that road. I don’t really feel guilty though, unless by not taking a risk it will have been my own loss.
And as I walked down the dark street tonight, I clenched my fists as a huddle of men, standing in the dim puddle of light cast by the leaning street lamp, turned towards me to look. Or at least so I imagined. And I imagined all the dirty things they were thinking, my jaw clenching as tight as my fists, my eyes growing hard and angry. Don’t look at me, or I’ll beat the living shit out of you, I thought, over and over, more and more angry. I’ll beat the living fucking shit out of you, assholes. Don’t try anything. I felt like I shouldn’t be angry, I had no evidence of what they were thinking, and I have no responsibility for that, anyway. But those same fantasies I had as a kid alone in the car, in the parking lot of the grocery store came back; try to touch me and I´ll kill you.. All that anger, twisting me in it’s hot fury, hot lava spouting from a well of deep hurt and fear whose origin I know nothing of. Fear cultivated by the media? But I think it is deeper than that; when I was so little, no older than 4, I got so angry at people looking at me in my bunny costume. “Stop looking at me!” Mom reports me saying, in a hissing voice poisoned with hatred. What is that hatred, what is that fear? Can I tease it out with rationing and thoughts, or will I just have to do the hardest thing, cut it free, and just let it go?
Saturday, July 11, 2009
MEAT
Hey everybody,
I´ve decided to do an experiment- I ate meat! On purpose, of my own free will! 2 tacos of barbacoa and bistec. And you know what? They were really tasty, and i feel satisfied for the first time in a long time. Living off of bread and fruit really does the body no good. So let´s see if my conciousness goes down the pipes, I get fat and become an animal hating carnivore that will burn in hell for my lack of compassion for my mammilian relatives. Will update later if I don´t turn into the Allidon (my prehistoric reptilian ancestor.)
I´ve decided to do an experiment- I ate meat! On purpose, of my own free will! 2 tacos of barbacoa and bistec. And you know what? They were really tasty, and i feel satisfied for the first time in a long time. Living off of bread and fruit really does the body no good. So let´s see if my conciousness goes down the pipes, I get fat and become an animal hating carnivore that will burn in hell for my lack of compassion for my mammilian relatives. Will update later if I don´t turn into the Allidon (my prehistoric reptilian ancestor.)
Friday, July 10, 2009
NOW! Longer, Deeper,Profounder and Insightfuler! Hot off the Griddle of Allison's Mind! (no refunds, all purchases final)
For one who supposedly decries the evils of technology, I like to type on my computer an awful lot. A lot more, in fact, than I like to write the good ol’ fashioned way. My hands don’t get crampy and you can actually read the words without screwing up your eyes like it’s some cryptic tea-leaf message…it’s magical! And so here I am typing away like one of those birds who perpetually and idiotically dips its beak into a tray of water like some non-stop obsessive compulsion, without a thought or reason. And really, how am I any better? I am engaging in two, no, three compulsive activities right now- thinking and typing away as I eat my little animal crackers, mindlessly crushing skull and bones with my great, big white teeth, dissolving their distorted little two dimensional bodies with my saliva.
I have nothing pressing to write about, nothing to pressing to think about either, really. Should I invent a story? How would it go? Where would it start, and end? What would be the moral? Perhaps I should finish my children’s story of Betty the Butterfly and Ernest the Elephant. I’ll add the drawings later. And also- I have to draw my dream mushroom-tree house! Yes! Oh, the wonderful things you can do and still feel like you’re wasting time because you’re so deeply conditioned to be productive productive, busy busy, all the time to fill every second of your life with activities or thoughts on what you have to do next, or things to worry about, or creating events or thoughts just so you can worry some more. Anything to keep back that empty space, that frightening freedom, of doing nothing, of just existing, seemingly without purpose. So here I am, marinating in just that pickle jar, trying to stay crispy and not become too sour as the lid is fastened. And I sit, and wait.
The president of the cooperative calls me today, an hour before I’m supposed to leave, saying, “Sorry, could you hold off until Monday to come? We just can’t seem to find a room.” And after a few garbled attempts to ask him what the hell he was saying (in politer, though less grammatically correct terms), I finally understand and say, in my best well-meaning and enthusiastic yet foolish and ignorant American voice, “Well, sure, that’s just fine! In fact, it’s just peachy! Thanks!” I hang up, look down at my packed bags, my finished books, my aloneness; in other words, I look the empty space straight in the face. An impossibly heavy sigh escapes my, and the little girl in me says, “I have to wait again? Why? I thought you said we were almost there, and we’ve been waiting so long!” She stamps her foot with a huff. I don’t respond for a while, deciding there is something for me to learn here, some lesson or inner block to get past. And if not, well, I’ll make one up! And a dammed good one at that! I’ve got to convince that little girl somehow, or she’s gonna throw one hell of a fit. “Well, the reason we can’t go yet is because…is because…we’re being tested to make sure we can sit in that empty space for a bit longer because we haven’t been able to really enjoy it yet. We haven’t been able to get to know it enough. And besides, who knows what could happen in a couple of days! All sorts of adventures to be had here in Papantla…” She doesn’t quite seem satisfied.
Main sources of fun in Papantla: crossing and uncrossing my legs; blowing bubbles out the window; trying not to throw dirty looks at the men who yell “Guera guera!” at me as I walk down the street, sucking in fumes and burning like a chicharron under the boiling sun; sitting in the cramped, stuffy, hot staircase of my apartment trying to connect to the internet as people, annoyed, squeeze by me and the 5 apartment Chihuahuas (may their raggedy little hides burn in hell) do the best to revive some past killer instinct in me as they yap away as close to me as they dare in a pitch, frequency, and volume that shouldn’t have to be heard by any living creature on God’s good earth; jumping rope and working out in my room; listening to the family who lives below me; reading (though I’m now out of books, so it’s re-reading); writing whatever hare-brained thoughts come to mind; and finally, going out to eat.
Sadly, the last activity just doesn’t take enough time, though I do enjoy it; it’s just that when I try to engage in it more than I should my body just feels sick and blob-like. Even just eating one meal does that to me here- I have to order half plates, or I might as well kill a cow and eat it all every time my stomach grumbles. And today, as I visited my favorite restaurant for lunch, I watched one of the cooks make up a plate of enchiladas (which are different here than in the States, by the way); she started with a layer of tortillas and pipian (a type of seed ground up into a coarse powder) and on top of each layer poured a good amount of liquid from a saucepot. When I asked her what it was she was ladling on so generously, she simply said, “Fat.” “Mmmm!” I replied, in my usual overly-enthusiastic American voice. Good thing I haven’t ordered the enchiladas.
To give you all an idea of this place and its people (if you’ve managed to get this far), I’ll call my next segment “The Personalities of Papantla.” Since I am currently living in Papantla, I am also technically of Papantla, so I’ll give you an idea of a normal day. My morning might start with me waking up from the incessant honking of a car at 6 o’clock in the morning or perhaps because it’s simply too hot to sleep (even at 5 am), finishing off my jug of water (I drink a gallon a day), and doing a bit of yoga. Next, I wander down the stairs to check my email and wait until 9 o’clock, when anything opens. During this time, I may encounter: the nice but shy woman who I washed clothes with one day the rooftop (will post pics shortly); or the grumpy, grizzled old bastard who gives me the dirtiest looks as he scootches past me without a nod at my cheerful, “Buenos dias!”; or the kid who joins me every now and again in my office to use his computer, too; or the mentally off kid who just seems to hang around, talking and laughing to himself all day; or any one of the other tenants who I recognize but have no connection to whatsoever.
My landlords are a constant, as they live at the base of the stairs I call my office. The father, Polo, is a hairy-backed, beefy man with quite a presence, and the son, also Polo, is a slightly pudgy, effeminate young man with a baby face and a flaccid handshake. Both are nice and friendly enough, though I feel I’m wearing on their patience with my presence, which is understandable; I’m an ever-present disturber of the peace in my little office on the stairs. There’s also the frizzy haired bleach blond mom who I swear is German and her granddaughter, an adorable bright-eyed little girl that I plan on abducting when the time is right. And don’t forget the Chihuahuas! They are either running around free or kept in a locked room on the roof with a smell that leaks from every tiniest crack and invades your olfactory senses even when the wind daren’t whisper. There’s also 3 squawking parrots that live in impossibly small cages in the garage; like the Chihuahuas, I feel a combination of pity and annoyance, though unlike the Chihuahuas, I have no desire to break their scrawny little necks and make their bulging little eyes pop right out of their sockets.
When the clock strikes 9, I walk into town to forage for my first meal of the day and to retrieve my water; usually I head over to the café right next to the cathedral, where they never play music, talk to you, or even smile, but have edible bread and good strong coffee and remember how I like it (with just a little milk). If I’m still hungry I may go to a market and get some yogurt, or go to the square to get a cup of fruit from the dark, leathery, little old man with the tired eyes and cowboy hat who says no more than necessary (until today, when he recognized me and asked some polite questions.) Before I enter the square, though, I make a careful scan with my eyes to make sure there’s no one I know lurking around on one of the benches, on the fringes, under the shade of a tree. It’s a vulnerable place for me, and I feel rather like Peter Rabbit dashing into Mr. MacGregor’s garden to steal some carrots before getting caught.
The reason: because I am probably the only white person (and young woman at that) in town, I’m a better catch than any coney could be to Mr. MacGregor (no pun intended, Dallion!). So far a few men have taken to accosting me or yelling out to me from afar to talk talk talk or invite me to go places and I absolutely despise the thought of seemingly friendly conversation having its roots in hidden intentions; its just plain annoying. I feel awful about it sometime, my suspicion; one man, a friendly, seemingly innocent older chap named Enrique who I’d hung out with when Azalia was here (he’s the one who helped me find the apartment), keeps asking me when I want to go to this nature trail about an hour away and in my mind I’m thinking “STRANGER DANGER!” over and over while outwardly I kindly thank him and say I don’t know when I’ll be here or have time (“NO, I DON’T WANT ANY CANDY!”) So he says, “Ok, I’ll just see you at your apartment some time then!” Is that culture, or just creepy?
Gaudencio, the Totonac guy I’ve written about before, followed me within the first 15 minutes after I met him to the supermarket where I went to buy water and then, against my better judgment and promises that I didn’t need his help, carried it to my apartment where luckily the landlords gave him a cold look and blank stare when he greeted them and I didn’t have to worry about how to escape up the stairs without him following me. Could’ve been a close call, and perhaps I should just be ruder, but that doesn’t even work sometimes and I don’t want to leave a bad impression for the sake of other white people. He has since caught me twice more in town and luckily situations have arrived to relieve me of him, but I avoid the possibility of contact as much as possible. So that’s why I don’t usually go to the square.
Since restaurants near the square are out of the question, I have adopted this little restaurant called Antonjeria El Pinguin that’s a few blocks down. It’s a nice, clean little place with wooden tables and a fan and big windows and the kitchen is dinky and right there when you walk in. The cooks, two women who barely say a word but smile kindly at me, hand make tortillas and everything on the spot. The host of the place, Rodolfo- an older, hefty, dark man with darker eyes, a thin silvery beard, and a serious face- struck me at once as someone I could trust; he didn’t treat me different than any of the other customers, was just as honestly serious, straightforward, and respectful while still being friendly and kind and businesslike. He reminds me a bit of a mafia man. The walls of the restaurant are painted a wholesome green color and decorated with some highly racist cartoon-caricatures of a black guy, the likes of which were banned in the US in the 1970s. I like the food and the place, it’s delicious, cheap, I only have to order half to be stuffed, and they’ll give me salad like the kind I lived off in Ecuador- shredded iceburg lettuce, a few slices of tomato, lemon juice and salt. It’s a lifesaver for a vegetable lover in a place where it’s hard to find any vegetables to order and even harder to find anything fresh. Rodolfo and the cooks are always cordial, and when I told them today I was leaving to go live in the country he warned me to be really careful and gave me both some tips for dealing with men and his card to call if I ever needed anything. “If anything happens,” he said, “you can just come right back to Papantla, eh?” I smiled and nodded, and he smiled back in a most uncreepy, fatherly way.
For the rest of my day, I workout in my room for an hour or so before or after my lunch at Rodolfo’s, then spend the rest of the day engaging in the activities I listed above, occasionally going out for a snack or to run some errand. I wear the same purple dress just about everyday, so I’m pretty sure people recognize me more than I recognize them. There are more personalities everywhere; the kids playing barefoot with a ball in the streets; the old women perched on the curb near the corner bakery who I rarely see talking; the woman I see everyday through the window in her house across the way spending the day doing domestic chores; the vendors walking with baskets on their heads of all sorts of goodies, including one fruit that I at first thought to be a flower and it turned out delicious! If I’m feeling brave, I’ll sneak to the little market near the plaza to get a tamal or some enchiladas for dinner; the women always squint at me in frustration as I try to describe what I want, “You know, that tamal that’s a little spicy and has beans and squash?” “Oh! You mean the tuna one.” “No, no! with beans and squash!” “Oh, you mean _____?” “Yes, that one!” We’re shouting trying to comprehend each other over the din of the crowd, and the other girls vending food nearby giggle at my perpetual inability to remember the name of the thing I always order and my apparently incomprehensible attempts to describe it.
I watch the sunset from my bedroom windows or perhaps from the church steps, then sit at home and read with my headlamp (the lightbulbs don’t work in my room) or use the computer until I finally make my untired body go to sleep on my bed that sinks about a foot in the middle, placed right next to the growing, guilty tower of plastic water jugs that I can’t recycle, listening to the sounds of the night and trying my best to attract the breeze from the fan that I can never get to point at my body. I don’t remember my dreams here, but I have a hard time sleeping well anyway and the constant questions when? why? what? play in the back of my mind like CD with a scratch. That woman I see in the window, doing the same chores everyday; does her life have any less or more meaning than mine? Does that of the crumpled old fruit man? What the hell are we all doing here, anyway? I look the empty space straight in the face each morning as I get up to start it all over again.
Such is a day in the life of a gringa loca in Papantla, Veracruz, Mexico. And all I can say is- I’m glad someone finally dumped the huge, rancid, oozing box of trash that has greeted me at my door until this morning, and that last night, for the first time in two weeks of just spitting rain, there was a thunderstorm.
I have nothing pressing to write about, nothing to pressing to think about either, really. Should I invent a story? How would it go? Where would it start, and end? What would be the moral? Perhaps I should finish my children’s story of Betty the Butterfly and Ernest the Elephant. I’ll add the drawings later. And also- I have to draw my dream mushroom-tree house! Yes! Oh, the wonderful things you can do and still feel like you’re wasting time because you’re so deeply conditioned to be productive productive, busy busy, all the time to fill every second of your life with activities or thoughts on what you have to do next, or things to worry about, or creating events or thoughts just so you can worry some more. Anything to keep back that empty space, that frightening freedom, of doing nothing, of just existing, seemingly without purpose. So here I am, marinating in just that pickle jar, trying to stay crispy and not become too sour as the lid is fastened. And I sit, and wait.
The president of the cooperative calls me today, an hour before I’m supposed to leave, saying, “Sorry, could you hold off until Monday to come? We just can’t seem to find a room.” And after a few garbled attempts to ask him what the hell he was saying (in politer, though less grammatically correct terms), I finally understand and say, in my best well-meaning and enthusiastic yet foolish and ignorant American voice, “Well, sure, that’s just fine! In fact, it’s just peachy! Thanks!” I hang up, look down at my packed bags, my finished books, my aloneness; in other words, I look the empty space straight in the face. An impossibly heavy sigh escapes my, and the little girl in me says, “I have to wait again? Why? I thought you said we were almost there, and we’ve been waiting so long!” She stamps her foot with a huff. I don’t respond for a while, deciding there is something for me to learn here, some lesson or inner block to get past. And if not, well, I’ll make one up! And a dammed good one at that! I’ve got to convince that little girl somehow, or she’s gonna throw one hell of a fit. “Well, the reason we can’t go yet is because…is because…we’re being tested to make sure we can sit in that empty space for a bit longer because we haven’t been able to really enjoy it yet. We haven’t been able to get to know it enough. And besides, who knows what could happen in a couple of days! All sorts of adventures to be had here in Papantla…” She doesn’t quite seem satisfied.
Main sources of fun in Papantla: crossing and uncrossing my legs; blowing bubbles out the window; trying not to throw dirty looks at the men who yell “Guera guera!” at me as I walk down the street, sucking in fumes and burning like a chicharron under the boiling sun; sitting in the cramped, stuffy, hot staircase of my apartment trying to connect to the internet as people, annoyed, squeeze by me and the 5 apartment Chihuahuas (may their raggedy little hides burn in hell) do the best to revive some past killer instinct in me as they yap away as close to me as they dare in a pitch, frequency, and volume that shouldn’t have to be heard by any living creature on God’s good earth; jumping rope and working out in my room; listening to the family who lives below me; reading (though I’m now out of books, so it’s re-reading); writing whatever hare-brained thoughts come to mind; and finally, going out to eat.
Sadly, the last activity just doesn’t take enough time, though I do enjoy it; it’s just that when I try to engage in it more than I should my body just feels sick and blob-like. Even just eating one meal does that to me here- I have to order half plates, or I might as well kill a cow and eat it all every time my stomach grumbles. And today, as I visited my favorite restaurant for lunch, I watched one of the cooks make up a plate of enchiladas (which are different here than in the States, by the way); she started with a layer of tortillas and pipian (a type of seed ground up into a coarse powder) and on top of each layer poured a good amount of liquid from a saucepot. When I asked her what it was she was ladling on so generously, she simply said, “Fat.” “Mmmm!” I replied, in my usual overly-enthusiastic American voice. Good thing I haven’t ordered the enchiladas.
To give you all an idea of this place and its people (if you’ve managed to get this far), I’ll call my next segment “The Personalities of Papantla.” Since I am currently living in Papantla, I am also technically of Papantla, so I’ll give you an idea of a normal day. My morning might start with me waking up from the incessant honking of a car at 6 o’clock in the morning or perhaps because it’s simply too hot to sleep (even at 5 am), finishing off my jug of water (I drink a gallon a day), and doing a bit of yoga. Next, I wander down the stairs to check my email and wait until 9 o’clock, when anything opens. During this time, I may encounter: the nice but shy woman who I washed clothes with one day the rooftop (will post pics shortly); or the grumpy, grizzled old bastard who gives me the dirtiest looks as he scootches past me without a nod at my cheerful, “Buenos dias!”; or the kid who joins me every now and again in my office to use his computer, too; or the mentally off kid who just seems to hang around, talking and laughing to himself all day; or any one of the other tenants who I recognize but have no connection to whatsoever.
My landlords are a constant, as they live at the base of the stairs I call my office. The father, Polo, is a hairy-backed, beefy man with quite a presence, and the son, also Polo, is a slightly pudgy, effeminate young man with a baby face and a flaccid handshake. Both are nice and friendly enough, though I feel I’m wearing on their patience with my presence, which is understandable; I’m an ever-present disturber of the peace in my little office on the stairs. There’s also the frizzy haired bleach blond mom who I swear is German and her granddaughter, an adorable bright-eyed little girl that I plan on abducting when the time is right. And don’t forget the Chihuahuas! They are either running around free or kept in a locked room on the roof with a smell that leaks from every tiniest crack and invades your olfactory senses even when the wind daren’t whisper. There’s also 3 squawking parrots that live in impossibly small cages in the garage; like the Chihuahuas, I feel a combination of pity and annoyance, though unlike the Chihuahuas, I have no desire to break their scrawny little necks and make their bulging little eyes pop right out of their sockets.
When the clock strikes 9, I walk into town to forage for my first meal of the day and to retrieve my water; usually I head over to the café right next to the cathedral, where they never play music, talk to you, or even smile, but have edible bread and good strong coffee and remember how I like it (with just a little milk). If I’m still hungry I may go to a market and get some yogurt, or go to the square to get a cup of fruit from the dark, leathery, little old man with the tired eyes and cowboy hat who says no more than necessary (until today, when he recognized me and asked some polite questions.) Before I enter the square, though, I make a careful scan with my eyes to make sure there’s no one I know lurking around on one of the benches, on the fringes, under the shade of a tree. It’s a vulnerable place for me, and I feel rather like Peter Rabbit dashing into Mr. MacGregor’s garden to steal some carrots before getting caught.
The reason: because I am probably the only white person (and young woman at that) in town, I’m a better catch than any coney could be to Mr. MacGregor (no pun intended, Dallion!). So far a few men have taken to accosting me or yelling out to me from afar to talk talk talk or invite me to go places and I absolutely despise the thought of seemingly friendly conversation having its roots in hidden intentions; its just plain annoying. I feel awful about it sometime, my suspicion; one man, a friendly, seemingly innocent older chap named Enrique who I’d hung out with when Azalia was here (he’s the one who helped me find the apartment), keeps asking me when I want to go to this nature trail about an hour away and in my mind I’m thinking “STRANGER DANGER!” over and over while outwardly I kindly thank him and say I don’t know when I’ll be here or have time (“NO, I DON’T WANT ANY CANDY!”) So he says, “Ok, I’ll just see you at your apartment some time then!” Is that culture, or just creepy?
Gaudencio, the Totonac guy I’ve written about before, followed me within the first 15 minutes after I met him to the supermarket where I went to buy water and then, against my better judgment and promises that I didn’t need his help, carried it to my apartment where luckily the landlords gave him a cold look and blank stare when he greeted them and I didn’t have to worry about how to escape up the stairs without him following me. Could’ve been a close call, and perhaps I should just be ruder, but that doesn’t even work sometimes and I don’t want to leave a bad impression for the sake of other white people. He has since caught me twice more in town and luckily situations have arrived to relieve me of him, but I avoid the possibility of contact as much as possible. So that’s why I don’t usually go to the square.
Since restaurants near the square are out of the question, I have adopted this little restaurant called Antonjeria El Pinguin that’s a few blocks down. It’s a nice, clean little place with wooden tables and a fan and big windows and the kitchen is dinky and right there when you walk in. The cooks, two women who barely say a word but smile kindly at me, hand make tortillas and everything on the spot. The host of the place, Rodolfo- an older, hefty, dark man with darker eyes, a thin silvery beard, and a serious face- struck me at once as someone I could trust; he didn’t treat me different than any of the other customers, was just as honestly serious, straightforward, and respectful while still being friendly and kind and businesslike. He reminds me a bit of a mafia man. The walls of the restaurant are painted a wholesome green color and decorated with some highly racist cartoon-caricatures of a black guy, the likes of which were banned in the US in the 1970s. I like the food and the place, it’s delicious, cheap, I only have to order half to be stuffed, and they’ll give me salad like the kind I lived off in Ecuador- shredded iceburg lettuce, a few slices of tomato, lemon juice and salt. It’s a lifesaver for a vegetable lover in a place where it’s hard to find any vegetables to order and even harder to find anything fresh. Rodolfo and the cooks are always cordial, and when I told them today I was leaving to go live in the country he warned me to be really careful and gave me both some tips for dealing with men and his card to call if I ever needed anything. “If anything happens,” he said, “you can just come right back to Papantla, eh?” I smiled and nodded, and he smiled back in a most uncreepy, fatherly way.
For the rest of my day, I workout in my room for an hour or so before or after my lunch at Rodolfo’s, then spend the rest of the day engaging in the activities I listed above, occasionally going out for a snack or to run some errand. I wear the same purple dress just about everyday, so I’m pretty sure people recognize me more than I recognize them. There are more personalities everywhere; the kids playing barefoot with a ball in the streets; the old women perched on the curb near the corner bakery who I rarely see talking; the woman I see everyday through the window in her house across the way spending the day doing domestic chores; the vendors walking with baskets on their heads of all sorts of goodies, including one fruit that I at first thought to be a flower and it turned out delicious! If I’m feeling brave, I’ll sneak to the little market near the plaza to get a tamal or some enchiladas for dinner; the women always squint at me in frustration as I try to describe what I want, “You know, that tamal that’s a little spicy and has beans and squash?” “Oh! You mean the tuna one.” “No, no! with beans and squash!” “Oh, you mean _____?” “Yes, that one!” We’re shouting trying to comprehend each other over the din of the crowd, and the other girls vending food nearby giggle at my perpetual inability to remember the name of the thing I always order and my apparently incomprehensible attempts to describe it.
I watch the sunset from my bedroom windows or perhaps from the church steps, then sit at home and read with my headlamp (the lightbulbs don’t work in my room) or use the computer until I finally make my untired body go to sleep on my bed that sinks about a foot in the middle, placed right next to the growing, guilty tower of plastic water jugs that I can’t recycle, listening to the sounds of the night and trying my best to attract the breeze from the fan that I can never get to point at my body. I don’t remember my dreams here, but I have a hard time sleeping well anyway and the constant questions when? why? what? play in the back of my mind like CD with a scratch. That woman I see in the window, doing the same chores everyday; does her life have any less or more meaning than mine? Does that of the crumpled old fruit man? What the hell are we all doing here, anyway? I look the empty space straight in the face each morning as I get up to start it all over again.
Such is a day in the life of a gringa loca in Papantla, Veracruz, Mexico. And all I can say is- I’m glad someone finally dumped the huge, rancid, oozing box of trash that has greeted me at my door until this morning, and that last night, for the first time in two weeks of just spitting rain, there was a thunderstorm.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Quick Update
So today I finally just made the leap and went to visit the community. After not being able to contact them for so long, I was nervous, but it was easy-peasy and they were really nice. Friday I go back at 4 o'clock to find out who I'm living with- they had to look for someone with an open room that could house me. And while I was talking to a guy on the bus, a primary school teacher whose name I can't remember but started with a Y (aha! it's Yurian!), I learned that a town called Pueblillo has internet and it's only 3 km away! I could even walk that! The community is even more lovely than I remember it- there's all sorts of birds and plants and flowering things and domestic animals and people riding horses and EVERYTHING. Plus loads of mangoes on the ground and squirrels eating tamarinds in the trees. And it's nice and quiet and a bit cooler than Papantla- heaven.
So that settles it; everything will work out the way it works out, for the best in its own way and I don't feel like such a dreary dark storm-cloud anymore, hiding the light of the sun.
So that settles it; everything will work out the way it works out, for the best in its own way and I don't feel like such a dreary dark storm-cloud anymore, hiding the light of the sun.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
A week's worth of worthlessness (well, almost)
Where to begin…
It’s been a week since I last wrote, and I have to say, not much has happened concerning my project. Most of the time I’ve been holed up here in my room in Papantla, with the growing feeling that I was trapping myself in a self-created hell, a cage that I was too afraid to get out of yet hated being in. However, I did get to workout frequently, read a lot (4 books! And big, dense ones!), and did a lot of thinking that led me every which way on the philosophical and emotional road map- meaning of life, personal issues, goals, the world, animism, culture, etc. Each day, each hour, was a completely different experience- one moment I was overjoyed by the sounds floating gracefully through my open windows, carried by the heavy air; another moment I was lamenting my seeming incapability to do anything of use and feeling like a useless, unmotivated cad trapped in this god-forsaken hot hellhole and spiting life. Furthermore, my body was feeling awful from a combination of a lot of things- the chicken I had eaten at Don Santiago’s, bad and irregular eating, the heat, and probably an overload of stress and crazy hormones. Thank you God for making me a woman.
Luckily I got a few breaks from my pensive and rather unstable solitude; last week I had a wonderful surprise- Nelly, a student from Veracruz who will be living with me next year, just happened to be in town on her way to visit a campus of UVI north of here by about 4 hours in the Huasteca region. We met up in the morning in the middle of my juice breakfast with Gaudencio, the ambitious, scholarly, overfriendly and slightly irritating Totonac guy who had decided to befriend me probably because I am, as far as I know, the only white person in town and he wants to practice his English. I was quite grateful for the excuse to leave (sorry, Gaudencio!), and so Nelly and I met in the park to chat about the room and house and Austin and later moved on to a restaurant for some coffee with her other two companions, some higher-ups in UVI. They invited me to accompany them to the campus, and of course I jumped on the chance, eager for the company and change of scenery. And we went in a car! With air conditioning! I think I actually prefer buses though, with their smelly, rickety seats and windows open wide to the fumes and dust of the road and sounds and smells of the surrounding landscape, for better or worse.
The trip was long and trying, but finally we made it to the campus in a lovely small town with a neat church and graveyard whose name I can’t remember (really, you have no idea how hard it is to pronounce, much less remember some of the indigenous names). Nelly interviewed some students about their thoughts of the university and what they’re doing while I sat by listening and playing the now familiar role of the slightly silly and ignorant yet well-meaning American, throwing in a few garbled questions, comments, and thumbs ups here and there. The students were nice, though shy, and the interviews very enlightening; it seems that UVI isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be. Like so many “rural development projects,” its bark is bigger than its bite and the campuses still do not receive the quality education of services of city universities by a long shot. Nonetheless, most agreed it was a step in the right direction, they just wish the head honchos in Xalapa would actually spend some more investment of time and energy in the schools and not so much on their high-sounding rhetoric of sustainable development. On the whole, the trip was well worth it- it was great getting to know Nelly (who is super-cool!) and the two Davids (the guys from UVI) and I appreciated all of their hospitality (they paid for everything!).
After that day adventure, the next few days really began my anxiety and pensiveness, so to get a bit of fresh air and hopefully fresh thoughts, I decided to go to Puebla, a city in the highlands about 6 hours away to visit Coleman and see the town. He and a group of students were traveling to there and to Mexico City (DF) with their professor as a guide, so I thought it’d be a great opportunity to tag along. I made reservations for a hotel that was way overpriced and which later to my dismay I discovered it has its base in MacAllen, TX, and then booked it over there Friday just in time to walk around town for a couple of hours before dark. They city is great- so many beautiful churches (supposedly 365, and each one has a party each day of the year), good food, pretty safe, and blessedly cool weather. The next day we made the trek to DF, which I unexpectedly really enjoyed, despite the size and activity of the city. There were so many people that the chaos never seemed to stop- hippies and average folks selling jewelry and other imaginable trinkets on the streets (even bubbles!), all kinds of dances and performances, and marches and a sex shop on every corner. We visited the National Museum of Anthropology which was interesting, but a bit of an overload, then I finally got to see some voladores (the dancers/musicians who fly from a 20 meter pole) and then we walked around downtown. The best part (besides the bubbles) was the murals- we saw some of the first from the revolutionary artists of the1920s and 30s. They were spectacular, like reading a myriad of stories and messages and ideas all at once, intertwined, layered, and inscribed in the paint.
We returned to Puebla late and I got to bed even later because this lonely and annoyingly chatty American man wouldn’t leave me alone when I was trying to take care of computer business in the hotel lobby. He kept saying things like, “Well, they have some technology here, but not like in AMERICA,” and I first realized how much pride I had for Mexico as I stood up for this country and the people. Without much sleep, the next day wasn’t as enjoyable as I had hoped; my inner demons of rebellion, control, anxiety, and indecision got their chance to creep out of the closet, so after spending a little more than half the day with the Coleman and the group on an enjoyable trip to Cholula to see a church built on top of an ancient temple and another awesome church plastered with carvings of people, fruit, and saints all over the ceilings and walls, I began to feel the pangs of anxiety and felt I needed to return to Papantla to continue my work. After buying some bubbles and an ice cream for my emotional and biological hungers, I decided to catch the bus and head back to Papantla. Still not knowing what exactly I would do, I came back and spent yesterday in a similar state of panic, self-pity, and confusion, feeling lost and lonely as all hell and without a clue what to do. I finally decided to call the community this morning to arrange the first interviews, but alas! the calls failed. I ended up leaving a broken message in horribly butchered Spanish to the president of the coop- I just pray he never gets it…
But today came the big breakthrough- I FINALLY got to talk to my professor about everything, and what a relief! Her gushing confidence and excitement always manages to spill over onto me and gives me a boost of energy and motivation that makes me feel this is all easy-peasy, a cake walk, and I just have to get the ball rolling. I’d been feeling increasingly negative and wanted to get this over with: wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am and get the hell out of here. But now, we’ve decided on a new course of action; instead of staying here in Papantla I will go tomorrow to the cooperative and just ask if there’s someone who can give me room and board, and I will begin a series of interviews and walk-abouts with the farmers. Hopefully I’ll get to know the community more intimately and start doing some real work while feeling more personally connected to the project and the community. Considering the cool reception I received on my last visit, I’m more than a little frightened by it all, but isn’t getting over your fears what life's all about? And frankly, I’ll be glad to get out of Papantla; I think my landlords and fellow tenants have come to see me as a nuisance- the gringa loca who is always sitting on the stairs or in some equally in-the-way place using her computer because I can’t get internet in my room and half the time I'm either crying or on the verge of tears. And the smell and high-frequency yips of the freaking Chihuahuas is driving me to extremes of anti-dog sentiments, not to mention the mysterious appearance of a mammoth box full of trash and dirty baby diapers outside my door…
Anyway, wish me luck and love, peace, and mangoes to all!
Allison
And some random thoughts:
As I made my way back through the mountains from Puebla, passing countless little towns hidden away in secret valleys, the nearly full moon shone bright and everything became a different world. The beautifully sad face of the moon sparkled on the waters of the mountain streams and lakes, its dusty light filtered through the forests in an other-worldly glow. It helped me see that there is more to life than we are accustomed to seeing, more than one way to see the world, or perhaps more than one world.
There exists a world underneath this one, underneath the level of awareness we are awarded in this life there is that layer of reality in which time and place hold no governing power, where the spirit exists purely in its glory and light and celebrates the never-ending cycle life.
Bubbles- what magical creatures! To me they encompass all the fleeting beauty of life, that ephemeral joy of just floating along on the currents of wind until you pop or something pops you and poof! you’re dispersed into thousands of tiny particles that are absorbed back into the great ocean of air and matter. Plus I can entertain myself for an amazing amount of time blowing them and watching their life span unfold before my eyes, imagining the joy they might give to some unsuspecting passerby.
It’s been a week since I last wrote, and I have to say, not much has happened concerning my project. Most of the time I’ve been holed up here in my room in Papantla, with the growing feeling that I was trapping myself in a self-created hell, a cage that I was too afraid to get out of yet hated being in. However, I did get to workout frequently, read a lot (4 books! And big, dense ones!), and did a lot of thinking that led me every which way on the philosophical and emotional road map- meaning of life, personal issues, goals, the world, animism, culture, etc. Each day, each hour, was a completely different experience- one moment I was overjoyed by the sounds floating gracefully through my open windows, carried by the heavy air; another moment I was lamenting my seeming incapability to do anything of use and feeling like a useless, unmotivated cad trapped in this god-forsaken hot hellhole and spiting life. Furthermore, my body was feeling awful from a combination of a lot of things- the chicken I had eaten at Don Santiago’s, bad and irregular eating, the heat, and probably an overload of stress and crazy hormones. Thank you God for making me a woman.
Luckily I got a few breaks from my pensive and rather unstable solitude; last week I had a wonderful surprise- Nelly, a student from Veracruz who will be living with me next year, just happened to be in town on her way to visit a campus of UVI north of here by about 4 hours in the Huasteca region. We met up in the morning in the middle of my juice breakfast with Gaudencio, the ambitious, scholarly, overfriendly and slightly irritating Totonac guy who had decided to befriend me probably because I am, as far as I know, the only white person in town and he wants to practice his English. I was quite grateful for the excuse to leave (sorry, Gaudencio!), and so Nelly and I met in the park to chat about the room and house and Austin and later moved on to a restaurant for some coffee with her other two companions, some higher-ups in UVI. They invited me to accompany them to the campus, and of course I jumped on the chance, eager for the company and change of scenery. And we went in a car! With air conditioning! I think I actually prefer buses though, with their smelly, rickety seats and windows open wide to the fumes and dust of the road and sounds and smells of the surrounding landscape, for better or worse.
The trip was long and trying, but finally we made it to the campus in a lovely small town with a neat church and graveyard whose name I can’t remember (really, you have no idea how hard it is to pronounce, much less remember some of the indigenous names). Nelly interviewed some students about their thoughts of the university and what they’re doing while I sat by listening and playing the now familiar role of the slightly silly and ignorant yet well-meaning American, throwing in a few garbled questions, comments, and thumbs ups here and there. The students were nice, though shy, and the interviews very enlightening; it seems that UVI isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be. Like so many “rural development projects,” its bark is bigger than its bite and the campuses still do not receive the quality education of services of city universities by a long shot. Nonetheless, most agreed it was a step in the right direction, they just wish the head honchos in Xalapa would actually spend some more investment of time and energy in the schools and not so much on their high-sounding rhetoric of sustainable development. On the whole, the trip was well worth it- it was great getting to know Nelly (who is super-cool!) and the two Davids (the guys from UVI) and I appreciated all of their hospitality (they paid for everything!).
After that day adventure, the next few days really began my anxiety and pensiveness, so to get a bit of fresh air and hopefully fresh thoughts, I decided to go to Puebla, a city in the highlands about 6 hours away to visit Coleman and see the town. He and a group of students were traveling to there and to Mexico City (DF) with their professor as a guide, so I thought it’d be a great opportunity to tag along. I made reservations for a hotel that was way overpriced and which later to my dismay I discovered it has its base in MacAllen, TX, and then booked it over there Friday just in time to walk around town for a couple of hours before dark. They city is great- so many beautiful churches (supposedly 365, and each one has a party each day of the year), good food, pretty safe, and blessedly cool weather. The next day we made the trek to DF, which I unexpectedly really enjoyed, despite the size and activity of the city. There were so many people that the chaos never seemed to stop- hippies and average folks selling jewelry and other imaginable trinkets on the streets (even bubbles!), all kinds of dances and performances, and marches and a sex shop on every corner. We visited the National Museum of Anthropology which was interesting, but a bit of an overload, then I finally got to see some voladores (the dancers/musicians who fly from a 20 meter pole) and then we walked around downtown. The best part (besides the bubbles) was the murals- we saw some of the first from the revolutionary artists of the1920s and 30s. They were spectacular, like reading a myriad of stories and messages and ideas all at once, intertwined, layered, and inscribed in the paint.
We returned to Puebla late and I got to bed even later because this lonely and annoyingly chatty American man wouldn’t leave me alone when I was trying to take care of computer business in the hotel lobby. He kept saying things like, “Well, they have some technology here, but not like in AMERICA,” and I first realized how much pride I had for Mexico as I stood up for this country and the people. Without much sleep, the next day wasn’t as enjoyable as I had hoped; my inner demons of rebellion, control, anxiety, and indecision got their chance to creep out of the closet, so after spending a little more than half the day with the Coleman and the group on an enjoyable trip to Cholula to see a church built on top of an ancient temple and another awesome church plastered with carvings of people, fruit, and saints all over the ceilings and walls, I began to feel the pangs of anxiety and felt I needed to return to Papantla to continue my work. After buying some bubbles and an ice cream for my emotional and biological hungers, I decided to catch the bus and head back to Papantla. Still not knowing what exactly I would do, I came back and spent yesterday in a similar state of panic, self-pity, and confusion, feeling lost and lonely as all hell and without a clue what to do. I finally decided to call the community this morning to arrange the first interviews, but alas! the calls failed. I ended up leaving a broken message in horribly butchered Spanish to the president of the coop- I just pray he never gets it…
But today came the big breakthrough- I FINALLY got to talk to my professor about everything, and what a relief! Her gushing confidence and excitement always manages to spill over onto me and gives me a boost of energy and motivation that makes me feel this is all easy-peasy, a cake walk, and I just have to get the ball rolling. I’d been feeling increasingly negative and wanted to get this over with: wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am and get the hell out of here. But now, we’ve decided on a new course of action; instead of staying here in Papantla I will go tomorrow to the cooperative and just ask if there’s someone who can give me room and board, and I will begin a series of interviews and walk-abouts with the farmers. Hopefully I’ll get to know the community more intimately and start doing some real work while feeling more personally connected to the project and the community. Considering the cool reception I received on my last visit, I’m more than a little frightened by it all, but isn’t getting over your fears what life's all about? And frankly, I’ll be glad to get out of Papantla; I think my landlords and fellow tenants have come to see me as a nuisance- the gringa loca who is always sitting on the stairs or in some equally in-the-way place using her computer because I can’t get internet in my room and half the time I'm either crying or on the verge of tears. And the smell and high-frequency yips of the freaking Chihuahuas is driving me to extremes of anti-dog sentiments, not to mention the mysterious appearance of a mammoth box full of trash and dirty baby diapers outside my door…
Anyway, wish me luck and love, peace, and mangoes to all!
Allison
And some random thoughts:
As I made my way back through the mountains from Puebla, passing countless little towns hidden away in secret valleys, the nearly full moon shone bright and everything became a different world. The beautifully sad face of the moon sparkled on the waters of the mountain streams and lakes, its dusty light filtered through the forests in an other-worldly glow. It helped me see that there is more to life than we are accustomed to seeing, more than one way to see the world, or perhaps more than one world.
There exists a world underneath this one, underneath the level of awareness we are awarded in this life there is that layer of reality in which time and place hold no governing power, where the spirit exists purely in its glory and light and celebrates the never-ending cycle life.
Bubbles- what magical creatures! To me they encompass all the fleeting beauty of life, that ephemeral joy of just floating along on the currents of wind until you pop or something pops you and poof! you’re dispersed into thousands of tiny particles that are absorbed back into the great ocean of air and matter. Plus I can entertain myself for an amazing amount of time blowing them and watching their life span unfold before my eyes, imagining the joy they might give to some unsuspecting passerby.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Vanilla, chicken, and earthworm stew (with a deathly dessert)
I have to say that things have, on the whole, been better. Yesterday Azalia and I were escorted by two other (and much friendlier) UVI students to visit with a couple vainilleros in a different region. We were late to meet them there and I’m afraid I made a grave error when talking to one of the professors; I was still a bit peeved by the attitude of the students from the other day, and when she asked how I would want to collaborate with UVI and I said “Well, I think I just want to work alone” she got all huffy and I could just see the steam coming off of her and her eyes were burning into me. Ooops. She lectured me about my attitude, which I though was ironic, but she didn’t know how the students had acted. I tried to defend myself with no luck, and she walked away with a begrudging goodbye. I regret acting from a lower place than I should have, but honestly, they just make me feel unwelcome and uncomfortable and I’d rather work alone! There is a more complicated under story that I’m unaware of, which includes relations between people in the school, their views of the world, their experiences with north Americans, and the fact that what I’m doing here will affect their community and not mine. It’s all very messy and sensitive and complicated stuff which makes my ignorance and awkwardness stand out even more than my white skin. I have to remember that I’m here not only representing myself, but the University of Texas and the United States. That’s a heavy load to carry!
Nonetheless, I had a lovely day traveling with the other two students- Reynaldo and Gustavo- and after a long couple of taxi rides on bumpy dirt roads in the searing heat, we arrived at out first destination. Don Cristobal, a vanilla farmer, was my first interview ever, and I think it went all right. They seemed to be expecting more from me, but honestly, I don’t have much to say and a limited vocabulary and mental power to transmit messages from English to Spanish and then produce them into sounds that can be understood. I learned some new things though- irrigation is a must for vanilla growing, as they suck up more water than juniper trees and will die without being thoroughly soaked, and that robbers sometime come, kill the farmer, and take the vanilla. I think it happened more in the past, but geeze! I was reminded both of the value of vanilla and of how strange life is.
After a brief show-around we left for the next farm and were led by this little boy down a dozen of long, hot dirt paths to the milpa, or mixed crop fields, to meet Don Santiago Francisco, and awesome guy and farmer. He grows organic vanilla, naranja (oranges), maiz, tomates, bananas, mangoes, frijoles, palmilla (used both to make ink for the American dollar and to wrap tamales- ironic, no?), lemons and café, plus probably a whole lot of other stuff I couldn’t recognize or remember. He is currently writing a book in Totonac (in which he is fluent) maintains an awesome vermiculture system (worm compost), bakes his own bread, and has a multitude of chickens, turkeys, 2 goats, and a dog. Needless to say he gets a lot of help from his wife and 10 children; while we were visiting his wife kindly invited us to supper consisting of mole with chicken (which I DID eat and have to say that despite my guilt, it was delicious) and hand made tortillas made with their home-grown corn. It was all pretty amazing stuff, and I admire their lifestyle. They were so kind and generous; I wish I could have given them something in thanks! But that’s just the thing; here when someone shows you hospitality they don’t want pay or anything and it’s considered offensive. But then when the gringos come and everyone gives them stuff and they leave, many seem to think that they come just to use and exploit the kindness of the people. What to do, what to do?
When saying goodbye to the family I made yet another mistake; do NOT kiss men in the country on the cheek when greeting or saying goodbye! It is an acceptable practice in among women and both sexes in the cities, but definitely not with men in the county. As I went to kiss Don Santiago on the cheek he turned his head abruptly to dodge it, but luckily I had to catch the bus in a hurry and was saved from the awkwardness of it all. I think they just laughed at me for not knowing the customs or how to act, so once again I’m just a silly, ignorant American. Quite humbling.
Azalia left on a night bus bound for Xalapa, so now I’m on my own! Wish me luck!
P.S. I been exploring my fears and the thought has ocurred to me that all my fears have their origins in the fear of death (fear of rejection= you won´t be able to survive on your own, etc). Fears are so complex and multifaceted, they´re quite interesting to explore, but if you´re not careful you can get lost in the maze they create in your mind. Please post thoughts below!
¡Saludos!
Allison
Nonetheless, I had a lovely day traveling with the other two students- Reynaldo and Gustavo- and after a long couple of taxi rides on bumpy dirt roads in the searing heat, we arrived at out first destination. Don Cristobal, a vanilla farmer, was my first interview ever, and I think it went all right. They seemed to be expecting more from me, but honestly, I don’t have much to say and a limited vocabulary and mental power to transmit messages from English to Spanish and then produce them into sounds that can be understood. I learned some new things though- irrigation is a must for vanilla growing, as they suck up more water than juniper trees and will die without being thoroughly soaked, and that robbers sometime come, kill the farmer, and take the vanilla. I think it happened more in the past, but geeze! I was reminded both of the value of vanilla and of how strange life is.
After a brief show-around we left for the next farm and were led by this little boy down a dozen of long, hot dirt paths to the milpa, or mixed crop fields, to meet Don Santiago Francisco, and awesome guy and farmer. He grows organic vanilla, naranja (oranges), maiz, tomates, bananas, mangoes, frijoles, palmilla (used both to make ink for the American dollar and to wrap tamales- ironic, no?), lemons and café, plus probably a whole lot of other stuff I couldn’t recognize or remember. He is currently writing a book in Totonac (in which he is fluent) maintains an awesome vermiculture system (worm compost), bakes his own bread, and has a multitude of chickens, turkeys, 2 goats, and a dog. Needless to say he gets a lot of help from his wife and 10 children; while we were visiting his wife kindly invited us to supper consisting of mole with chicken (which I DID eat and have to say that despite my guilt, it was delicious) and hand made tortillas made with their home-grown corn. It was all pretty amazing stuff, and I admire their lifestyle. They were so kind and generous; I wish I could have given them something in thanks! But that’s just the thing; here when someone shows you hospitality they don’t want pay or anything and it’s considered offensive. But then when the gringos come and everyone gives them stuff and they leave, many seem to think that they come just to use and exploit the kindness of the people. What to do, what to do?
When saying goodbye to the family I made yet another mistake; do NOT kiss men in the country on the cheek when greeting or saying goodbye! It is an acceptable practice in among women and both sexes in the cities, but definitely not with men in the county. As I went to kiss Don Santiago on the cheek he turned his head abruptly to dodge it, but luckily I had to catch the bus in a hurry and was saved from the awkwardness of it all. I think they just laughed at me for not knowing the customs or how to act, so once again I’m just a silly, ignorant American. Quite humbling.
Azalia left on a night bus bound for Xalapa, so now I’m on my own! Wish me luck!
P.S. I been exploring my fears and the thought has ocurred to me that all my fears have their origins in the fear of death (fear of rejection= you won´t be able to survive on your own, etc). Fears are so complex and multifaceted, they´re quite interesting to explore, but if you´re not careful you can get lost in the maze they create in your mind. Please post thoughts below!
¡Saludos!
Allison
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Papantla and Beyond
Despite this, the professor persuaded two students working with Primero de Mayo to escort us to the community and introduce to send a blessing over our visit. We also scheduled a tour of some nearby vanilla farms of other communities for the next Monday with a few other students. With these plans Azalia and I packed our stuff to Papantla (it’s amazing how much more your bags weigh when you’re beat and it’s 100 degrees outside) and tried to find a place to stay. After going to our first destination and only finding a dotty old woman and prison-like rooms, we looked around a bit more and finally decided to take a rest on a nice bench and eat some mangoes. A man across the way kept letting his eyes stray over towards us, and I thought, “Oh, man, another creepy Mexican man!” Annoyed, I wanted to leave quickly, and as soon as we got up the man across the way jumped over and said, “Aha! I was waiting for you to get up because this is my office- the best bench with the best tree.” He seemed trustworthy, so we asked him if he knew of any rooms for rent. Luckily he did, and here I am in a wonderfully ghetto apartment that has wireless internet but smells like dog piss and poop as soon as you step out of my room or go up to the roof. My room is painted a bright powdery blue with a set of windows that give a great view of the city. I felt so lucky to find it! We settled down and later I explored the city a bit and found it to my liking.
So the next day was the first visit to Primero de Mayo; I didn’t get to talk to people much there, half because there weren’t many people to talk to and half because I felt very intimidated surrounded by Azalia, a very strong personality and talkative woman, and the two students, who had bad vibes almost visibly emanating from their bodies. Overall it seemed like a lovely little community, very green with a wonderful mango tree. After a brief introduction it was back to Papantla, where I then had my next breakdown- I felt so lost, alone, and young and I wanted to leave as quickly as possible because I didn’t know what to do. After talking to as many people as I could get a hold of and doing a good bit of crying I calmed down a bit and devised a plan. The next day though was worse; I felt trapped here in Papantla, men were hitting on me like crazy and I hated them all, hated Latin culture and the damn hot weather (still a bit resentful of that) and cried hysterically. Once again, I eventually calmed down a bit and slept and read a lot, and decided to go to Tajin the next day, an archaeological site with Totonac pyramids.
The pyramids were really cool, and I was reminded how again and again people can achieve great things and still fail. There was a sad air about the place of fallen greatness, which probably fed my own melancholy disposition; thankfully a chance encounter changed that. I was walking around minding my own business, when this girl of 15 named Alejandra came up to me and asked me the usual questions, and also for my email. I complied and recognized her from when I was eating breakfast alone at a nearby restaurant. All of sudden her family (I guessed) surrounded me and started taking pictures, without even having said a word to me! It was such an odd, funny situation that I had to laugh. I said hasta luego and continued on my way by myself.
When I had done with the pyramids I wandered towards the entrance and was looking for a bus back to Papantla. I saw the man I presumed to be Alejandra’s father standing next to a bus and I asked if it went to Papantla. He said “Sure it does! I’m going through that way.” I was a bit confused but hopped on and learned it was a tour bus and Alejandra’s father Polo was the driver! It turns out they had seen me eating breakfast earlier and I looked sad, so they had come up to me in the pyramids to cheer me up a bit. They invited me to continue on with them to a beach called Tocolutla; their kindness and sincerity encouraged me to go. I ended up borrowing some shorts and a shirt from Alejandra to swim in and enjoyed the sea and the conversation with both Alejandra and Polo. All the people from the bus too were very kind; I don’t know exactly how they all knew each other, but nonetheless all were very kind and said a hearty goodbye when Polo dropped me off at the bus station to return to Papantla in the evening. And now I have an open invitation to
People of
And this week I begin the real work of interviews- we’ll see how it goes!
Love to all and to all a goodnight,
Allison
P.S. The best things to eat here are enchiladas verdes de pipian and the tamales de frijoles con verdaduras at the little market in the center of the city. I think I got sick off of them, but I don’t care! They’re so delicious. And the pastries here are basically inedible, but I seem to forget every time I order some and end up not eating them or eating them with a sour look on my face. Ooops.
Also, much thanks to my dear mother, sister, father, and friends for all your support! I love and need and appreciate you all!
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Xalapa, parte dos
I've been up and down and all-around this past week, with of moments of adventure, action, anxiety, and everything else (including a LOT of Spanish).
On Wednesday I met with Azalia, the assistant of my professor Dr. Rebecca Torres- I can't even begin to express how helpful she's been. She's basically arranged my accommodations in Papantla, has been trying to contact the community where I'll be working, and held my hand as we went around the city and talked to multitudes of people for help on the subject of vanilla. When I could barely understand or communicate to the people at UVI, la Universidad Veracruzana Intercultural, I panicked in my usual way- "trapped rabbit," or "deer in the headlights," or my favorite: "squirrel with a dog on it's tail trying to make it safely up a tree before it loses its life."
I questioned why I came here, what I was doing, if I could actually make any difference to anybody. I wanted to go back to Oregon, to Texas, somewhere within my comfort zone, with people I love, who love me and with whom I can be completely ridiculous and laugh at myself.
Thanks to some encouragement from Tabby, I felt a lot better about everything- I don't have to be perfect, but I can try my best, laugh at my mistakes, and keep up my spirits to actually do some positive work for both myself and others. And these past few days have been phenomenally better.
Azalia and I took care of some errands, went to a library to get some material on the Primero del Mayo community and vanilla and afterwards visited the local farmers market, where they sell all sorts of crazy-looking fruit that's super-rico and loads of fresh vegetables. I bought some helote (a type of maiz), green beans, calabaza (squash), cebollas (onions), tomatoes, and some hand-made blue corn tortillas. I sauteed/steamed it all and stuck it on a warmed up tortilla with cheese and some jalapenos- que rico fue todo!
I also signed up for individual Spanish classes which I hope will help, am practicing Spanish almost all the time, and am having a blast just seeing the area, hanging out, and letting go. My friend Coleman from UT is here studying as well, and it's been wonderful hanging out with him, meeting people, having fun. And today we went with others from his class to Coatepec and Xico, two small towns near Xalapa. It was so beautiful- the ancient churches have such a warm prescence and are built and decorated with so much care down to the smallest detail, from the murals on the ceilings, to the stuccoed outer walls, painted a cheery orange and yellow. And the coffee from Coatepec is famous; needless to say, I felt justified to have two cups (and didn't get too twitchy!)
In Xico we had lunch at a beautiful restaurant near the river, and although it was delicious, I'm swearing off both fish and restaurants for a while. It was just too much, and I feel so guilty for not being able to finish it! Plus I need to save some more of my scholarship money; it just keeps slipping through my fingers....
Afterwards we walked it off by hiking to a beautiful waterfall called The Waterfall of the Nun; the name is a bit strange, but it didn't look anything like a nun- it was gorgeous. Everything is tropical, green, flourishing, and flowering, coffee and bananas spring up like weeds everywhere, and it isn't nearly as hot as Texas! I love finding all the little things that make a place special, like the cracks in the sidewalks, ridiculous signs, libelulas (dragonflies), mosses, and mini-ecosystems that hold so much life. Cheesy as it sounds, it makes it feel so incredible to be alive.
Besides that, I've just been exploring the city, talking to people, seeing free movies and concerts (an awesome classic guitar one and a piano one tomorrow), and doing a bit of work for my Spanish and research. I'm excited and a bit nervous to get to Papantla Wednesday, but I know I'll get there, maybe have a breakdown from the stress of it all (really, I'm a squirrel), and finally adapt to my surroundings, the dialect, and the people and learn to make it home (it's where the heart is, and I have to be present). Once again I feel lucky to have such an opportunity- so much to learn, see, and do in so little time!
And sorry for the lack of photos- I keep forgetting my camera and honestly don't really like to experience everything through more lenses than I have to (I already have a lot accumulated in our mind) and I feel self-concious as well for being a white, American tourist. But I'll try more in the future. It's just so hard to capture things as they really are...
To all you Spanish speakers- cuidate! My guns are loaded with rounds of new refranes y palabras de las calles, gracias a los jovenes Mexicanos that I've been hanging out with. Like that Spanglish? :)
I love you all dearly will check in again soon!
Allison
On Wednesday I met with Azalia, the assistant of my professor Dr. Rebecca Torres- I can't even begin to express how helpful she's been. She's basically arranged my accommodations in Papantla, has been trying to contact the community where I'll be working, and held my hand as we went around the city and talked to multitudes of people for help on the subject of vanilla. When I could barely understand or communicate to the people at UVI, la Universidad Veracruzana Intercultural, I panicked in my usual way- "trapped rabbit," or "deer in the headlights," or my favorite: "squirrel with a dog on it's tail trying to make it safely up a tree before it loses its life."
I questioned why I came here, what I was doing, if I could actually make any difference to anybody. I wanted to go back to Oregon, to Texas, somewhere within my comfort zone, with people I love, who love me and with whom I can be completely ridiculous and laugh at myself.
Thanks to some encouragement from Tabby, I felt a lot better about everything- I don't have to be perfect, but I can try my best, laugh at my mistakes, and keep up my spirits to actually do some positive work for both myself and others. And these past few days have been phenomenally better.
Azalia and I took care of some errands, went to a library to get some material on the Primero del Mayo community and vanilla and afterwards visited the local farmers market, where they sell all sorts of crazy-looking fruit that's super-rico and loads of fresh vegetables. I bought some helote (a type of maiz), green beans, calabaza (squash), cebollas (onions), tomatoes, and some hand-made blue corn tortillas. I sauteed/steamed it all and stuck it on a warmed up tortilla with cheese and some jalapenos- que rico fue todo!
I also signed up for individual Spanish classes which I hope will help, am practicing Spanish almost all the time, and am having a blast just seeing the area, hanging out, and letting go. My friend Coleman from UT is here studying as well, and it's been wonderful hanging out with him, meeting people, having fun. And today we went with others from his class to Coatepec and Xico, two small towns near Xalapa. It was so beautiful- the ancient churches have such a warm prescence and are built and decorated with so much care down to the smallest detail, from the murals on the ceilings, to the stuccoed outer walls, painted a cheery orange and yellow. And the coffee from Coatepec is famous; needless to say, I felt justified to have two cups (and didn't get too twitchy!)
In Xico we had lunch at a beautiful restaurant near the river, and although it was delicious, I'm swearing off both fish and restaurants for a while. It was just too much, and I feel so guilty for not being able to finish it! Plus I need to save some more of my scholarship money; it just keeps slipping through my fingers....
Afterwards we walked it off by hiking to a beautiful waterfall called The Waterfall of the Nun; the name is a bit strange, but it didn't look anything like a nun- it was gorgeous. Everything is tropical, green, flourishing, and flowering, coffee and bananas spring up like weeds everywhere, and it isn't nearly as hot as Texas! I love finding all the little things that make a place special, like the cracks in the sidewalks, ridiculous signs, libelulas (dragonflies), mosses, and mini-ecosystems that hold so much life. Cheesy as it sounds, it makes it feel so incredible to be alive.
Besides that, I've just been exploring the city, talking to people, seeing free movies and concerts (an awesome classic guitar one and a piano one tomorrow), and doing a bit of work for my Spanish and research. I'm excited and a bit nervous to get to Papantla Wednesday, but I know I'll get there, maybe have a breakdown from the stress of it all (really, I'm a squirrel), and finally adapt to my surroundings, the dialect, and the people and learn to make it home (it's where the heart is, and I have to be present). Once again I feel lucky to have such an opportunity- so much to learn, see, and do in so little time!
And sorry for the lack of photos- I keep forgetting my camera and honestly don't really like to experience everything through more lenses than I have to (I already have a lot accumulated in our mind) and I feel self-concious as well for being a white, American tourist. But I'll try more in the future. It's just so hard to capture things as they really are...
To all you Spanish speakers- cuidate! My guns are loaded with rounds of new refranes y palabras de las calles, gracias a los jovenes Mexicanos that I've been hanging out with. Like that Spanglish? :)
I love you all dearly will check in again soon!
Allison
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Xalapenos en Xalapa
Hola todos!
Es mi primer dia en Xalapa, y me encanta la ciudad!
What a great city! Everyone is so friendly and helpful, and I feel great just being here alive and in one piece. Some of the highlights of the day: walking along lakes bordered by beautifully muraled walls, watching chickens with their babies and turkeys puff up and talk as I walk by, a donkey on the highway, MANGOES, and good times with good people.
I walked all the way to the Universidad Veracruzana, the sister university of UT, and it's a beautiful campus full of trees and lakes and wildlife. I got a bit lost and was helped out by a kind biology student who ended up giving me a bunch of tree seeds to take home! It's lovely just to chat with people and see their shocked faces as I tell them I'm here basically by myself and not really knowing what I'm doing at all (though less so now).
Tomorrow morning I'll talk with a student of Dr. Torres to see when I'll go to Papantla- hopefully by the 18th of June so I can catch their famous Vanilla Festival!
Love to all,
Allison
Es mi primer dia en Xalapa, y me encanta la ciudad!
What a great city! Everyone is so friendly and helpful, and I feel great just being here alive and in one piece. Some of the highlights of the day: walking along lakes bordered by beautifully muraled walls, watching chickens with their babies and turkeys puff up and talk as I walk by, a donkey on the highway, MANGOES, and good times with good people.
I walked all the way to the Universidad Veracruzana, the sister university of UT, and it's a beautiful campus full of trees and lakes and wildlife. I got a bit lost and was helped out by a kind biology student who ended up giving me a bunch of tree seeds to take home! It's lovely just to chat with people and see their shocked faces as I tell them I'm here basically by myself and not really knowing what I'm doing at all (though less so now).
Tomorrow morning I'll talk with a student of Dr. Torres to see when I'll go to Papantla- hopefully by the 18th of June so I can catch their famous Vanilla Festival!
Love to all,
Allison
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